Thursday, May 26, 2016

Question: When I need your wife to move, I just say: "Go, Dog, Go."

Seuuussssss! You motherfucker!

Don't you have anything better to do? You're dead! Beyond the grave! Six feet under! Is heaven so boring that you need to prod me on my earthly blog like some loser? Why can't you enjoy your halo and your wings and your all-day brunch?

Oh. Oh wait. Is it...could it be...are you in Hell?

Ba-haa-hahaa-haaa! Fuck you, Dr. Seuss!

That's what it is. That's why you only pop your head up every few months. It's probably the only break you're getting from having live piranhas feast on your nutsack. I'm flattered that on re-growing days you take the time to come at me, but you'd be better served sitting in a tub of ice or something. Priorities, Seuss. Like the way I prioritise banging you daughter over washing my genitals. She's filthy anyway. What's she gonna care?

Short Answer: Never occurred to you, Faithful Reader, that you can have eggs benedict for supper in heaven? God's starting to sound pretty sweet, right?

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