Nobody in their right mind likes riding the subway. It’s an underground nightmare for the majority of commuters. If you’re not delayed from reroutes and construction, you’re hearing the local sombrero band rape your ears.
There is always something or someone making the ride worse, and the majority of the time they fall under similar categories. Here are the top 3 retards you experience in your daily commute, and believe me, they all deserve a beat down.
1. The smelly hobo – Get out of my f**king subway car. This isn’t a home, that seat isn’t a bed, and I don’t see pillows anywhere. Get the f**k up and get some help. You smell like you shit your pants 5 days ago and forgot what shit is. I’m not your alarm. Don’t look at me with a disgusted face like I’m bothering you. Nobody pays $2.50 to step into a subway car and instantly think “I want to kill myself” for the next 20 minutes. It’s even worse when you realize the smell went away because it’s seeped so far into your body. Don’t think I’m some right-wing hoping the poor start dying on their own dime–I’d rather see this guy in an apartment, with a job, and soap. But shit, get the f**k out my subway car.
2. Speech boys – I’ve had some memorable speech boys in my relatively short tenure in New York, but they all have the same rap. They don’t know when to shut the f**k up. A few months ago I had an angry white guy eco-bitching with a Bed Bath & Beyond bag. Just yesterday I had an old black man with a wheeler comparing New York’s stop and frisk policy to that of Adolf Hitler. Even the black girl standing next to me was having a hot sweat of embarassment. Are all of you really that desperate for an audience? The subway isn’t your soapbox. Nobody will ever thank you for bringing the subject to their attention.
Then there are the one’s that try to get a dollar from you. “Good day (It’s not) and god bless (shut up). I’m not here to bother you. I’ve been homeless for 6 months living on the street looking for food. I don’t do drugs”…Stop right there. You don’t do drugs? Your arm looks like it has herpes, your teeth are rotting out of your face and you look like a Spiderman villain. Trying to do puppy dog eyes doesn’t make you look less psycho. I’m not your source for a good time–go in a back alley for that.
But on a more serious note, I know not everyone on the street does drugs. There are some who need help because the world has truly taken a huge shit on their life–no friends, no living family, or savings. Go to a homeless shelter. Ask a guy on the street to Google where the nearest one is. Don’t board a subway and give a speech trying to guilt everyone for a dollar. You’re a poor investment and I’d rather see my 401(k) go up, or buy a Snickers.
3. Entitled Seat Queens – I f**king haaate Seat Queens. If there’s an inch of space their ass will try to slip in, snuggle up, and bump your ass far from where it was. They’ll box you out, step on your feet, elbow if necessary, just to plop their fat ass in a place it was never meant to fit. Is it really that hard to stand, you piece of shit. When you’re the size of two people wait for 2 seats to open up. Don’t lift your ass like it’s a backpack and think it’s making you skinnier. The worst part is when their stop comes up. Sit your ass down and wait your turn bich. You wanted the seat, you got the seat. Now wait for everyone standing to clear out. Don’t try to pop up once the doors open and mush your way into the front. I’m not an obstacle for you to get around. I don’t give a shit if you’re having cardiac arrest and need fresh air. You’ll get my fart wind and that’s that.
Do this instead
I don’t understand Beats headphones. At all.
There are trends year after year that you always look back on and say “Man, that was dumb as fuck”. Solid examples include: Ed Hardy shirts, Von Dutch Hats, frosted tips, and Jnco jeans. But then there are Beats headphones. They’re in a whole ‘nother class. The modern dunce cap.
How the hell Beats headphones became so popular is beyond me. I understand marketing and advertising gets everyone. There is no way around it. But sometimes there are products that defy common sense–products you’d expect the average customer to realize are complete shit, but nonetheless have incredible sales. (Side note, if you bought a power band, you deserve to get shot by Mark Cuban.)
Since Beats came out in 2008 there has not been a shortage of dickheads buying the shit. Everytime I step on the subway I see at least 3 people with those shitty B’s over their ears, blasting rap or other Top 40 singles. You make me want to jam my eardrums with a surgeon’s scalpel. I didn’t get onto the subway car to hear you DJ. Nobody did. Nobody looks at someone wearing Beats headphones and thinks, “That guy right there–he is cool. I want to be like him. I want to stand next to him and hear his shitty rap.”
And if you bought Beats headphones because they sound good, you’re an even bigger asshole. At least the first dickhead was ignorant all around, already lobotomized. You on the other hand genuinely think you got a deal. Who the fuck spends $300 on headphones anyway. If you’re not in the music industry, a sound engineer, or rich how are you justifying a $300 set of headphones. It’s rare you see a person with actual means wearing those bright plastic pieces of shit around their head, and if you do, you instantly think it was a gift that couldn’t be returned.
I wonder when the trend will be over, but it’s gone on for 5 impressive years. I don’t seen an end in sight and I’m almost ready to jump in front of the next bus. I can’t even be angry with Dr. Dre or Monster cable. They fully deserve every penny. Shit if I could sell shitty plastic for that much I would. I may be a bit jealous, but who wouldn’t. I had more faith in humanity. America is free country, I guess. God, the next thing I’ll probably hear is some 5 year old shot his 2 year old sister with a gun made specifically for kids. Wait. Shit. That happened.
SoOoul Cycle is the latest fad in exercise regimen and I f**king hate it. This is on their website — “SoulCycle’s full-body workout has revolutionized indoor cycling and taken the world of fitness by storm.” America is dumb.
How are you willing to pay $30 for an hour of riding a stationary bike? Do you lack motivation that much? 30 dollars worth? Your grandfather must turning in his grave. He’s probably trying to piece together his rotting corpse to smack you with a rolled-up newspaper. The man probably spent 2 months saving up that money, eating porridge and beans, widdling wooden figurines with his blistered fingers–and you just wasted it away on some glorified spin class.
Where does the $30 per visit get justified. You’re in a packed room on a stationary bike. Your face is inches away from another person’s ass. Your ass is inches away from another persons face. The point is to get sweaty and bike through imaginary hills listening to Katy Perry and other Top 40’s. I don’t see where the value comes in. Unless you’re Simple Jack you should realize the same fitness results can be achieved for way less cash, if not completely free. For comparison, $30 will get you 3.5 Chipotle burritos, 2.5 movie tickets, 1.5 2-for-20 Applebee’s dinners (comes with an appetizer or dessert, your choice), 3 manicures (if that’s your thing), a happy ending (if that’s your thing), or an airsoft gun, with scope.
In order to tell you why you’re a failure I need to tell you about an amazing man named Jack LaLanne. He is quite possibly the most badass fitness personality in the history of time. Arnold has nothing on LaLanne (and if he doesn’t, then you’re the shit on the bottom of his shoe) and I’ll tell you why. Not only did LaLanne deteriorate slower than U-238, but was doing push-ups the up until the day he died–at 96. He was still your mother’s DILFy fantasy. He ate fresh food and worked out daily, and most importantly–he wasn’t a pussy about it. He worked out hard, and didn’t pay someone $30 to yell at them. LaLanne apparently once said (according to wikipedia, which I rely on for reputable evidence), “I train like I’m training for the Olympics or for a Mr. America contest, the way I’ve always trained my whole life. You see, life is a battfield. Life is survival of the fittest.” Does that sound like a winner? Yes. Does someone paying $30 for a spinning class sound like a winner? No–they sound like they should be punched in the face.
Here are more LaLanne quotes explaining your chunky ass.
“If man made it, don’t eat it”, “if it tastes good, spit it out.”
“15 minutes to warm up? Does a lion warm up when he’s hungry? ‘Uh oh, here comes an antelope. Better warm up.’ No! He just goes out there and eats the sucker.”
For comparison, here’s what you say every Sunday. “Last night was soOooo crazy. I’m feeling like such a fatty, but I’m going to go to SoOOooul Cycle and have a prOtein shake. It’s going to cure all the burgers and pizza I had this week. I totally deserve a Drunch after with my girls.” What you should add at the end is–“I’m a dumb asshole”.
Now go read Lalanne’s Wikipedia and try to emulate him–or continue and pay $30 a session. I don’t give a s***.
“Drunch” – A late morning or early afternoon meal (usually on Saturday or Sunday) at which hipsters and poseurs alike gather at a local hotspot in which they consume more alcohol than food, in an attempt to rid themselves of the previous night’s hangover“
– Urban Dictionary
Drunch. The be all, end all, post-hardnightout, Ineedtorehasheverythingfromlas
I would like to point out not everyone who partakes in drunch is obtuse—but the vast majority are, and this is their bill. Fat, vacuous, group-think jappy girls, in big retarded (and expensive) sunglasses, yapping and yelling, drowning in mimosa, shoving fat avocado omlets down their fat gullets, reciting the previous night in ungodly praise of either how much alcohol they consumed or how wild they were and how many guys came up to them. It’s a sorority house table of discussion with little focus on how fat and insignificant they are.
Exaggerating the previous night doesn’t make you sound cooler. You went to a loud bar with your disgusting girlfriends and fiddled over your phone while meat heads tried to get in you. It happens over and over. Weekend after weekend. The only reason they’re talking to you is because they want to shoot one off. You are not more important because some desperate guy bought you a drink, you’re not hardcore because you had six cupcake vodka shots at the pregame, and you’re not a catch because you have a severe muffin top. Compare yourself to Ke$ha. She sucks and definitely drunches, but at least she’s legitimately a shitty human being, owning it and making money off it. If you’re going to continue, just make sure you get your hepatitis shot and tip your waiter. And stop screaming. It’s Sunday morning. Some people want to enjoy the weekend, not waste it away in a silly buzz of hopeless fantasy.
Coachella was awesome, bro. It was dope. Did I tell you how dope it was? I got all these urban outfitters shirts–mostly patterns for the weekend. Had to include some neon though. Everyone needs to know I’m chill–I can party. I mean, I got 4 likes on my first instagram.
But seriously, NOTHING comes close to the vibes at Coach. Everybody is free–having a good time. There was a solid 4 hours where I forgot about my student loan debt.
Weather is perfect. Totally organic. I found paradise at Coach.
I met this girl Jamie from San Diego State. Hottest ass. Probably did cross fit or something. Anyway we started makin out, drinkin some beers at the garden.
Me and my buddy Dom brought Jamie and her friend back to our tent. We scored this killer bud ealier in the week, saved it for Coach. We all get baked. LIKE BAKED. No seriously LIKE YOU DON’T EVEN KNOW. MEGA HIGH. Anyway, I’m a little sweaty, you know, it’s hot. We start makin out. It’s sick. Had to be there. But she took of my pants, smelled my balls and saw my tiny dick. She grabbed her friend and left the tent.
I mean, whatever. So the next day we hit up the mainstage. So chillllllllllllllll all day. Brought my extra strength speed stick with me. Good thing too. Popped on my neon sunglasses and felt the sun on my back. Probably should have put more sunblock on.
Saturday night was so awesome. Better than anything ever. NOTHING was better than Saturday night. Bro, you had to be there. You don’t even know how good it was. I can’t even describe. Bassnectar was DOPE. The beats were pretty hard to bob my hand to, but so much is goin on with girls’s boobies out. I had to leave early because my buddy suffers from epilepsy, but that first track was hard.
Coachella is unlike ANYTHING in this world. I felt at home. It’s not actually my home though–probably won’t ever be, but you know what I’m saying. I have a pretty sweet deal at home right now with my parents and younger brother. They give me a lot of shit about working and stuff, but it’s all good. Next year I’m definitely going back. We’re like a family out there. Everyone that goes to weekend 1 knows how much better Coach is the first week. Second week is lame as hell. Seriously.
Sometimes I have to admit if god existed he would be one hilarious motherf**ker. Look at the platypus. He looks like the unfortunate result of a duck ramming a beaver. He looks nonthreatening, probably gets dominated in the office, and made fun of by his co-workers. His wife is probably cheating on him and his 401(k) is in the shitter. Sucks to be you, glad to be me.
Now playtpuses are fun because you never actually see them, unless you’re at a zoo. They don’t disturb you, and they definitely don’t ruin your day, so I can’t harp too much on some unfortunate creature that is clearly suffering.
You smell like jizz. Full on–nature’s load. This tree is the worst thing to happen to New York City springtime fun.
Every year it seems to be the same story. You’re walking to work without your jacket because the weather is getting warmer. The crisp air still cool from the passing winter meets your face with the sun’s warmth. You nearly get a hard-on from all the possibilities you’re imagining. Warmer weather means less clothes. Less clothes means more skin. More skin is more awesome. On girls.
For the past 4 blocks you were following a hot girl in a floral dress. You’re waiting for her to turn around, maybe look down a side street to really evaluate if she’s hot. A breeze lifts her dress enough for you to see a lil’ cheek. Noice.
Can it get any better? You’re thinking this is the life–boom! In your face. Up in your grill. The most putrid smell is penetrating your nose like a freshly convicted pedo in lock up. You’re wondering what is going on. Did a dumpster get turned over? Did someone jizz on the sidewalk. You need to breathe so you smell it again, but you don’t see a condom anywhere near you. Then you see it. The f**king bradford pear tree. Nature’s smelly guido.
You run to the subway, Dwayne Reade–anywhere indoors. It’s impossible to escape. Large breathes slowly pick away the smell, but it lingers ungodly long. As soon as you think its gone the meer thought of the stench brings it back. It’s the Freddy Kruger of scents. It makes you think The Happening was a documentary.
You now have PTSD.
That happens every year.
Things need to change. The only solution is to wear a gasmask and chop every bradford pear tree down. Root the saplings and incinerate their corpses. We need a bradford pear tree genocide.
A while back I went to Tompkins Square Park with my girl for the annual Halloween dog parade. We both have dogs that currently live at our respective childhood homes with our respective parents–they behave. I guess you could say we needed a doggie fix, although I usually don’t like using those words in close proximity. I feel bad for my dog–she didn’t need her ovaries ripped out, nor did my girlfriend’s dog need his balls chopped. But that’s the norm thanks to Bob Barker.
Here are the pictures I snapped up.
This was by far the best costume. For a while the woman with her back fat stuck in her bra was ruining every photo op. There was a man in the moon costume that shuffled along the side of Elliott and E.T.
Who gives a shit about babies
This lil’ princess was the first cutie we ran up on. The costume and breed may look dainty, but this bich was fiery. She owned it. (8.0/10)
This dog wouldn’t turn around. Asshole.
Probably the most fitting breed for this costume. This doggie was chillllllllllllllllllll. Let everyone pet him. He also didn’t smell like shit.
Dogs immitate humans. Humans immitate dogs. Either way there is waaay too much butt sniffing when any species wears these costumes.
“I’m soo cute. Look at me–in my braids–white teeth–head tilt.” Nobody cares, bro. Get off the dog and walk away. Go play with your dolls or fall off a seesaw. Just get out of my photo.
Typical dog on dog.
Alright, here it is. This guy was insanely cute. Teddy bear eyes, floppy ears, weakest little bark. My heart melts just reminiscing. If only I stole him.
Justin Bieber as a fat pug. The owner didn’t really need to dress him up in a purple sweatshirt, or give him a shitty wig to get the point across–all he needed to do was lift his little body up, show the world his vacant scrotum and we all would have gotten the joke.
Definitely high on the cute factor–even though I hate bees. I once shot a bee in half with an air-soft gun. Probably the coolest thing I did in my prepubescent years. I would never do that to this little guy.
Mummy dog was cooOOool. He really owned it! He walked with the stiffness of my **** at a playground.
What a glorious day. The sun can’t shine brighter. After getting raped by Bayern Munich, Barcelona is ass close to getting knocked out of the UEFA Champions League. Can you taste the disappointment? I know all the Barca fans are withering away in disbelief–“Hhh…How is that even possible?”
Barcelona got bent over and ass-rammed by Bundesliga’s weinershnitzel with a score of four goals to none. Doesn’t that suck? In a tournament where rounds are played home and away in aggregate, you’re going to start the second leg down four goals? Holy shit. Thomas Muller may as well wear a rubber suit with a double strap-on above his shaft. Maybe Ribery can fuck you with his baguette. Or Arjen Robben can spread his holland-aise sauce all over your face. All Schweinsteiger needs to do is eye-fuck you with his blue laser (Aryan) eyes and you have one huge Bayern bukkake.
Come next week the Catalonian giants will be out of the Champions League. Thank god. The last thing I need to keep hearing is frat fags saying Messi over and over because that’s all he’s ever heard—as if he’s the brother of Avici.
Yes, he is great—but get off his dick. The midget can run fast, score hard, and do dirty, dirty things with his feet, but he didn’t do any of that today.
Getting back to the Barcelona fans—not all of you are bad.
Sorry that was a joke. YOU ALL BLOW.
Why is it every pick up game has a discussion mentioning the words and/or phrases: “tiki-taka”, “Messi”, “MESSI”, “yea but MESSI”, “dominate”, “Ronaldo sucks”, “Madrid sucks”. It eventually turns into a discussion of parakeets repeating dumb shit over and over until someone starts the game. And even then, all the Barca assholes think they’re Iniesta with their footwork but forget he passes the ball.
The discussion happens off the field too. No Barca fan is afraid of letting anyone know how great they are. Even if they’re insanely overweight and clearly have no idea of how play ANY sport. It’s as if knowing the word “Barcelona”, or muttering any player’s name gives them the same recognition as a person who played the game for years. Listen you fat fuck. You don’t know shit about soccer. Because you never played. Because no living soul, in their right mind, would pick a fuck like you, unless—clearly unless the goals were as fat as your girth and you clogged the open net. The first thing to pop into your head after mentioning Barcelona is tapas.
I won’t even get into the CD’s who play Fifa ’13 on Xbox Live. I’m sure you’re all aware.
There’s a million of them—every type and any demographic, the story always stays the same. You mutter any word connected with the sport and you’re instantly throated with their opinion. And even though I’m spouting mine right now, in an equally distasteful manner, I bet in some way you’d agree.
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