Goddamn people eating their fat fucking bagels. these fucking philistines, these emotional cuisinarts come into
my place of work, my second fucking home, and they're fat! They're fat! What kind of world are we living in
when we let these sausage-fingered, porcine dickfucks eat MORE food. There are human beings in New
Orleans right now who deserve this food, not you, fatsy.
I have a job, I am making money. Yet I have no money. Where is the sense here? What pisses me off the most is the fat
people who come in with their gloopy wads of money, covered in lard and drool. Where the fuck does their money come from? Why do I have to borrow money from my brother to get by? One of these days, I'm going to crash over the counter, and whoever the fuck the old, fat couple is, I will pound every inch of their fat until I've earned a million dollars. Because people will pay me to do this, this random beating, this act of reasonable brutality. They will watch the savage blows reign down, as I shove the man into the day-old bagel stand, and boy does he just fucking BOUNCE off of it, right back into my fist. The guy immediately starts throwing up, the fatty chunks jettisoned like vegetable chunks out of a lid-less blender. Now I just pound the shit out of his wife as he watches and vomits. I get tired, so I take off my hat and people start filling it with dollar bills. I then pick up Mr. Fat Fuck Face and throw him flush through the glass desert display. Sheets of blood douse his wife's horrified and mangled face. I then turn to the slob wife and say, "Get skinny, now!" And she does, rather quickly. People are clapping and cheering, except for the other fat people at the coffee shop. They're trying to hide underneath tables, only they're fat, so they don't fit, the tables wiggling as every ripple of fat shivers in fright.
I wash my hands and continue my chore. Someone hands me the hat, and I'll be damned...a million dollars, in my hat. And all in big bills, too. Thanks skinny people, I think to myself, sweeping the floor clean. Thanks.
I remember when I had a real job, where I didn't start my day at 2:00 in the afternoon. The last person I knew who could wake up in the afternoon without blatant shame was Doug, and, well, Doug.
All Busta Rhymes could ever do was walk through doorways in music videos and show you his fingernails, let alone rap. Fucking rapper can't just rap, he has to throw on body make up and walk through doorways. Way to go, Busta Rhymes, way to fucking go.
my place of work, my second fucking home, and they're fat! They're fat! What kind of world are we living in
when we let these sausage-fingered, porcine dickfucks eat MORE food. There are human beings in New
Orleans right now who deserve this food, not you, fatsy.
I have a job, I am making money. Yet I have no money. Where is the sense here? What pisses me off the most is the fat
people who come in with their gloopy wads of money, covered in lard and drool. Where the fuck does their money come from? Why do I have to borrow money from my brother to get by? One of these days, I'm going to crash over the counter, and whoever the fuck the old, fat couple is, I will pound every inch of their fat until I've earned a million dollars. Because people will pay me to do this, this random beating, this act of reasonable brutality. They will watch the savage blows reign down, as I shove the man into the day-old bagel stand, and boy does he just fucking BOUNCE off of it, right back into my fist. The guy immediately starts throwing up, the fatty chunks jettisoned like vegetable chunks out of a lid-less blender. Now I just pound the shit out of his wife as he watches and vomits. I get tired, so I take off my hat and people start filling it with dollar bills. I then pick up Mr. Fat Fuck Face and throw him flush through the glass desert display. Sheets of blood douse his wife's horrified and mangled face. I then turn to the slob wife and say, "Get skinny, now!" And she does, rather quickly. People are clapping and cheering, except for the other fat people at the coffee shop. They're trying to hide underneath tables, only they're fat, so they don't fit, the tables wiggling as every ripple of fat shivers in fright.
I wash my hands and continue my chore. Someone hands me the hat, and I'll be damned...a million dollars, in my hat. And all in big bills, too. Thanks skinny people, I think to myself, sweeping the floor clean. Thanks.
I remember when I had a real job, where I didn't start my day at 2:00 in the afternoon. The last person I knew who could wake up in the afternoon without blatant shame was Doug, and, well, Doug.
All Busta Rhymes could ever do was walk through doorways in music videos and show you his fingernails, let alone rap. Fucking rapper can't just rap, he has to throw on body make up and walk through doorways. Way to go, Busta Rhymes, way to fucking go.
posted by Doug at 1:05 AM
1 Comments:
Good call with the Busta Rhymes thing. All that guy does is walk through doorways and throw his long fingers around. I think i saw him in a movie once, but I can't remember what the hell it was. I wanna say it was die hard 3, but that's just blatantly wrong. He was somebody's thug older brother or something, and he owned the role. At the end, after a big fiery car chase and gun shoot-out, he shows up and walks through a doorway and somehow everything gets resolved. Meat Wallet forever!
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