The Sounds of Douchebag America

These butch fuckin’ feminists, man, I swear to God…like, do they really think they’re going to get anywhere with that ambitious, hard-working, go-get-em attitude?  Do they really?  They’re just crampin’ my style.  Like, I was tryin’ to get a job at the Delt-Shred gym, and I didn’t get it because this Cuntbot5000 was “qualified” for it.  Bullshit.  I was spying on her through the window, and she is not cut, man, and if she did have any muscles, they were eclipsed by her ginormous tits.  Ah man, that shit’s so unfair, BRAH.

You need a sculpted, fine-toned, shredded guy for that shit.  There’s a reason they call those fuckers “pussies.”  Because of their cowardice, BRAH.  What other reason, because they’re cats?  How about don’t be an idiot.  Look, can you think of any awesome men’s team wrestler, men’s event Olympian, or men’s league hockey player that happens to be female?  No, because they’re men’s leagues.  They’re for men. Get it?  God, people are so goddamned stupid sometime.  There aren’t even any funny female comedians, and if they are funny, they’re big lesbos like Ellen DeGeneres, like, they dig chicks, which, I mean, that makes ‘em kinda dude-esque, right?  It’s the same reason why you don’t see decent female singers in a gay men’s chorus, BRAH.  It’s a man’s domain.

Whatever, I don’t want to be one of those weirdos who’s all like “they should be cooking my dinner and washing my clothes.”  I mean, I’d want my bitches to  take me out to eat or maybe haul my laundry to the cleaners, but cook and wash? I’m not gonna stoop that low.

Ah fuck it.  The whole thing, the whole feminism thing…it’s just so gaytarded.

I refuse to spend more money than necessary.  I use coupons at the store, I only feed my boyfriend’s daughter oatmeal, and I do not treat people for their birthday.  It’s this spendthrift mentality that got me where I am today: dining in at an IHOP off the Jersey Turnpike.  And seriously, why treat people for their birthday, of all things?  What’s the occasion there to celebrate; that you manage to get together one day a year to spend money?  How impressive.  I force my sisters to take me shopping on Black Friday with the same outcome.  The only reason I go to birthday dinner is to see how much extra money people are willing to shell out on the birthday girl’s behalf.  You’d be shocked to see how stingy some people are!

I think it’s only fair.  If I put in an extra dollar for a cab, I expect someone to spot me for 1/5th a pint of beer.  If I give someone two bucks to buy a Kit Kat and a water, I want it back on at least 37.8% interest.  If we split a $13.01 and your bill has $6.50 and mine is $6.51…well, you can only imagine I’d switch them when you’re not looking.  And if I can get you to shell out that penny, you know what I’m gonna do with it?  I’m gonna pinch it!  Pinch it, I tell you!  Until I get sweet, sweet coppery callouses on my thumb and index finger.

I don’t want to mislead here; I’ll spend money sometimes.  I eat other people’s appetizers, I order multiple drinks, and if I’m feeling generous I’ll pay below the bare minimum.  But why do that when it’s so much more fun to chastise other people for not paying up enough?  It’s like you’re duping them into saving you money.  If I only want to spend $20, that’s all I’ll pay no matter what. And besides, the confused look on their faces after paying $30 for pasta and a PBR: truly priceless.

In fact, I was going to go out with some friends for dinner tonight, but no one’s answering their phones, and if they are, they say they’re broke or busy or “can’t afford to accommodate me,” whatever that means.  Looks like I’ll be chilling alone tonight, just like last night and the night before.  But hey, at least I’m not broke like those jerks.

I mean, I…hurm…*sigh*..it’s…*snore*…nah…

…*Yawn* Whatever, I guess, don’t really…

*Heavy breathing*  I…

*Heavier breathing*

Tired.  Drank too much milkshake.  Ugh…*Groan.* *Snort.*

Chest…pounding…blacking…out…*Grunt* Must…nap…can’t…talk.  *Asleep.*

Do you ever notice how terrible popular things are?  The masses are an obese, mindless throng that gather around corpulent piles of banal smut, infecting art and entertainment with its contagious filth.  I refuse to partake in any endeavors enjoyed by the masses.

You want to know what music I listen to?  Bah!  I am no fool.  The worst favor I could do to myself is give specific examples of my stellar taste.  The avant-garde compositions I keep on vinyl are a secret to my ears and mine only.  If I were to tell you about my indelible trove of artistic gems, you may piggyback on my originality, discuss these obscure works with your underling acquaintances as if you “discovered” it, and, before you know it, word-of-mouth increases said cultural artifact’s popularity.  Thus, the artist acquires money, attention, and deserved acclaim, and it shall be rendered un-listenable.  I do not want my avant-garde dethmetal gamelan coming anywhere near your Lil Wayne.  Or even your Decemberists.  Or your early-period Xenakis.  Ergo, since I can impress people with my boundless knowledge of music, I cannot give evidence.  Please trust me that I am in possession of rarities.  Rarities so rare that they can barely maintain a state of actual existence.

Of course, I am not that simple.  I will arbitrarily assign myself a liking for a mainstream cinematic exercise once in a blue moon, but nothing really illuminates the inherent flaws of a film like Oscar nominations.  Do not mention the vastly overrated, mass-co-opted, impotent phenomenon that is The Godfather, or the cultural impact plague triggered by Casablanca. Due to popularity trends, they remain on the same plateau as Twilight.  I liked them in my naivete-ridden youth, but their success revealed to me plethoras of methodical problems.

How could that nobody can appreciate the things I do, or even be willing to examine them for their content and their content only.  Individuals need to look at the artistic merit of a work, not the politics or interpersonal theatrics around it.  These people; they are barbaric fools.

Not only that, but I drive like an asshole so you can read all my bumper stickers.  If there are two cars behind me, I like to swerve from lane to lane, just so everyone can see what unique opinions I acquired through the cunning use of mass-produced bumper stickers.  I have a collection, spanning from the outdated-yet-also-irrelevant “Kerry/Edwards” bumper sticker from back in the day, straight to the “My daughter is an honor student…”  Which, that one is classic.  I don’t have a daughter, and given my raging infertility I probably won’t, so I just put all that energy into “raising” my car, in a way.

I think faux-compulsory bumper-sticker reading is important.  What if the guy behind me is talking on the phone?  Eventually, if he gets to reading all 46 of my bumper stickers, he’ll see one that says “Hang up and drive!”  Hopefully that should teach him a lesson about poor driving etiquette.  I don’t want to be on a moral high ground or whatever, but I am doing my part to rid the road of asshole drivers.  Don’t talk on your phone, people! Come on!  You leave yourself more susceptible to recklessness.

I was even thinking about putting a “How is my driving? Call XXX-XXX-XXXX”, you know, my actual phone number, to see if anyone would call it.  Then I could really give them a talking-to about what it means to be a good driver.  But then I realized, I don’t ever look at my rear view mirror when I’m driving, so it wouldn’t do me that much good.  So be it, I guess.  Looks like I’ll have to scrounge for another pun-tastic sticker, like  “Shave the Whales!” or something…something awesome.