Couple F Bombs
Fuck you fat lady who is constantly announcing the new diet you’re on, but never lose a single fucking pound. Funny thing is that throughout the day I truly see you only eat oatmeal, salads, diet soda, grilled chicken, etc. Do you go home and double fist chalupas followed up by a full bag of marshmallows? Fuck.
Fuck you dipshit bouncer who stands in front of the door at a cool bar with a permanent frown. You are a midget stuck in a 6′4” frame. When was the last time you got laid without force?
Fuck you tow truck driving shades. I parked my car in the red for 3 minutes and you are going to charge me $90 because you already lifted my car two inches off the ground? You probably go home to your trailer every night and throw countless beats to the footage you sneakily recorded of star trek geeks doing each other in full furry bunny costumes.
Fuck you P Diddy. That forced black version of N’ Sync you created blows. (Regarding the girl version, Danity Kain – I would make Aubrey my wife if it was legal to permanently sew her mouth shut)
Fuck you white vans. When I buy you, you look so damn cool, I wear you out once and you find it funny to cover yourself in pizza sauce, Jaeger, and some odd red shit. (Fuck my inability to not spill)
Fuck you guy who ruins my heavenly 15 minutes on the can every morning about 9:12am with your chronic dio attacks, extreme heavy breathing, and occasional cell phone pick ups. Mix in a solid meal for god’s sakes, curried goo meat 4 times a day will do that to anyone. Swear I might lob some dirty TP over the stall next time you interrupt me and I hope it lands in your eye.
Fuck you dress shirt neck sizes. I always buy you with extra neck room, and somehow whenever I go to wear you with a tie for the first time, trying to button the top button takes the strength of Arnold in his prime. Then I have to go through my day with a blue face from lack of oxygen, and one deep breath may launch my button, like a speeding bullet, at that guy in the elevator who I swear is a walking SBD.
Fuck you hot chick who suggests that we don’t use a J Cap when it comes down to crunch time. You may not be aware of this, but I have had 15 drinks tonight at the bar and lord knows I don’t have the power to disagree with you at this point. Do I have “please give me wild raw dog agents to dwell upon for the next week, where every routine itch is followed up with a sprint to the bathroom to make sure you didn’t leave me a present” tattooed on my forehead? Get a grip and make some right decisions.
