Monthly Archives: May 2012

Mitt Romney – He’s a real G(OP)

You must be this tall to ride Romney

Word has it that presidential wannabe Mitt “I’m really only a blue collar guy when I wear my blue Polo” Romney has clinched the Republican nomination by now amassing more than the  1,144 necessary delegates.   Romney said he felt “humbled” as he was seen climbing into his helicopter later that day. Today surely is a day like most others.

Now, this blog had avoided politics and its contenders but I felt as though The Romster, being the first Mormon and all to clinch the GOP primary was, you know, a bid deal, since this will probably be his last victory.  And as a fellow Mormon I could relate when Mitt was heard saying that his “[wife] drives a couple of Cadillacs.”  The story is nearly the same for me, except at my home, it is my wives that share a Hyundai.

But of all the presidential candidates in history that I pay no attention, Mitt Romoney is definitely the most relatable, average, ordinary guy out there on the stump.  Why, it wasn’t that long ago he commiserated with my ilk as he explained he too “is unemployed” and gets paid to speak but “not very much.”  I suppose when you you stack $375,000 on top of $200 million it does look like pennies.

He keeps solid, normal friends by which to polotik with on the trail, like Donald Trump and Donald Trump’s hair (a separate, legal entity).  Trump and Hair ™ claim to have raised something like 3 trazillion dollars in campaign funds.  Even now, the campaign is holding a raffle for for a “fantasy day with Trump” with tickets starting around $3 so that even the poorest of Americans will have to make the choice between buying an orange mocha frappuccino or investing in what is likely no one’s fantasy.  I personally have bought 400 tickets in hopes that when I win the day will include a tour of the Trump tour, visiting the set of The Apprentice and then banging Melania.  Otherwise, the way I see it, if I wanted to spend 24 hours with a pretentious GOP dickhole I could save my $3, buy a happy meal and trade that for a day with Limbaugh.  At least then we’d probably get high together.

Unfortunately the celebration for being the latest Grand Old Poon was short lived as later that day Romney’s crack team of social media gaffes released his own iPhone app to approximately 48 anxious users.  43 of them would later admit it was downloaded on accident thinking they had instead bought the latest Fart App.  Apparently Romney’s app allows you take a picture of yourself and then add one of Mitt’s custom phrases like “I’m with Mitt”, “Mitt’s the Shit” or “Mitt and Corporations are people.  And they are both my friends” banners to the photo, upload it to Facebook and receive 0 Likes.  The problem that emerged was that it misspells America, electing instead to write Amercia.   God damn it Mitt; just when I thought you and I had something in common you go and make yourself look like a complete idiot.  Well alright, maybe we’re not that far apart afterall.

♪ Amercia, fuck yeah.  ♫  Saving the world, every day. ♪


Man with 30 kids asks for lower child support; probably should ask for condoms.

Who has a daddy named Desmond?

Did anyone else hear about this?  I guess there’s some dude that’s been muff stuffin’ down in Tennessee and now has something like 30 kids.  According to the LA Times, this extremely virile man, a one Desmond Hatchett, has set a Knoxville record.  You’ve got to be fucking kidding me; this is setting a record?  Does that mean there were so many other dudes with 29 kids down in Knox County that it took the Roman warrior sperm of Mr. Hatchett to make  make it clear who’s the biggest fucking idiot in Tennessee?

I have to admit though, I don’t know what I’m more impressed about, the fact our record breaker found 11 women worth having sex with in Tennessee, or the fact that he’s not related to any of them.  The man is a true inspiration to all of us.  I never thought someone who works a minimum wage job could pull so much ass.  What was I thinking; working white collar and wearing condoms.  My game is weak.  But enough of singing his praise, he’s clearly got enough willing mouths for that one.

I am a little curious how something of this nature happens.   All that pot back in college hasn’t done much for my math skills but I think I still can handle basic arithmetic.  Let’s see, add 12 idiots, subtract their clothes, divide their legs and let them multiply.

No really, a couple of kids with the first woman I understand.  Sure, things fizzle and he has a couple more with a new lady. OK.  Even with the third family, I might cast a wondering glance but I’m not passing any serious judgement.  You can even justify a handful on some wild acid and whiskey filled weekends in your mid 20’s. But by the time he’s sausage stuffing the 8th and 9th women and having multiple kids with them, you have to ask yourself, have these women lost their fucking minds?! What the hell are they thinking, inviting this guy back like they’ve each got a punch card and they’re just one kid away from a free toaster.

And now he’s asking for help with his child support.  Shit, he should be asking someone to make him flashcards, help him learn all his kids names.   I mean, I do feel bad for the kids, since there’s a pretty good chance their lives will suck.

On the plus side they’re famous for a couple of days.  That’s gotta be worth at least $1.49.

Time Magazine’s breastfeeding MILF

“Sucking on my titties like you wanted me …”

(Photo Credit : Just Google “lucky + boobs”  Caption Credit : Those sweet ass opening lyrics of Fuck the Pain Away by Peaches)

Alright, I know I’m a little late to this party, but when the party is about titties, it’s a party that won’t be stopping early.  The party I’m talking about of course is that lady who pulled her boob out on Time magazine.  And then shoved it into the mouth of what appears to be an 11 year old boy.

First of all, I have not read the article but am completely prepared to unabatedly throw my opinion into the blogosphere; much like a polar bear eating a baby seal while it’s still alive. In other words: I don’t need no stinking invitation.   Apparently, the article is supposed to be about parenting or something else boring, but you could have fooled me; I thought it was an ad for step stools.

Come on now though, whose idea was it to put that blonde and her side boob on the cover of Time magazine? Shit, when I opened the mailbox I popped half wood until I realized it was just a kid on the other end of that nipple and not that imp from Game of Thrones in the midst of a little feeding session.  I feverishly flipped through the pages expecting to see that other dude from Thrones who runs the whore house shouting at some Mideaval milfs and midgets about how to find each other’s anal G spot with three knuckles.  You can imagine my disappointment to find a picture of some old dude with a baby talking about parenting.    Weak sauce.

But before we shake our heads and wag our fingers, I would like to step back and put myself into that child’s shoes.  Metaphorically speaking of course; since there’s no way I’d fit in those size 3 Osh KoshBGosh sneakers.  I mean, what must be going through his mind during this photo shoot?  “We usually do this with her pants off too”  or “How come I don’t get any Oreo’s with it this time?”  or maybe just a “What the fuck is going on”?  They say he’s only three but the kid’s got some great form.  Little guy don’t even need a bib anymore.

I want to know your thoughts.  Does this article make you thirsty?

My thoughts on the new iPhone 5

Possibly the next iPhone.

So I’ve heard some rumors that Apple will release yet another version of the iPhone.  Yeah, you think?  Shit, I’m not known as an Apple fan, nor am I even that good at predictions (every time I watch Titanic I always get it wrong.  Yep, I think I’ll like it).  But even I could have guessed that Apple will release a new iPhone.  It’s called riding the gravy train, baby.  And even though he’s gone, Jobs is still shoveling coal into that big green cash colored locomotive.  I can hear him now “Lookout hipsters, were laying track and running train on your wallets!  Choo Choo!”

I read the article on my Droid, so let me summarize it in a completely unbiased manner.  The next iPhone will boast a microwavable safe Teflon-plutonium hybrid case, a 23 megapixel camera front facing camera for Skyping your titties, a 34 megapixel rear facing camera for some epic penis photos and its screen will be made from pieces of the sun.

Alright, so maybe those were some slight exaggerations, but remember, I was paraphrasing after my evening cocktails.  My point is … what the fuck.  Why are we adding megapixels like spoonfuls of mashed potatoes at Old Country Buffet?  All this pixelating is falsely convincing your average everyday beefwhistle that he is a good photographer.  “Hey look Herman, I just took a photo of a rock.  Since my screen is so clear then this must be an awesome photo.  I mean, it’s just a rock, but it’s so clear.  It moves me.”  Herman, please tell your friend Iver, that no one gives a shit about his picture of a rock.  And no amount of Instagram novelty bullshit is going to make the photo better.  Just make sure he adds his rock to his list of friends when he posts it on Facebook.

And how many times can Apple convince us that the case is different and better?  Let’s be honest, the iPhone is going to be made of the cheapest material that it can get those fast fingered wizards to glue together over at Foxconn.  Liquid metal?  Sounds like what T-1000 was made of.  In other words, it sounds like something that doesn’t exist.  “Hey Florence, check out my phone.  It’s made from Unicorn semen and solid gas.”

Maybe instead of all these superficial bullshit ideas Apple could make some real, substantive alterations that might personalize the phone instead of giving the world a bunch of mass produced dillholes. Take this Siri software that I keep seeing talking to Samuel L. Jackson and trying to teach the poor guy how to make soup.  I think each user should be able to pick Siri’s gender, voice and attitude.  You want a drunk Russian sailor cursing directions at you or some slutty MILF repeating what you’re texting grandma?  No problem, Siri Vlad and Siri Mrs. Jones have you covered.

And I’d like to see those tech masters over in that Apple bunker to come up with some real, helpful changes.  Determine and flag all phone numbers of ex-girlfriends, ex-one night stands, and ex-bar bathroom blowjobs and disable the use of text messaging to them after 1:00 am (8:00 pm Friday or Saturday).  Or, and hear me out; maybe they could write some algorithm that would determine which of those numbers would lead to a higher chance of a successful late night, ill-advised (but super fun) drunk bang party.

Hell, considering the cost of the fucking thing you’d think the battery would get through at least a couple episodes of Mad Men (or a handful of redtube vids). Or borrow the same technology that Timex mastered in the 1800’s and provide some sort of water / beer-proofing for those times your phone ends up in a Solo cup. I mean, there’s nothing worse than you’re phone dying after you win pong but before those freshmen hotties start making out.

iPhone 5, almost as good as the iPhone 6.

Airports. Let’s f***ing party.

Airports.  Where else are you going to find dogs, drugs and a blonde Santa wearing a ‘please bang me’ sweater?

So I had to take a couple of flights today, which has prompted me to write about my love for airports and all the F-tards within their somewhat semi-autonomous but fully frustrating walls .  For the sake of this article let’s assume that I was flying to a remote CIA bunker deep in the Amazon, instead of saying, I went to my parents’ place in Vermont.

By the way my parent’s don’t live in Vermont, because that would be fucking stupid.

So why do I love airports so much?  It’s because of the people, I tell you, the people.

Let’s start with the ones you meet when you first arrive.  I’m not talking about curbside check-in valet bullshit workers either.  The workers; yeah, they’re OK.  But fuck the people using them.  Grab your suitcase you lazy cockmuffin and get inside. We’ll call that place the lobby or the ‘check in’ area, or the Departures Zoo Headquarters.  It truly looks like a fucking zombie playground.   Hordes of people with frightened faces walking in all directions.  I don’t understand how so many people could be headed to so many places.  Where are these idiots all going?  Go to the counter, go to security or go blow someone in the bathroom.  Those are your options.

Not only are they lost in a building with very few options, but these noobs decided to show up sober, as if an airport is any place to experience not under the influence.  Personally, if I’m true to form then I’ve arrived either stoned, hungover or working my way back to both.  These are what I would call “awesome life choices” that neither improve my ability to handle fluorescent lights at 5:00 am, nor faciliatate the interactions with those around me.  But then again, that’s why I do it in the first place.  However, even in my incoherent state of coherency I’m smarter than 95% (not an estimate) of the people there.  Just start with those people that stand paralyzed like, well, paralyzed people, in front of those giant auto-revolving doors like they just saw a shark and a turtle fucking in front of them and they don’t know how to react.  Walk into the empty space and then keep walking.  Shit, that’s like 10% of the people right there.

Anyway, so there I am with my approriately sized carry on item and my one personal item – my backpack / cooler filled with Beast Tallboys. (I like this one because it’s camo, so pretty much no one ever sees it).  “Tallboys?”, you are probably asking in a mocking voice.  “But you can’t take liquids through security”   Yeah, no shit.  The beer is to drink in line while waiting to get through secuirty; no way I wanna lose my buzz just because I have to stand and watch a bunch of geriatrics break their backs taking off some Skechers Shape Ups for an hour. I can’t stand the smell of old people and their decaying feet.  I’ve got an idea that would probably cut that line in half.  Maybe if we elminate the inheritance tax then some of these old farts wouldn’t be afraid to just give up and die.  But more about Security later.

Right, so you need to collect your boarding pass.  There will be two options if you’re lucky.  1 – Wait in line and go to the counter to have them do it. 2 – Wait in a shorter line for Self Check In and you do it.  As with many activities, I’m a big DIY kind of a guy.  Now, no matter which one you choose, undoubtedly there will somehow be a mass of Asian tourists in front of you.  I swear you can arrive at an empty airport, and then after you lean down to tie your shoes (which is code for ‘drink your first beer’) when you look up there will be roughly 734 South Koreans with giant, I mean huge, massive, stainless steel bullet proof looking suitcases in front of you.  Like they all just got beamed there from Kimchi feast or something.  For the record Koreans – Thumbs Up;  Kimchi – Thumbs Down.  It’s just the crowds of Asians I don’t understand.  I never see just one or two Asian tourists.  Yes, I do see Asian-Americans in single and dual numbers, but not their tourists cousins from Asia.  It’s as if those departing from Japan, South Korea or even China, are required to buy no less than 30 tickets in order to qualify for what looks to be a group discount on glasses on haircuts.  No complaints here, but I have never seen an Asian with dreadlocks.

Anyway, I make a cool calculation and decide to head towards the Self Check In station. Seems as though any automated machine these days will asks for the one piece of information I don’t know.  Thinking I am well armed having remembered my name (first and last), phone number and roughly 300 different internet user names and passwords, I step up like I’m about to play Pac Man.  Wrong.  It wanted my confirmation code or my passport.  Passport?  I’m going to Nantucket, not on a drug run to Panama. Fortunately though, I’m not poor,  so I own a smartphone; otherwise shit would have gotten messy.  Badda boom badda bing, 20 seconds and another beer later I’ve got Gmail open and I can see my confirmation code.  Hit print and let’s go to security.

Beep! Beep!! FUCKING BEEP!!!!

I turn around in time to jump out of the way and narrowly miss what can only be described as an elephant whale on a shopping cart.  In reality it was just a fat dude in one of those golf carts going 2 MPH and being driven by an airport worker whose facial expression suggests he’d rather be getting sodomized by giant squid than drive one 30 yards to his gate.  Poor guy.  I slip him one of my beers as he passes.

So I get to security and try and go through the Priority line. It works nearly every time.  Seriously, try it, they never notice you.

Anyway, I try to go through priority and some minimum wage earning clown tells me to go to the end of the standard line.  My emotions are mixed but I’m kind of drunk right now and don’t feel like fighting a 75 year old woman.  And I’ve still got 3 beers to drink.  Besides you can stand there in line and watch the shit show of the people in front of you.  Airports are such a great mix of people.  Except for poor people.  They can’t really afford to upgrade from Greyhound so they’re aren’t a lot of them at airports.

Regardless of the usual barriers to good American jobs (race , sex, creed, etc.) all these people in line are equal.  Equal in that for some reason they look nervous.   The closer they get to the security check the more chatty they get.  Shifting their weight from foot to foot and looking around as if they’ve got something to hide.  Which they don’t, because they lead boring lives.  But it’s as if they’re carrying a kilo of blow and forgot to take it out of their suitcase and now they’re in a line of people and they’re about to walk through a metal detector and oh shit, the line’s moving again and they’re so nervous they’re about to shit their pants. I love it.  It’s laughable.   It’s like once they get to the front where they need to put all there shit in a tray they feel pressure from the people behind them to move faster; but instead of doing things better, they just do everything worse in a rushed manner and make everything slower.

Seems like most of them can’t think straight; no doubt these thoughts going through their head “Put my main carry on on the conveyor belt.  Grab a tray. Shit, what about my liquids.  Fuck, they’re in the main carry on.”  A TSA worker is yapping at them “phone, wallets, shoes, computers, dildos, belts”   The ticket holder tries to grab another tray “What?  My shoes?  Alright, there.  Fuck, I need a dish for my belt and earrings and clit piercing and dog collar.  Hold on, I gotta take my computer out.”      Like it even matters.  The dudes behind the screens are looking at porn anyway.  If you want to bring something on a plane, pack it in your carry on.

Anyway, it all makes for great entertainment while I finish two of my beers and slip the last one in the suitcase of the guy in front of me. Damn, he’s gonna have trouble explaining that one.  I feel a little bad that I opened it first, but no matter, it’s my turn at the conveyor belt of doom.  I toss my bag up, grab a tray and slip out of my shoes that I never tie.  I’m wearing sweatpants so there’s no belt and I already put my shiny metal stuff in my bag.  It’s like no one ever considers the option of doing anything until they get to the front of the line.  As if it would be illegal to put their watch and coins in a pocket of their suitcase.  Morons.

By the way, if the TSA ever ask you anything always answer with what they want to hear.  “Do you have a computer, cell phone, switch blade or bomb?”   No, no, no and no.  “Did you pack your own bag?  Did you buy your own bag?  Have you met the Chinese guy who stitched it together?”  Yes, yes and of course I did.  Mr. Li is very nice man.  He’s behind me now taking some pictures.   Honestly though, fuck that; I usually just fill a suitcase with dirty clothes and try and make a classic switch-a -roo with some rich guy who’s too busy talking on his iPhone about spreadsheets and pussy to his coworkers to notice I’ve got his Louis V and he’s got my Goodwill hamper special.  Don’t forget to fill it with your dirty whites. The ringer cannot appear empty.

After you get a new bag, wheel it down to your gate and take a nap.  Or, have yourself a little bump of coke to stay awake to watch all the assholes stand in line at the counter to ask stupid questions.  What are all those peeholes up there asking?  “Can I get an aisle seat?  Can I get a window seat?  Are there going to be peanuts on the plane?  You’re not going to let that dark skinned fellow on this plane are you?”  Bunch of assholes.  I love the employees behind the desk.  They look up as if you’ve interupted them performing brain surgery.  They furrow their brow, shake their head, sigh and say “well I’ll see what I can do.”  At which point they just randomly type on the keyboard and stare at a blank monitor.  “Sorry sir, I’m afraid you’ll be stuck in the middle seat that you paid for.  Looks like you’ll be between Khalid al-Mihdar and Nawaf al-Hazmi.” Damn. 

I think I’ll wait for the next flight.

State of the Nation : Vaginas

Vaginas : Nature’s petri-dish

I have just come across an alarming news brief.  One that may shake the very bedrock of humanity, or at the very least, our beds.  As it turns out, we can longer live under the belief that [all vaginas] “are created equal”.   Gone are the days when we could wantonly assume that lady tacos shared common ingredients. Now it seems, they each have their own special recipe.

Hold on, hold on. Before you freak out and start drinking bleach because the world you know has ceased to exist, allow me to be more specific. I am referring to the “vaginal microbiota” that have set up camp in a woman’s ninja boot like a group of Occupy Wall Street assholes.

Ohhhhhh, thank Christ.  It’s just some vaginal microbiota.  Phew.

Wait.  What?

Yeah, turns out that, according to The University of Maryland, women have a “community of bacteria living in the vagina”.  A community?  Living?  Shit, I hope they’re paying rent.  Or at the very least buying the lady some dinner.  I’m rarely allowed one, maybe two minutes, inside of one without having labored tirelessly; buying flowers, meeting parents and sacrificing goats.   And these microbial douche bags have the audacity to take up residence like some entitled twat-squatters?

Excuse for the moment what this means for women, I mean, the whole ‘my vagina is as individual as a snowflake’ scientific discovery.  Honestly, I’m thrilled for all women and I hope Hallmark has a card for this.  Maybe they could tie it in with mother’s day.  “Happy Mother’s Day – Your vagina is like, one in a billion ”  It’s just that my excitement is hiding somewhere below the puke about to burst forth like that little girl in The Exorcist.

I’m a bit curious about what’s been accompanying, shall I say, all those snowflakes that have melted on my tongue.   Suddenly eating yellow snow doesn’t sound so bad.  I had no idea I had been consuming what can only be by this time, roughly 30 trillion pieces of bacteria.   Ugh.   I’m no doctor, but medically speaking, it sounds pretty freaking gross to know I’ve orally encountered “groups of bacterial communities” without so much as a proper introduction.

They have even named it Lactobacillus bacteria.  Lacto-what?  That name makes it sound, I don’t know, like all milky and shit.  But not in that good “oh I just thought of a delicious, chocolate and caramel Milky Way” way.  No, more like the “I just witnessed what happens to someone who drinks a gallon of milk” sort of a way.

Bottom line, now I want a Milky Way.

3D Printing. Yeah, but can it make me a sandwich?

Forget the 3D printer. Hire a child to make you a sammy!

I’ll be the first to admit, technology is amazing.  Fuck sliced bread; give me more LED’s, LCD’s,  and a little LSD for good measure.  I’m craving some 7G technology.  You got a refrigerator  with fingerprint security to keep my beer safe from trolling roommates?  Great, I’ll take two.  A car that parks itself; sounds like a waste of my fucking time.  Are we so shitbrained  in a car that we forgot how to turn our steering wheel? Now, a car that can drive me home from the bar, stop at at Taco Bell and order me a a dozen crispy tacos.  That would be epic engineering.  I need that.

Speaking of technology, what happened to the follow through on smell-0-vision?  Did we realize that no one wants to watch NBA and get a giant whiff of Lebron’s taint as he man rapes the basket?  Oh what? You say I could smell food on TV then?  Sounds amazing, except, I don’t want to sit on my couch and watch a program about steak.  If I want to know about steak I’ll go to a fucking restaurant and eat one.  I bet they’ll even let me smell it too.  And don’t tell me that being able to watch food and smell it is an enhancement and a good alternative to the real thing as if it’s similar to what porn is to sex for us.  The biggest difference?  After porn I can jerk off and take a nap.  If I were to just smell some steak then I’m left with a giant food boner which can only be satisfied with, you guessed it, a steak.  I’m glad video killed the radio star, I just wish it would also kill people with bad ideas too.

But 3D printing, now that’s just, shit, I don’t know how I feel about this nonsense.  Before I decide I need to ask some tough questions like, how much does it cost, can it make me a sandwich and won’t this put a lot of those hard working Asians out of a job?  Last thing I want is to take American outsourced jobs away from the Chinese and give them to a machine in my living room.  That would just be, well, very un-American.  Unless of course I could hire a migrant worker to maintain my machine for $1 / hr.  That would be a little more American.

On the plus side to owning a 3D printer you you could make some really kickass decisions about buying something that you’d otherwise probably never get.  Wanna finally try out some numchucks on the neighbor’s dog who keeps shitting in your backyard?  No problem, just hit Print, practice your swing and presto.  Problem solved.  You just might need to print out a shovel though too.

Facebook IPO

Plant the IPO seeds and watch them grow

So I just read that Facebook is poised to open the flood gates and finally give this world what it has been missing all these years, a good god damn all American titty-fucking Facebook IPO.  Yippee ki yay mister Zucker!  I’m pretty excited about it.  I’m getting a bit of a tech / stock boner right now.  Yes!  Finally, something else in this world that really has no direct impact on me but I can get pumped about.   Damn, I can’t wait to get jealous over the extra $873 trillion that Zuckerpucker is going to make and then suddenly depressed that my life isn’t like his and then behave poorly because of it.

Nah, actually I don’t give shit.  And neither should you.  Despite that, I bet plenty of people who will read about it and all the coin Zuckburger is about to make will get angry that their life isn’t like that.  And then to calm their nerves and make the pain go away will drink half a bottle of Beam and crash their car into a giant tree.

So to prevent,  at the very least some damaged trees, let me tell you how you how should react.  You shouldn’t.  You should be more concerned as whether or not there is sufficient tp in the bathroom next time you take a shit.  Or ask yourself whether you have enough Lucky Charms  ready for your next smoke sesh with the guys.  Yeah, once you put that into perspective you realize it doesn’t matter if Zuckerbag makes enough money to buy Colorado; your life isn’t going to be any different.  But if you have to duck waddle to the cupboard or settle for some fucking Cheerios, then, my friend, your life will be utterly and totally impacted.

But if you really care, contact your stock broker, promise him your first born or maybe just a handy  (or depending on the age of your first born, a handy from him) to see if he can get you listed for the IPO.  Just remember how many boxes of Lucky Charms you can get for that same $30.

Gmail Email Translation

Did you all see this?  Well, if you didn’t let me summarize briefly.  Google has taken another step in becoming God.  Next time you get an email in another language, Google will automatically translate it for you.  That’s right, next time you get an ad in Chinese appearing to sell you some knockoff penis enlargement pills you can finally read the fine print.

“Ho. Lee. Shit.” you’ll say, a frown creeping into your voice. “I had no idea those pills were made from monkey feces and all those unwanted baby girls.  Yuck.”

I just have one question for Google …where the hell was this feature when I was taking Spanish in high school??  God damn the kids have it good these days.  Let’s be honest, every stoner student too busy rolling papers to write one is going to be completing all his German book reports with Gmail in less time than it takes to lick a Zig Zag. Now, all one has to do is open a Wikipedia article, paste it into Gmail, send, receive, translate and print. How long does that take? Like, maybe 45 seconds. Max.  There’s not much else you can in that amount of time.  Although, I suppose if you’re in high school the sex your having (if any) has yet to reach that duration.   Not to mention the added bonus that since it’s a different language it’s technically not plagiarism. (note: that is probably not true).  Shit, and to think I spent all those hours learning my “uno, dos, tres” and “donde estan mis cervezas” the old fashioned way (copying my friends).

I was hoping that maybe we could take this technology and apply it to a far more pressing issue than translating knock off dick pill emails.  Could we, for the love of all things delicious, greasy and unnecessary at 3:00 am, install this Translate thingy at fast food drunk drive through windows!?  It seems like every time I pull up and order some ‘supersized McSharts’ or a ‘double wrapped triple shitty extra cheesy gordita breakfast turd sandwich’ the person on the other end is speaking 2nd grade level English or literally trying to speak to me through the asshole of his coworker.  A little help here please.

Oh, but I’ve got a better idea.  Forget the google translate thing at the drive-thru; save that for your chat room sex talks with underage girls from Russia (Or more likely, Chris Hansen and dare I hope, Stone Phillips from Dateline).  Instead, let’s install a breathalyzer at drive-thru order menus and turn them on after 10 pm.  If you pass, no big deal. You’re probably just some depressed fatty eating 7th meal at midnight anyway.  You’ve got enough problems.  But if you fail the  test, the staff gets to make you a combo meal of their choice.  That could mean you go home with 18 packets of ketchup, a pubic hair salad or maybe just get a bag of middle buns from a bunch of Big Mac’s.  Doesn’t matter, you probably won’t notice since you’ll be busy opening another beer.

Buenos noches America.


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