After much experimentation with my board of trustees (cats), I’ve finally established a standard routine procedure as a solution to my current hypothesis involving an ongoing epidemic that’s been in effect for quite some time now in the youth community.

God forbid this ever happens to you or a loved one. But, if you EVER, under any circumstances, accidentally “forget” to turn your swag off; REMAIN CALM. PLEASE. Take 5 deep breaths, and follow my trusted routine procedure:

Simply shoot yourself right in the stupid motherfucking face, you goddam piece of ultra-dumb shit. (Preferably in a bath tub, so it’s easier to clean up your stupid brains/remainds)

Thank you!

“NICKY, THERE’S A POSSUM BY YOUR FOOT!”, my Mom shouted n pointed at the ground by where I stood outside in my yard after throwing some trash in a bin that’s kept by the gate leading to the alley; as she requested. I look down COMPLETELY UNALARMED to see absolutely nothing there. I look back up at my Mom standing at the doorway on the side of our house and she’s laughing so hard she can’t even say “April Fools.” Fkn parents, man. Fkn parents. So weird. Worst jokes ever. Love ‘em to death.

“UHHHHH, can I have a large sweet tea with a lot of ice?….Not, like, A LOT A LOT of ice. I’m not a fucking penguin or anything. Nor do I HAVE a penguin in here with me who needs to be chilled with McDonald’s ice to maintain its consciousness. I just like a sufficient amount of ice to slightly dilute the tea’s sweetness thus preventing me from falling into a diabetic coma on the drive home. That could be dangerous, yaknow?. So yeah, just a good amount of ice.”

“Fuck you. I’m quitting the fucking shit out of this job.$1.08. Drive up, you psychotic bastard.”

After a frustrating shopping session at Wal-Mart, Mike and I load up my ol’ rusty Tahoe with the little groceries n household necessities purchased, and take seat in the vehicle’s “cock-pit”. He in passenger’s seat, and I in the driver’s seat. DURR. 

I push in the little AUX tape iPod adapter into my truck’s dusty tape player in the center console just as Mike objects:

“NAH NAAAAH NAHH, I don’t wanna hear any fucking gay-ass bullshit.”

I quickly reassure Mike that my fucking extraordinary taste in music will, in fact, prevent any form of fucking gay-ass bullshit from escaping my truck’s audio systems in his divine presence.

iPod in hand, I scroll continuously as the clicking wheel sound fills the truck’s silence.

I set the iPod down gently in my cup holder as the intro to “I’d Do Anything” by Simple Plan blares through my Tahoe’s aged n impaired speakers.

Mike’s final statement goes as follows: “This is…the sheer epitome of ‘fucking gay-ass bullshit’, you fucking asshole.” and lets out a lengthy, heavy sigh of frustration that could’ve been heard from space. The drive home was lovely.

Good song, “I’d Do Anything”. Good song.

A customer, dressed rather casually, walks into a lonely little bread shop in town, approaches the counter and asks for two loaves of freshly-baked, whole wheat bread. He politely adds a request for them to be sliced. The smug lookin’ cashier performs the task for his customer, wraps the two loaves up and pressed numerous buttons on the register to display the customer’s total. He states:

“Total’s gonna beeeee: $9.80.”
“really?”, the customer responds.
“Yes”
“What about now, motherfucker?!

The customer pulls out a gun from the spandex waist-band of his light denim Levi’s. Still pretty smug and keeping his composure, the cashier responds:

“uhhh nine-eighty, please.”

The gunman, puzzled at such a calm response, states:

“But,..I’m holding a gun. GIMME ALL YOUR MONEY!”
“That’s fantastic. Congratulations.” The cashier responds, “Here’s some coupons for your next visit, I guess. Nine-eighty…..??”
Growing more irritated, the gun wielding lunatic says in a crescendo:
“Shut up, asshole, I’ll blow your brains right outa your fuckin sku—”
“WHOA!” The cashier interrupts, “are those Crocs?”
He points down to the gunman’s withered, old, grotesque Crocs sandals. And before anything else can be said, a group of about 9 or 10 elderly ladies n gentle men walk into the bread shop.

They notice the gunman wielding a deathly firearm and react in a similar way as the cashier: Smug, calm, and slightly annoyed right off the bat.

The eldest looking man out of the group, wearing a cardigan, some dockers, and fancy loafers, uses every ounce of strength in his body to hold his cane out, pointing directly at the gunman’s Crocs. “CROCS!!!”, he yells.

The entire group breaks out in thundering laughter. The cashier joins.

The gunman looks around, embarrassed as a dosen more people, out of NO WHERE, walk in to engage in laughter at this hilarity. Without any other option, the gunman points the gun in his mouth, pulls the trigger, and falls to the ground smashing his brain-less skull cavity against the bread shop’s tile leaving a puddle of blood, snot and other bodily fluids.

Moral of the story. Don’t wear Crocs. Don’t carry a weapon. Don’t wear Crocs. Don’t wear Crocs. And Don’t wear Crocs.

The End. Bye.

-“Love looks not with the eyes, but with the mind;and therefore is winged Cupid painted blind, motherfucker.”

-“Doubt thou the stars are fire,
Doubt the sun doth move,
Doubt truth to be a liar
but never doubt thy fucking love.”

-“Such is my shitty love, to thee I so belong,
That for thy right myself will bear all god damned wrong.”

-“Love is a smoke made with the fume of annoying as fuck sighs, being purged, a fire sparkling in lovers’ eyes, being vexed, a sea nourished with lovers’ tears and shit. What is it else? A madness most discreet, a fucking choking gall and a preserving sweet.”

-“Come what fuckin’ sorrow can, it cannot countervail the exchange of joy that one short minute gives me in dat crazy bitch’s sight.”