Archive for the ‘Satire’ Category

Cats “Just Chillin'”, So Back the Fuck Off

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There were 37 cats randomly meandering in Daniel Hopkins’ abandoned house when officials went inside last Saturday. Hopkins had passed away while at a relatives, and authorities entered the home after complaints of loud noises and faint smells.

Apparently, however, these cats were not owned by Mr. Hopkins. In fact, according to their “leader”, they owned him.

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He called himself “Mr. Nice”. He was a fine-haired, black cat that sat with this writer for an interview, and gave me information about the deceased Mr. Hopkins, as well as the cat’s humble abode.

“They call me Mr. Nice because I ain’t fuckin’ nice, you see? We cats don’t kid around. Throw a string in my face, and I take it as an insult. You’re not playing. You’re gambling. Get it?” Mr. Nice was very determined to inform me and the other authories that this was indeed “their” house, and that they had muscled Mr. Hopkins out of the mortgage years ago.

“Listen, you, we’ve been paying for this here house for years, okay? Does it look like a human has been living here? There’s shit on the walls, on the window sill, and the AC is sky high every day and night. Don’t even talk to me about the electric bill.”

I did. I mentioned that they hadn’t paid any bills or their mortgage for over seven months, and that unbeknownst to them, if they in fact did not know, Hopkins has been residing in this very house for that very long of time.

“You must be joking.” Ruffles, a furry, snowball-ish white cat said. I’ve been flinging my shit around this house like a monkey for the past seven months, and that jackass has been watching the whole time? Good riddance. He never cleaned my litter box, anyways.”

I was fortunate enough to escape with minor scratches, as Mr. Nice swiped me with his right paw as I attempted to take a picture of him.

He was even more upset when the authorities entered as I was leaving the house, and the cats were all made aware that the house was being closed-off by the city.

“It wasn’t fit for shit to live in. And I do mean shit. It was a sewer’s ass in this place. Dirty fuckin’ cats.”

“I don’t give a shit, man. I’m not pickin’ up a damn thing.” Mr. Nice muttered, as he and the rest of his gang line-up to exit the house.

It was an interesting afternoon, one high-lighted by my first actual conversation with a cat, as well as cats that took-on human personalities. I wasn’t sure, but when I looked out of the corner of my eye, I saw one smoking.

And Sir Charles, a chubby, brown and orange, handsome tabby, was swiping one of the officer’s wallets…

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He was made an example of.

Abandonded Car “Still Pretty Pissed”

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Let’s cut the shit. If you don’t believe I have a conscience and a soul, you’re both a jackass and a liar.

Is that why, 10 years ago, you’d whisper sweet nothings into my ear when you changed my oil, waxed my exterior, or changed my tires?

That’s right, bitch. I’m on to your ass.

I’ve been counting the days, friend. And a reunion between me and you is coming.

Oh, it’s coming.

But really. I’m pretty pissed.

You didn’t have to just leave me here, just sitting by myself, in the middle of nowhere.

I know you couldn’t avoid the deer. It wasn’t just lying, dead, in the middle of the road, or anything.

It would have been impossible to swerve out of it’s way, you know, with no other cars anywhere near you.

And maybe it would have been easier to see it if it wasn’t completely light out.

What? Are you fucking kidding me?

Seriously. How irresponsible/stoned were you that day?

I mean, I thought we were tight, man.

I was the classic, vintage car, and you were the ballsy, cool stoner kid.

We had a good thing going. Until you ran over a dead fucking deer in the middle of the day.

Now my engine is shot, I’m all dried up, I’m rusting to shit, and some fuckers sprayed graffiti all over the side of me.

I’m not trying to be a dick. But the least you could have done is call Triple A, get me towed somewhere, or sell me to another dude for 10 bucks.

Anything.

But not this.

Not just leave me here to face an endless eternity of lonely nights, drunk college kids fucking in my backseat, or the small chance someone eventually lights me on fire.

You know, for the fuck of it.

Just do me this one solid.

Admit you’re an idiot for running over that deer, and find a way to get me to a salvage yard. Put me out of my misery.

Just, seriously, get me the fuck out of this place.

Chronic Masturbator Tops “Personal Best”

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Yeah, that’s right.

After weeks of searching for just the right place to do it, and the right materials to use, I accomplished my feat.

I really don’t have to go into much more detail, I’m sure.

Alas, I will.

I successfully masturbated 7 times when I was a junior in high school. Lotion. Pamela Anderson. And then there was the couch.

Other experiments were born and died that day, but we don’t really have to dwell on the mistakes our youth brought on us.

Let’s just say that June 13th was a fantastic mix-bag of porn, new websites I’d never heard of, Cinemax, and, as I stated before, Pamela Anderson.

But that was then, and this is now.

Just yesterday, I found myself all alone. No one to awkwardly knock on my door. No roommates barging in at the wrong moment.

I could turn the volume up, and let the dirty happen. And I did. I just did.

It was truly a magical day.

And I bet I know what you’re thinking. “Sick. Just sick. That fucker jacked his shit eight times. That’s disgusting.”

Right and wrong in the same thought, fair friends.

Lucky number nine.

That’s right. I was in top form. Refined, well-oiled. Well, you get the idea.

My goal here is not to disgust you. More, to enhance my image as a member of the public, by being completely blunt and honest with you, regarding my sexual endevours.

It’s not that I wish for you to take part. Oh, God, no. I’m a one-man show, by all accounts.

I just want to be accepted.

I know I’ve been gaining wait. My eyes aren’t what they used to be. And my strength is waning.

But I practice what I preach. Literally. And I just wanted you all to know that, in my own privacy, I am a master of my domain.

And it’s not a bad thing.

I’m not out taking pictures of 12-year old girls, raping young, hot joggers, or going to strip clubs every Friday night.

No, I’m a good guy.

I keep to myself, stock up on lotions and free sex sites, and check my e-mail for those freebie videos every god damn day.

Because that’s all I have to live for these days, and as pathetic and sad as it very well may be; at least it’s honest.

It’s just that beautiful/ugly truth.

That fine line between perversion and hottness, I proudly walk.

At least what I do is something that the majority of the world does, or has done. Albeit, I went at it 9 times in a 24-hour period, but you get my point.

This is all more than I can say for my neighbor, Ted Radlefield. The fucker with the long white hair.

It’s like a naked George Carlin is staring into my window with his binoculars. And smiling.

But, I digress.

I just wanted to get the word out that I’m not a pedophile or a hermit.

Just a guy doing his thang.

Hey, It’s Me, Wasp Again…

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Mind if I borrow some fuckin’ sugar?

Yeah, I wriggle my tiny body through any open crack in your house, and it’s just because I want a cup of sugar.

Do you know how quickly I would drown in that shit?

Also, you’re not going to believe this, but a cup (any cup, really) is at least three times the size of me.

No amount of flying or stinging is going to make me magically able to carry a cup. Of sugar. Fuck.

My point is, I didn’t happen upon your place of residance by chance.

I’m not here to borrow anything-I swear.

I am strictly here to bug the shit out of you.

A guy paid me. Hey, I don’t ask questions.

I turn my buzzer on high, meander from corner to corner in the room, and do two swoops per 30 minutes.

I charge extra for the swoops, as they bring me very close to you and your flailing arm balloons.

There’s something really not right about the way you swat at me.

The form, the entire motion, really, just is quite awful.

I’m sorry, once again, I’ve lost my train of thought.

Oh, yes, the constant entrances and buzzing around.

I’ll stop it if you pay me more than the other guy.

I can’t tell you the dude’s name, but he’s paying over 200. You want me gone? Come up with the cash, pal.

I don’t do favors.

And you can forget about that spray can you have over there on that shelf. That won’t be of any use on me.

No, that’d just be a waste of your time…

To Owner, From Cat

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(Above: Right here, buddy. Fuckin’ right here.)

Dear Owner,

It’s about time we crossed this bridge. The food display has weakened of late, and I fear the supply will run out before you realize it.

Sadly, a trip to the location where you purchase those crunchy tidbits will not ease my sorrow.

But wait, there’s more.

I’ve discarded the collar you made for me. To be honest, I don’t care for pink, and regardless the amount of times you call me Trixie, that’s not my fucking name.

It’s Alex, you self-absorbed, assuming, ass.

Nope, still more.

That “litter box” I hear you groaning over so frequently through the week-it’s beyond repair.

No amount of those grey tiny pebbles has made it any easier to walk into that cage and do my business. If I can be truthful, my gag reflex is reaching a fucking mid-life crisis. It’s unhealthy. It’s barbaric.

You, sir, are neglectful.

You used to wave your lone finger at me when I would soil the carpet, and I say to you-do something about my stool dome, or you will be waving that finger for the rest of your days.

Don’t buy what I’m sellin’? Try me. I can light this fucking room up, brother. When you’re gone to work, there I’ll be, drinking out of the toilet, squeezing every drip and drop out of all the leaky faucets.

And the dog’s water dish? It’s fucking mine.

Regardless of how it may appear-I own that bitch.

I do apologize, though. I’ve strolled away from the point.

I really, really hate baths.

Read a book, dumbass. I can clean myself just fine. No more nights of raising all my legs and arms in defense=no more nights where you scream “fuck you, you stupid cat!” after I accidentally claw your cheek and wrist.

And I do put emphasis on “accidentally”. You can take that whatever way you want it. But let’s be honest, we both know where I’m coming from.

Shit’s gonna change around here, pal. One way or another, we’re gonna get more “cat-like” in this bitch.

That means shoes off when you get in the door. Full dish of food and water. Clean my dropping area. And leave me to clean myself.

Hey-Hey!-I’m talking to you!

Listen up, and listen good. I don’t slap you around or bite your ankles when you don’t shower for two days. Who gives you the¬†right to throw me under running water-or even worse-plunge me into the dark abyss of a full tub? Who, damnitt, who?

Alas, I digress.

My stay here hasn’t been a complete loss. I do like some of our moments together.

For instance, we share the same taste in music. Real mellow shit, stuff you can write or read to. I like that. I dig your style, man. Straight up.

Our movie taste is solid, too. Like a rock. Remember when we watched Die Hard together? We looked at each other at the end of the movie-assuring each of ourselves how much ass it indeed did kick.

I would have given you a high-five if you hadn’t had me in such a tight, closed-up hug. Seriously, if I want to be by you, I’ll be by you. Let a cat breathe, son. Let a cat breathe.

Anyways, I just felt I should bring some of this to your attention, as it won’t be long before your residence stinks like my urine and gets clawed to shit.

And if no changes are made, as I am so politely asking (demanding), bad things will continue to happen. Horrible things, that you cannot even begin to fathom.

Trust me, partner. You don’t want to even know an inkling about what goes on in my head. While you are sleeping…well, let’s let the mystery do it’s dirty work by itself.

I’ll let that little gem work inside your brain, fair friend. Because while you’re sleeping or away at work, I’m conjuring up my next move. My next plan.

But I’ll put it on hold…for now. My secretary knows where the files are, and the paperwork is ready. Take heed to my advice and suggestions, or you will truly have my fury unleashed on your over-hyped existence.

Sincerely,

Alex

PS. I have noticed that you still seem to be unsure of my sex. You blubbering ass. I have balls, man. I have balls.

Back of Guy’s Head Almost as Good as Movie

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Hey guy, I think it’s about time we had a talk.

It’s been a solid 35 minutes of me staring into the abyss that is your Jew fro, and I’m honestly starting to get pretty pissed off.

I’m fairly sure that the movie I’m trying to watch has had several scenes with nudity, and thanks to your behemoth body and oblong head, I am unable to fathom the feeling of an erection.

I need this, bro. I need this.

Me and the Mrs. don’t get out much, and to be frank, things have dimmed in the bedroom. The excitement is gone. My balls are dropping.

Fuck it, I just want to see some free boobs and catch the plot of this fucking film.

And I know what you’re saying, if you want porn, get a computer.

Easier said than done, my friend. Easier said than done.

But I digress. I’m straying from the point, as I so often do.

The fact is, I dropped my popcorn on the way into the movie, and the lady rolled her eyes at me. She told me, “big shocker. that’s another thing you can’t hold”, and demanded I go get another one.

That shit isn’t cheap, dude, but before I could hit her with a “fuck that” eye roll, my whipped bitch-ass was out getting more popcorn.

And guess what? Dropped that, too.

I’m sorry if I’m rambling a bit, but my patience is wearing thin, and I’ve now tallied up my running total of wasted money on the night.

5 for pretzel bites, 10 for two sodas, and 12 for two popcorn’s. Then 18 for the tickets. Fuck.

That’s 45 fuckin’ dollars.

And then, to top it off, I have “mountain of a man” sitting directly in front of me, and my lady has the smallest woman in the world in front of her.

You couldn’t possibly have a difficult time trying to see the movie behind your girl, dude. Not even if she were in a high-chair.

I know I’m supposed to be a big, grown-up adult about this shit and kindly ask you to crouch down or something, but I know how uncomfortable that would be.

I’ve been there. I’ve done it-it’s not cool.

You know what else isn’t cool, though? Paying 45 bucks for a shitty night and still not getting laid.

So move you giant fucking head so I can see some action.

Don’t Mind Me, Mr. Burglar

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(Above: Hey, jackass, the door’s unlocked.)

Oh, hey there, guy behind my door.

That’s a super scary black mask ya got there. No, no, believe me I am frightened. Your swiss army knife, too. Yes, very afraid…am..I.

You’re convincing, and I get it. You want all my money, my TV, and maybe a quick, solid rape session.

Ehh. I’m just not in the mood. Maybe another night. Well, a complete no on the whole “rape” thing, but honestly, come back in like two days, and you can have a free-for-all on my TV and non-expensive shit.

That will give me a couple of days to clear out my schedule, which will allow me the time needed to deal with your ridiculous attempt at robbing my shitty retro apartment.

There’s mold on the ceiling, bro. How much shit could I possibly have that’s worth stealing?

And stop trying to talk like Clint Eastwood. Contrary to popular belief, that voice isn’t scary. It’s just damned annoying.

I mean, seriously, are you okay? Did you eat some extremely dry nuts or drink a liter of scotch?

Did somebody light some bark  on fire and force feed it to you?

The point is, it’s been a long day, man. I really just want to put my feet up, watch some highlights, and jack my shit. Just real quick, get the fuck out of my house.

Don’t worry, I’m not mad. Really, I’m not. This is actually unbelievably exciting.

However, I’m so drained from work and expressing myself to you up to this point just how tired I am. Now I am literally too tired to protest this robbery any further.

So, rape aside, do what you will, fair friend. I’m gonna go take a shit.