Good Morning, DUMBFUCK!

  

…and I didn’t have to lift a finger!

Next it’s going to tell me that all I have to do to make it disappear is to leave it on the curb and it will cause a magical truck come by, with burly men who will throw it in the back and take it away forever.

Wouldn’t that be nice?  Unfortunately there’d be another pile of it to throw in the truck again next week. It just keeps piling up.

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Negotiating Is Done, DUMBFUCK!

One day last week I called up a local BBQ joint and ordered some takeout for lunch.  They told me it would be about $13, and I told them I’d pick it up in 20 minutes.

When I got there, I told them I’d take the food today and if they didn’t bother me for a couple weeks I would come in and pay them $6.50, if I felt like it.

Did you know that when you have a taste for some REALLY GOOD brisket, a Quarter Pounder with Cheese tastes awful?

But that’s not my point. My point is, DUMBFUCK WANTS SOMETHING. It is buying. I am selling. I have the product. It has been told the price it must pay to get what it wants. If it doesn’t pay that price, it walks away empty-handed.


  

It should save its money. There are other prices to be paid.

You see, I’m not going to do what it wants. Went that route once. After Hoge and it settled the copyright suit last August, my very first response was to comment that if it “changed [its] behavior on the Internet, I’d have no reason to write ruthless parodies.” And I stepped back. Left it alone.  It lasted 5 whole days before it popped up to brag that it was writing a book and “borrowing” my content under Fair Use.

So, back in the game.

Now? Fool me once? Shame on you.  Fool me twice? Not in this lifetime.

Even if I did what it said, hold on – Bwahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahaha hahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahaha! – in the astronomically improbable event that it was telling the truth, it couldn’t possibly be more than a half-truth.  It might close its Twitter account and shut down its blog, but the only surprise would come if it doesn’t already, as I type this, have both a new Twitter handle and a new blog ready to go. Genius thinks it will put one over on me?  Don’t think so.

The terms are set and fixed, DUMBFUCK.  It wants the brisket, it pays the thirteen bucks.  Or else it gets the hose again.

And just to note for the record, you know what’s great about being a shit covered pig?

Soap and water takes it right off.

OTOH, when you see a mad dog coming down the street, cockeyed and foaming at the mouth, there’s really only one thing you can do with it then, because what that dog’s got can’t be washed off.  Isn’t that right, Mr. Finch?

Oh, before I forget – give your “beloved” my best when you finish ignoring her to do your podcast.

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Good Morning, DUMBFUCK!

Oh, No! Pleeeze Don’t Th’o Me In De Briar Patch!  

 

Though let’s be abundantly clear.  It has had the tools in its possession to make this stop for months.

Months.

All it has ever had to do to take all my leverage away, to remove me from the field altogether, was to follow its own advice, and “exercise the self-control that God gave a child.”

But it can’t do that.  It doesn’t have the ability.

It demonstrates – EVERY DAY – that it lacks the ability to put its spouse ahead of itself, the selfish bastard.

It demonstrates – EVERY DAY – its inability to love its spouse half as much as it hates me, which may be a tenth as much as it hates my friend John.

It demonstrates – EVERY DAY – its complete failure to consider the idea that it might sacrifice anything for the welfare of a person it claims to love.

It demonstrates – EVERY DAY – its diminished mental capacity in its inability to bring a minimal degree of focus to anything not having to do with its collection of perverse obsessions with (in no particular order of importance or intensity): me, John Hoge, homosexuality, self-publishing and podcasting as public humiliation, insulting all icky girls as proxies for the ones it was too terrified of to look at, much less speak to in high school, all things related to human bio-waste management, and inserting its useless pee stick into the “pooter holes” (God help us!) of poor defenseless Cub Scouts like this one:

Boy Scout

Sure, if it wants the pain to stop, I can make the pain stop.

All it has to do is stop touching the hot stove. Even a child figures that out reasonably fast.  I’m sure if it applies its diminished mental capacities to the problem, it can also gain the measure of self control that it expects we humans to exercise.  

Just…what God gave a child…that’s all it needs…surely it can manage that…unless it’s mental capacity is even more diminished than originally thought…

Or the beatings can continue until morale improves.

Makes no nevermind to me.

Now…where did I leave my shine box?

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Good Morning, DUMBFUCK!

  

He has a blog, but doesn’t want readers. There’s a writer for ya.

He has a Twitter, but doesn’t want anyone to read it. (Hint: make this account private, or just delete it and go away.  Oh, wait…forgot:  LYING MONKEY TWAT)

He has email, but he’s in such denial that he doesn’t want anyone telling him how diminished his mental capacity really is.

He probably has a podcast, but he clearly doesn’t want to tell anybody about it, which is probably wise, considering the very questionable legality of the content he likes to produce.  

“You have to get out right now…the listeners are coming from INSIDE THE HOUSE!”

He so obviously wants to be an entertainer…but he has no ability to entertain.

He says he wants to be ignored…the quickest path to being adored.

He wants to be left alone…well, if the “beloved” really is wasting away, that day approaches.  He might find that what he asked for isn’t what he wants.

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Another Autobiographical Overshare

…courtesy of our old pal SIT-DMC:

I get the shivers when I see that look on McCaskill’s face. It’s the look of a teacher who knows you didn’t get your homework done, and she knows you were out playing with your friends all night while your dad was drunk and your mom was working the truckstop and you didn’t even try to do your homework and she’s waiting for just the right moment to POUNCE on your story… and YOU… to rip you to shreds in front of your classmates, throwing dismembered bits of your body down the aisles between desks, making little Susie (who always was a snot nosed little twat) wear your intestines like a necklace, at least until recess.

And you know…that reminds me of a song…

Mission accomplished, pal.

Mission. Accomplished.

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Good Morning, DUMBFUCK!

 

Hey, DUMBFUCK, when you critique someone else’s usage, make sure you put a period INSIDE and OUTSIDE the quotation mark at the end of the sentence.

God forbid you make that mistake and leave anyone thinking you’re just a garden variety DUMBFUCK and not the  HIGHLY CONCENTRATED, WEAPONIZED EXTRA STUPID DUMBFUCK that we’ve come to know and love as a perpetual source of idiocy.

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