Good mawning, bishes.

This is the second Wednesday in a row that there is not a damn thing going on worth talking about.

Word Of The Day

Fabulist-n.- An elegant euphemism for liar.

There is a huge job market for natural fabulists in the political world.

“Reals” as in Reaaaal Fucking Crazy

“…between 150 and 200 real-life superheroes, or “Reals” as some call themselves, operate in the United States, with another 50 or so donning the cowl internationally. These crusaders range in age from 15 to 50 and patrol cities from Indianapolis to Cambridgeshire, England. They create heroic identities with names like Black Arrow, Green Scorpion, and Mr. Silent, and wear bright Superman spandex or black ninja suits. Almost all share two traits in common: a love of comic books and a desire to improve their communities.

Yes, you just read that correctly. There are actual people who dress up and patrol the streets as “superheroes”. After carefully considering the circumstances, I’ve decided to not analyze this too much. In lieu of breaking down the obvious, I will only heartily chuckle and try to rub away the hickey on my neck. I suggest you do the same. If you don’t have a hickey, pick up one at Wal-greens. There’s some snaggletoothed looking whores working in all of them.

Just to show you that journalists are retarded, this is a 3-page article.

See?

Drinks That Have Balls and Stamina…A Rare Combination

Remember the Orbitz drinks? The ones with balls floating in them?

The first picture is a drink that’s still being sold in Japan. Capsela. There’s nothing like swallowing little white orbs of mystery as you drink a shitty-flavored drink. Remember, Japan is like California without all the hippy shit. They both like freaky shit and they both like to live in fear of Mother Nature drowning them in the ocean. Which I pray will happen everyday.

Do You Have A 14 Year Old Boy That You’d like To Turn Into A Man?

She’s your man-maker then.
And just because God is that awesome…..the newspaper that has the story is called Beaver County Times.

The dirty jokes have formed a circle around the Earth and are threatening to hold a rally at the pinnacle of no expectations. Prepare for the rapture, folks.

“Chester, who acquired the boy’s phone number from a girl on the volleyball team, continued to send him messages, while also occasionally writing him late excuses and hall passes to allow them to spend extra time together.

The boy, who told police he was in love with Chester, denied the sexual contact and said the two talked about Chester’s relationship with her husband.

But when police viewed the text messages, they found two nude photos of Chester, one nude photo of the boy and explicit messages.”

I give up trying to figure out why married teachers are going out on a limb and playing with underage prick, so I will try to help them get away with it.

Stop fucking text messaging your prey, bitches.

Every text message that we send to each other is traceable and retrievable in multiple ways. It’s like trying to buy a hooker by renting a billboard on the side of I-95 with your phone number, social security card, blood type, and sexual history listed beside a photo of you underneath a waterfall of Satan spawned jism.

source

Weather

Today,

a high of social vacuums to go with corner-less rooms called planets that we think were formed after God clapped her hands, spanked her ass, and whispered, “Boom”. We don’t have to be close anymore since they created cameras that zoom. The only way to communicate is put on our shiny crowns, get in our cars, and loom.

Tonight,

a low of missing you while the whiskey sippers spew and everything around us has built us a roof. Cold rain hits your face as you christen my soul and name it your place after the toll is paid and everyone gets laid under the influence of just us two.

Freeball

a lack of sleep digs in deep
she doesn’t need to worry
about me but moreso about
her feeling of being obligated
to constantly hurry
the quarter has two heads
in this situation
a kiss is our consecration
and the hundreds that follow
are in preparation
for the reformation
in case sits in a briefcase
two words that save
themselves for the last dance
a loving chance
to exhume the ghosts of our past
broken to pieces at last
she’s falling fast
in actuality i’m wrong
her heart’s already splattered
as it quivers under her mass
the speed at which she hit
buried her in my self-created tomb
a lonely spectator’s room
i’m the team owner that has never won a game
yet i’ve spent all my money imitating fame
and even though she thinks it’s a trap hole
she’s slowly coming to realize
that this is my soul
a landscape portrait of what people can never take
i tickle scratch her back
as she dips a toe into a complex lake
before it turns to a creek
and her boat sinks
i am the only preserver you need
i’ve baked years from the crumbs of a few weeks
sometimes letting her drown
is a loving form of never letting her down-