A Small Sampling of Those Who Cannot Get Fucked

As you may notice by the rather infrequency of my posts to this blog, it's somewhat difficult (for a sane person) to muster up enough vitriol to constantly be telling everyone they can get fucked. I didn't realize that would be the case when I decided to start this blog--seriously, there are a lot of people that really need to be told to get fucked on this earth.

So just to change things up a bit, I'm going to list a few people who cannot get fucked.

Dungeons & Dragons Fans


Fellas, it doesn't matter how many sides there are on those dice. No girl will ever want to fuck you.

Crazy Homeless People


Not only do they smell bad and not have a home to take someone back to, but they usually have a sign that talks about God. And nobody wants to be reminded of God and how much he hates it when you get freaky if you're planning on doing some fucking.

The Best Friend of the Opposite Sex


"Maybe if I listen to her relationship problems and offer up some sensitive advice, she'll dump that asshole and we'll live happily ever after!" Haha, yeah, that will totally happen instead of her relaying the advice to her boyfriend, listening to him make false promises, and then FUCKING THE SHIT OUT OF HIM WHILE AT THE SAME TIME FORGETTING YOUR NAME.

"That Guy" at the Strip Club


You know who I'm talking about. The dude that spends $200 on lapdances because that stripper "totally wanted to get it on" with him. Yeah, that would be the obvious reason she's spending all that time with you, because she wants to fuck you. It's definitely not the fact that "That Guy" is dumb enough to pay some skank with daddy issues and gross fake boobs $200 to rub her belly button on his knee during the entire Rob Zombie greatest hits CD.

Anyone That Goes to "LAN Parties"


For those of you that aren't L33T studs like these guys, a LAN Party is when a bunch of dudes (always, always dudes) stock up on Mountain Dew and Twizzlers, bring their brand new computers to a predetermined location, connect them up in one high-speed network, and play games against each other for hours and hours. That sounds like something you do when you've never, ever touched a boob in your entire life, and the possibility of ever doing so is at best 15 years in the future.

Other than those people, it never ceases to amaze me how disgusting, freakish, or violently evil someone is, there is pretty much always someone around that is fucking them. Seriously, I've been through some pretty hellacious dry spells in my life, and when I'd watch TV they'd have a story about how some guy had to have a wall torn down so the forklift could get into his living room so that they could put him and the couch that his 1300 pound frame had fused itself to into the emergency room. And then they would interview his wife! 1300 pound dude with a couch cushion embedded between layers of skin in his ass cheeks has a wife, and had to have been boning her at some point because they have kids!

Also, even Juggalos get laid. The fact that Juggalos get laid is pretty much the reason that I stopped believing in God.

Rolling Stone Can Get Fucked.

Man, I subscribed to this piece of shit celebrity teet-suckler back in high school, right around when I turned 18 and got my first credit card. There was some "deal" through said credit card, and being a stupid 18 year old clutching his Nirvana CDs in his beflanneled arms, I was like "credit card companies and people that constantly try to sell me magazines surely cannot have done anything not to be trusted!" so I signed myself up. Little did I know it would be 10 years later and I'd still be paying an annual fee to those motherfuckers so that they could keep telling me about how fucking awesome their own magazine and the White Stripes are approximately once every 2 weeks. Mind you, whenever the mood has struck me (say, when there's a fucking shirtless Justin Timberlake on the cover, or when they name-check Jack White 10 times in a goddamn article about the war on Iraq), I have called both Rolling Stone and my credit card company in hopes that I can end the misery--that I pay an annual fee to receive--all to no avail. One company says the other company is responsible for ending the subscription, and then I decide it isn't worth my time and rage for how much money I'm wasting on it.

The latest issue, apparently, just in case you weren't stupid enough to subscribe when you got your first credit card statement in the mail and they had "awesome deals on the best magazines!" in the envelope, was their 1000th issue. So they decide to use this issue not to celebrate, oh I don't know, the artists and cultural turmoil of the last 30-some-odd years that have kept them in business, but to celebrate THE PURE GENIUS OF THE PEOPLE THAT TOOK PICTURES OF EXTREMELY PHOTOGENIC MUSICIANS AND ACTORS. Yup. I shit you not, there is a full page devoted to a cover shot of Jakob Dylan from 1997, and without irony, they downplay that his father is Bob Dylan and that he has model looks (clearly, neither of these reasons would be why he is on the cover of the magazine! Heresy!), while at the same time lauding critical praise upon his then-hit CD. Remember the Wallflowers? Yeah? Ever make it to the second verse in one of their songs without falling into a deep sleep? Me neither.

I think it's time I got a new credit card. That would solve the problem. Also, it would be nice to get airline miles or something. Perhaps there is a credit card that will award cash back based upon how much rage one can muster over reading some douchebag trying to tell me that "One Headlight" was a hit that will be remembered throughout the ages. I'd end up with free purchases for a year with that bonus.

Who wants to make a bet that somewhere, Jann Wenner is masturbating to an essay written by Hunter S. Thompson about how they both saw crazy things when they got fucked up on some crazy drugs? I will give you odds.

My Rolling Stone subscription can get fucked.

Another Update on the Menards Situation: THOSE FUCKING BILLBOARDS ARE EVERYWHERE!

I'm not the type to construct a hat made out of aluminum foil in hopes of blocking my thoughts from being listened to by the government, but Jesus Fuckshitting Christ, there are now about half a dozen of those fucking Menards "GR-8 _____ !" billboards on my way to work now. Including one right outside my office. My commute isn't really super long, either.

I'm half expecting to wake up in the middle of the night to see Ray Szmanda smiling at me from the foot of my bed, saying "I sure enjoyed your blog. See, we can get to you, too." He'd probably be clutching some kid whose arms and mouth were bound with duct tape...the kid's eyes all screaming "HELP. ME. PLEASE." Then someone that was hiding off to the side would knock me out with the butt of a flare gun that they had purchased at Menards.

That shit's creepy. MENARDS CAN GET FUCKED...AGAIN.