Man, you know what I love being reminded of when I sit down to a nice brandy and a spot of thrash metal on a weeknight? The time a gash on my leg got infected and my mother's tears stung my cheek raw as the doctor told us they might have to amputate. Top banter.
There are a lot of weed dispensary owners in California right now who are losing sleep every night worrying that the federal government will come at any time and strip them of their livelihoods. Is this something to be made light of, Marijuana Deathsquads? I fail to see the joke.
You don't know the meaning of "diarrhea planet" until your dad thinks it's a goof to poison your 13th-birthday milkshake with mercury and you spend the rest of the day shitting all over a blow-up globe, doing thick, bloody vomit burps. I praise God every day he stays dead.
How dare these putrescent chancers ride on the coat tails of elegant indie-folk butterfly Joanna Newsom! It's indignity enough to break one of her dainty harp strings and, in the process, my goddamn heart. What? She got married? To the guy from The Lonely Island? She can go fuck herself, then.
Newsflash, Canadian punk bands: lungs aren't white. This is something I discovered when my dad caught me having a roll-up in the shed once and made me smoke a whole phone book until my chest cavity collapsed. They're red and they bleed a lot, guys. White if you leave them in the sun.
