Monthly Archives: June 2013

A Rant – Water

A few days ago I ranted about little kids. They’re terrible creatures. Had I not been one myself I would have them all tossed into a heap of burning trash, but c’est la vie.

In doing my “research” on little kids I found an incredible amount of bullsh*t products created marketed to make your kid insane and burn a hole in your wallet/purse/bank account/savings/college fund/retirement plan. One item I saw over and over was a product called Wat-Aah, bottled water for kids. It’s labeled as a healthy alternative to sugary juices, providing electrolytes through hyper-filtered water.  That roughly translates to “You’re buying bullshit because you think your kid is a fat fk, and you’re willing to pay a premium to downsize your guilt for being a horrible parent”.

If you think Wat-Aah is a cost effective way of getting your child to drink more water you deserve a severe blow to the head.  I’m talking -11 aluminum baseball bat to the face or padded meat cleaver to your temple.  If you don’t want a welt I’ll gladly pack some soap bars into my pillow case.

Since I’ve seen the product sold in NYC I have to assume you are the dumbest m*therfker walking this planet. Not only are you already exposed to probably the cleanest tap water in the country, you probably have enough brains to avoid typical idiocracy. You don’t have primitive bible-dicks forcing 2,000 folklore into your state and local law.  You can make rational decisions. So why would you pay $2 for a shitty bottle of shitty water that you could easily fill up anywhere for close to zero dollars?  If I told a Ugandan they would shit the bed– you could say they already do–from all the real Malaria and diarrhea they get from real water problems.   If I read another review from one more shitty Park Slope mom giving 5 stars to this shitty company because she doesn’t have the wherewithal to raise her kids properly–I’ll probably do nothing.  But, fk them and fk their kids for learning shitty habits from an early age.

Wat-Aah isn’t the only water bottle company out there marketing bullsh*t. You have the Diddy/Wahlberg water for alkaline assholes who think their body is a buddhist temple. Wahlberg, I’m a big fan of Good Vibrations, don’t be ashamed of your past. There’s Fiji water, for bougie dickheads who will think they’re god’s gift. These are the same assholes who get satisfaction from Coronas because they get the feeling of the being at the beach. Fk off and die. You have the Smart water fitness retards who just got out of their spin class, thinking one bottle will curb the weekly bingeing of BK and Checker’s and I might as well throw in Vitamin water retards too. Do you dumbasses even know what sugar is? I can’t imagine how fk’d your taste buds are after years and years of abuse.

All products I’ve mentioned so far sell for a premium well above a typical water bottle, sold by say Nestle or Poland Spring.  Obviously these companies are still dickheads, but honestly they serve a purpose. While I bitch and moan, and argue for drinking from the tap, bottled gives me the opportunity to drink water on the hop when I don’t have a cup/glass/nalgene.  Now at the same time I understand I’m getting royally fk’d by it’s margin and I hate myself for it, not to mention their privatization and exploitation of third-world laws and resources–but I have to concede somewhere. So instead of buying that fruity new bottle of water Park Slope moms are talking about, buy that shitty dented bottle of plain ol’ water. Your wallet will appreciate the 50 cents saved. Or better yet, fill up an old bottle at home or the office. You just paid zero dollars!  Put that money towards your dominatrix swing or a vacation, child abuse therapy sessions or new socks. Do anything else with it. In the end I’m just giving advice. You can do whatever the FKKKK YOU WANT

A Rant – Little Kids

This weekend was the nicest New York City has experienced in a while.  Clear skies and above 80’s forced everyone out to enjoy the weather.  If you were a hermit, you deserve to be shot, because you missed skin on skin on skin on skin. Booties out, boobies out, tan on, drink on.  Everywhere was paradise–up until the very moment little kids came out to fk sh*t up.

Little kids are pieces of sh*t.  Literally. They sh*t everywhere. Puke everywhere. Fart. Yell for mommy. Drool. Cry. And bitch about evvvveeerrryyything. I can’t imagine being responsible for one of those runts. I honestly would rather just give them to white walkers.

I understand that you plopped that little boy or girl out of your womb. Your brain is actively telling you, “Don’t murder this child”, “You love this sh*thead so much, “Isn’t he cute?”. When any rational person would think, “This kid better pay for my retirement”, or “I can’t wait to get this fker out of my house”.  Here’s a little timeline for you want-to-be parents. You shoot out the baby, if you’re in America, you have to pay the bill, take the shithead home. Feed him, wipe his ass, and wake up every 3 hours in the night. Then they learn to walk and speak, where it takes them only a few months to realize you’re their little bitch. They will say no and fk your life up for no reason. When they’re old enough to be pawned off to a preschool you get daily reports of tantrums and suspensions. At this point any sane person should be done with that cutesy warm feeling from seeing said ugly retarded baby smile.  Everything you do becomes hollow and meaningless because you’re too busy anticipating the next thing your kid is ready to ruin.


Move them into elementary school and you’ll deal with toys and pokemon– all the horseshit a kid wants because Tommy’s parents bought it for him. So you go to Toys R Us to buy that shitty little plastic toy made in a shitty Chinese factory by a shitty Chinese kid (who you would gladly trade for because of his guaranteed positive ROI). After an hour in the store, aisle after aisle, you can’t find the red dinosaur your boy is spitting blood over. “But you got the blue dinosaur? I wanted the red!” Fk. Get ready for your ungrateful little fk to yell and moan like he’s getting waterboarded. You start to wish he was. Deal with this for a few years until it consumes your last remaining bit of youth. If you thought you’d turn into the cool dad at the barbeque sipping bud lights like those equally sh*tty commercials, you’re in for a sad surprise. Every sip of the beer you consume now is to drown the deep self hatred you have for keeping that pestilent fetus past the legal term for abortion.

Move onto middle/high school where hormones make them uncontrollable dickheads who think every pimple is the end of the world. At this point you realize what you’re going to get out of your kid. You might be lucky and have a star athlete or genius who could potentially pay for your Florida retirement plans, but chances are you have a dead horse. If you find a zumiez receipt in your house, I pray for you. If you find a condoms everywhere, it looks like you’re in for double trouble. It’s not too late to jump off that bridge you’ve been eyeing.  College isn’t cheap–and the first thing you should keep repeating is “No you’re not getting a degree in English.”

Just make sure this doesn’t happen to you.

Soccer in America

Last week I made the trip to Yankee Stadium for the Spain vs. Ireland friendly…for a soccer match…that you watch…that you don’t compete in.  They also didn’t know what team was playing.  Apparently going to soccer games in the US means “wear anything soccer related to the game”.

Unfortunately I didn’t snap pictures of the infinite shameful Irishmen/want-to-be Irishmen that flooded the B train en route, but  I saw everything from a loudmouth pasty white-boy wearing a Nani jersey, to a functioning alcoholic wearing an O’Shea Mets T-shirt broing out with a puke-green Under Armour frat bro. Sprinkle in vile women with bulging muffin tops and disappointed children and you get the picture.  All I wanted to do was pelt them with Idaho potatoes, but that was apparently just a taste of the sub-humanoid migration. When I got to Yankee stadium there was no shortage or useless, vacuous dipshits.  If I had a License to Kill,  trust me, I would have gone Bill ‘The Butcher’  and chopped everyone to bits–minus the children.

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Why would you wear a Portugal jersey to a Spain vs. Ireland game? I understand Barca and Madrid jerseys–you have players on the pitch, but Portugal? You know that’s a country over from Spain, right? They’re not the same thing, you dumb pizza chit. Portugal has heroin and unemployment, Spain just has unemployment.

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Are those turf shoes?  They really grip that hard cement they’ll be touching when your ass is in a seat. Or are you wearing them so we know you play soccer?  I know you weren’t just wearing them and just so happened to end up at a soccer game in a baseball stadium.  Maybe you were distracted because your brylcreem hair smelled like absolute shit.  Put your beaner shoes back on and show off your grass stains.

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Balotelli? Do you say mutzarelllllllll too? Did you bring a capicola sandwich and a copy of the Gaadfatha’? The kid looks to be under 18, so I will cut him some slack. I don’t want the NSA hacking my life apart because I ranted on a tween. Also, I like chicken marsala and gelato.

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After the game we passed the always classy Yankees bars strung under the train tracks.  What happens when Ireland loses to the top soccer team in the world? Like moths to a flame.  We had the actual Irish (who were shit drunk falling over, and hitting on girls with one eye open), we had the ‘Merican Irish embracing the .000001% of Irish blood he brags about yelling for another shot, and then we had this guy.

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All I heard this guy say was “Hi, is that my beer?” “Ok” and that was that. Through all the pseudo machisimo Irish pride, the one endearing this left is the repose of an Irish drunk.  Keep it up, old man. Drink that guilt away.

A Rant – Staples

“That was easy”. That wasn’t easy. That was a fkn nightmare.

You, Staples, are on my shit-list until the day I die.

A few days ago I went to Staples to print out exactly one little shitty piece of paper with a color image (I was going to try painting).  One little itty bitty shitty picture of rocks near water.  It’s not rocket science. It’s not even science.  Wiping your ass is harder than printing out a sheet of paper, but leave it to Staples to fuck up the easiest task.

In my hour waiting for a dumb fk Staples employee to rectify my issue I saw three people’s print outs fked up.  No wonder brick-and-mortar stores are a bust.  You have forced dependency on completely incompetent shitheads whose hands are firmly shoved up each other’s asses.  The print out is too gray? Shove in another ink cartridge. Paper Jam? The machine tells you where the problem is. And no, I don’t need to know where the mechanical pencils are–I need my fkn print out.  When I told a fellow customer I was waiting for 45 minutes he said “If I was here for 45 minutes I would burn this fucker down”.  Burn it down. Nuke the headquarters.

I have no idea how you are a public company, Staples.  You and Radioshak defy every rule of capitalism.  Some things leave you confused and angry to the point of murderous rage.  Personally, I’ve never been more tempted to drop my pants and take a huge shit right in the middle of your store.  When I walked out, a full hour later, I wanted to punt a little chihuahua for no good reason.  The dog had nothing to do with Staples. He wasn’t wearing a shitty red polo and a name tag.  He wasn’t fking up my print.  He was just an innocent little chihuahua. Thank god I have restraint, Staples.  I hope all of your employees die from deep deep paper cuts.

Sad Day – Remembering PT

So yesterday my parents made the hard decision to put down my best bud, PT.  She (yes, she. Fuck off) was the most chill dog you could ask for.  She wouldn’t fetch shit, or go buckwild, but she was the cutest motherfker.

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PT lived for three things; food, humping my mom’s leg, and sleeping.  She loved when you scratched the back of her ear.  If she smelled dog shit, she would choke herself out just to get a better whiff. Is that food?  She’ll beg you like a mo’fker for sum dat meat. She was my nigga.

PT was 15 years young and I’ll never forget that bich.  I know she’s not watching over me in doggy heaven because all that mumbo jumbo is bullshit, but she had one hell of a ride.

Here are some photos from the past year.

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