Monday, February 6, 2012

Booze, Used Condoms and Brass Casings. I Have a problem. Maybe. Probably. Most Definately.

I have decided, that just as FLO RIDA created a career for himself by naming himself after his state and singing about oral sex, I too will join the ranks of career singers, and using the miracle of auto tune I'll sing about excessive promiscuity and anal, while using a clever name that is deserving of my over inflated ego. I shall call myself: "Optimus Rhyme."

[Why? Because Fuck your noise, that's why]
This costume is economical because I can double dip as I take on my super villain alter ego: Optimus Crime

A while back, we got some sort of deal on carpet cleaning. This happens every few years and for a good week or two all of the rugs in the house disappear, only to return brand new and free of dog piss. It's weird to see the naked floor, but the lack of dog piss smell is worth it, especially since my wonderful dog, the Unipooper manages to piss through gates, box barricades and anything else that's designed to prevent him from spraying his piss all over the rugs in question. 

Whatever, no big deal. Most of the time I'm informed of this and move all the furniture and roll the rugs up, then carry them to the strange gap between our living room, dining room, foyer and the staircase upstairs. I don't rightly know how to explain this gap, but it's certainly not large enough to put to any good use, it's sort of just there, as if the architect dropped his cigarette on the blueprints and the construction company just made some shit up left a big empty, useless space in my house to cover up his fuck up.

[This is clearly the worlds most cutting edge Architect]
You know else smoked lots of cigarettes? The soldiers in Stalingr-- just kidding, that joke's dead... just like the soldiers in Stalingrad!

Now, one day, I come home, oblivious to my surroundings because I'm tired from dealing with people that smell like hobos all day. I trudge upstairs ready to jerk off and take a god damned nap. As I step into my room, I notice that my nice black and red, golf themed rug has disappeared. So just like my house has a big empty spot, which is now freshly carpetless (much like an ideal fuck and chuck) my room now too is carpetless. 

Okay that's fine, right. Some dust bunnies, the occasional scrap of paper and -- shit. Fucking condom wrappers. Like seven of them. All of them were obscured from sight under my rug.Well, my parents are well aware of my debauchery. The rug dude probably high fived her and my poor mother probably assumed that it was only seven times. Right? No big deal.

I decide to take advantage of this situation to clean my room, get all the dust out of, well, everywhere, pitch the pile of water bottles that accumulate between my bed and my nightstand in an attempt to stave off the next morning's hangovers, you know, the usual. As I'm piling everything into a bag, I stumble across ammo casings that made their way from my range bag to obscure places in my room. Okay, whatever. There's a few I can use to reload, and there's some I can't. Pitch those. Behind my bed I find a bottle of vanilla vodka.

[My exact internal dialogue]
When did I kill a bottle of vodka?
Oh right, with what's her face
(Brief recollection of her face and I remember to add her to the spank bank for the day)

I finish my cleaning and go to my trashcan. I pop it open, toss in the ammo casings and prepare to drop in the trash bag full of dusty Swiffer things, water bottles and assorted papers and junk I don't need. I see two used condoms. Old used condoms. Condoms that I didn't put there. I'm talking, from several months ago. Sitting at the top of the trash can, resting on top of two cardboard boxes. And on those boxes? Bulgarian Cyrillic. Why do I have small boxes with Bulgarian on them?

[If the term "7.62mm METAK" has nothing to do with Ammo, I'm gonna fuck someone]
Actually, I'll probably do that anyway. I might have a problem. Maybe. Probably. Definitely.

Yeah, that's right. Surplus ammo boxes and used condoms. Now add the bullet casings and bottle of vodka. I'm sure I'm on some sort of watch list now. Also, a joke I once made to my friends about This Web Comic pretty much being about me, came true. 

Used Condoms? Check
Booze bottle? Check
Bullet casings? Check
Being stalked by a time traveling web comic artist? Not sure for sure if Check.

And I thought Zombies were my biggest worries.

[I was going to make a Zombie joke, but Google Images gave me This]
Scantily clad women and guns are only two of my four core tenants in life, but only 1 in 4 is necessary to trigger my ADHD

(Brought to you by today's sponsor: Raging ADHD)

And now for today's cutting edge humor: 

So, a Nazi walks into a BAR...

[Brat-a-tat-tat-tat. Wizz! Bang! Pew Pew! "Ach Mich Lachen!"]
Hey, at least it's not a Stalingrad joke
We now return you to your irregularly scheduled, 
debaucherous asshat blogging away on the internet.

Food for thought: If zombies are your biggest worry in life then either you're taking life too easy, or you're a mental abortion. Or you're me. Given my history pretty much all of the above is probably valid. Wait, self-deprecation on my narcissistic blogging project? Hell must have frozen over Stalingrad jokes must be funny again.

Okay, so a Nazi walks into a DP-27...

[Брат-в-Тат Тат Тат Wizz! Bang! Пью Пью! "Ach Mich Lachen!"]
You funny guy, Comrade.

That may or may not have been intentional. You know, in case some mental abortion didn't get the bonus content joke. Or maybe I just can't stop the WWII references and humor and have a problem. Maybe. Probably. Definitely. Anyway, I'm getting bored with this, so I'm gonna go get piss drunk and fuck someone. Maybe. Probably.... yeah... I have a problem.

So until next time, my riveted readers, I'll be not searching for a Sex-a-holics group anonymous. Or should I be? I could... fuck, I do have a problem. I'm so using my subjective reality powers on this one...

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