Since you're all missing out on the fabulousness that is me on Twitter, I thought I'd bring some samples of my awesomeness to you here, where you also never read. Merry Christmas to you! Now you can't say I never gave you anything.
no man can make you feel inferior without first dropping his pants and showing you that he has a bigger penis.
I've been thinking about organizing a Twitter Tea Party. Not for political reasons. I just like tea and I don't want to drink alone.
We could all use a little phone porn. Try saying that 10 times fast - "phone porn phone porn phone porn ..."
Why is it that all the drunk driving commercials only show white males as drunk drivers? Is it OK for women and black people to drive drunk?
I DO like strippers pretending to be in the army! Thanks!
@KhloeKardashian You guys live in a dangerous neighborhood or something?
Truth and logic never stopped a politician reaching for money and power before.
I still remember when they were screaming about a coming ice age. Then global warming. Now the excuse is "its both."
There's nothing sexier than a woman with Cheeto dust down her cleavage.
I can't understand foot fetishes. And I really don't grasp shoe fetishes. To me, that's like getting off to a really good set of car tires.
Do you think the Democrats in Washington D.C. who insist we all believe in global warming are baffled by the snow blanketing their city?
I can't even get a girl reaction in Hooters. How very, very sad is that?
Congress' only purpose these days is to serve as a warning to other nations and future civilizations not to do as we have done.
If a man is alone in the woods when he farts, will he still laugh?
Why do people keep giving me such odd looks when I tell them what I want for Christmas? What man doesn't want a blow job? It's perfect!
Why do feminists never encourage men to hire more hookers, thus transfering all of our wealth to women one poke at a time? Its so logical!
If paying higher taxes is patriotic, isn't ditching work to sleep late a "green" thing to do?
Only just now discovering that classical music is much better for falling asleep to than heavy metal. Who knew?
The bed is calling me, but next to it is a book which I know is going to win out. Why can't it count as sleep to lie in bed reading?
Pioneers, oh pioneers, have you your condoms? Have you your birth control pills, oh pioneers?
NCIS LA - because you can't make enough new versions of Miami Vice to satisfy the truly shallow among us.
How 'bout them Cowboys .... sucking
I wonder if I could fart whenever I wanted to, if I could suck my own dick, if I could have sex with all those women that Tiger is said to have, would I really want to? These are the mysteries of life.
Reality TV is shittier than regular TV. There, I said it. Now the secret is out.
I've just won a Nobel Peace Prize. It was in a box of Cracker Jacks. Awesome!
And now for some really, really stupid people ...
You have read this article Twitter
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It's time for a change. I can no longer be Angry Steve. I can no longer speak out about the insanity of the religious zealots of the Dogmatic Left and their forceful shoving of their god, The State, down everyone's throats.
I can never again express criticism of the Misandric Female Supremacist Hate Movement, hereafter referred to on this blog as The U.S. Department of Justice Office of Violent Femmes.
I can never again make reference to the fact that, while our Social Elites here in the United States of Hyphen-America obsess over race, sex ... oops, I'm sorry, can't say sex ... gender, sexual orientation, and any religious view that isn't Christian, there is something odd about their insistence that someone like Barack Obama, who is as much white as he is black, can only be recognized for the black half of his heritage. The same is true with Halle Berry.
And Tiger Woods? He's one quarter black, but to hear the American Media tell it, he's the greatest Black Man in the history of golf.
Well, to be fair, I think he may be the only black man in the history of golf. I'm not sure of that, but in the interest of remaining PC I will simply ignore it and move along to something else far less interesting and yet even more shallow.
Speaking of Tiger Woods, I will never again make any reference to Tiger Woods without also pointing out that he has victimized his lovely and faithful wife, Elin, who in no way, shape, or form can be blamed or held accountable for having justifiably tried to murder him with his own very expensive golf clubs. Nor shall I use the term domestic violence when discussing lovely Elin's enraged assault upon her unfaithful black husband, Tiger, because as we all know, it is politically incorrect to state that somewhere between one third to one half of all domestic violence involves a lovely and totally justified female knocking the living shit out of a despised and lowly male, sometimes resulting in his totally acceptable or even celebrated death.
Furthermore, from this day forward, I shall make every reasonable effort to shrink my own personal Carbon Footprint down to zero. This will likely require my death, but this is a small price to pay in order to Save the Earth from the evil that is Man.
I shouldn't have said Man. What I meant to say was Humankind.
Actually, I've been told that because the word Human contains the word Man, it is no longer considered Politically Correct either. I probably should have said Personkind.
Well, except that Person contains the word Son, and Son is just another reference to the Patriarchal system by which every man is a potential rapist and oppressor of women.
OK, so the word I shall use to refer to all of us is People.
OK, after Googling the word People I see that Jesse Jackson has declared the word People to be racist because he insists that whenever White People say People, they aren't thinking of any Black People in their minds, and thus it is a racist word. He insists that the proper word is Peeps. So OK, from here on out, I shall refer to all of us as Peeps.
Hello My Peeps, from this day forward I shall never again say anything even remotely controversial, angry, political, religious, or in any way, shape or form interesting.
So help me God.
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Dear Mister Silver Mercedes, you there with the pretentious car and the slicked back hair and your oh so carefully trimmed and perfect beard. I could see clearly what you are. I hope you can. This town has a large enough gay community that there is truly no reason for you to remain in denial about your true self. I could tell from the up close and personal view of you that I got as you practically tried to combine our cars and be with me that you are a man who worries over the tiniest of little details. You are a man who is all about appearances. You are a man who feels that you can do no wrong. Hence your choice of silver for the color of your Mercedes. You are a pretentious gay cunt.
What exactly did you think you were doing? You changed lanes into me and when I honked at you, you started to swerve back into your own lane, but then thought better of it and swerved back into my lane once again, pausing when there was less than an inch between your plastic doors and fenders and mine. We were so close that I could mouth “what the fuck” at you and you could clearly understand what I had just said. Or you could have if you had at least had the balls to turn and look at me like a man.
Oh sorry, I forgot. You’re one of those very girlie gay men, not the macho macho man type at all.
Love me, love my Mercedes
So what was the point of your decision to sit there, straddling two lanes at 70 mph and not giving me one more inch to get past without scraping your doors off? I have to tell you, Ma’am, if you don’t love your Mercedes enough to keep from scraping other people’s cars, I sure as hell don’t. I’ll be more than happy to adjust your paintjob for you as long as your car is in my lane and your insurance is going to pay me for my efforts.
Could you not hear my very, very loud horn? Did you have Queen’s Bohemian Rhapsody cranked up at full volume in your car and thus could only hear the sound of Freddie Mercury screaming? Clearly you knew you didn’t have any more room to come over, though, right? Otherwise, why were you straddling both lanes and refusing to get back into your own lane? It was certainly clear enough in your lane that you could easily do so. Why continue the futile attempt at shoving me aside? I had a car on the other side of me and was not about to swerve out of my own lane and hit someone else simply to spare your Mercedes some paint damage. That’s all on you. The only one of us not in their lane was you. The only cunt on the highway at that moment was you. The only one in need of some car insurance and a traffic ticket was you.
I drove all the way past your pretentious German shitpile with my horn held down, and still you never got back into your own lane. You acted as if once you stuck half your car in my lane, it was yours and you weren’t going to let it go for anything. I can’t tell you how tempting it was to tap your fenders with mine and then just sit there riding next to you, giving you no possible chance of coming over at all. I have to admit, I was curious as to what you would do if I had just held my position there with my face parallel to yours, staring right at you as you oddly chose to look in the rearview mirror at no one rather than over at me, the person you were attempting to smash out of their lane. Clearly you aren’t a brave man. You seem to enjoy pretending to be brave using your car, but when your intended victim actually gets in your face and looks you straight in the eye, all pretense of being any kind of man at all evaporates and you avoid eye contact lest you inadvertently wet your pants in fear.
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Loonies on the path /
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I grew up in a very conservative family. Dad made plenty of money, but he'd grown up believing that you never show your wealth, for any reason. This was unfortunate since we lived in a nice part of town and went to school with other kids whose parents also made good money, but were often less conservative about showing it.
I was raised to dress boring, like a good engineer-type, in clothes that don't stand out or shine. We drove boring cars. My first car was blue, of course, with 4 doors and nothing about it that might draw attention to it. Under the hood was a 455 cubic inch monster engine that would beat most of the musclecars my classmates drove. It also had a posi rear end and could roast the rear tires off with ease. It was the perfect representation of my whole family, boring and dull on the outside, with all the good parts hidden underneath so no one would suspect it was there.
My niece is nothing like the rest of our family. She has to have the best of everything. When she got her own car for the first time she got a bright green Mazda Miata convertible. Her clothes are always the latest fashion, the best brands, the tallest boots and the sparkliest shoes. Her hair costs a fortune, but I have to admit, it looks really good. She's all fuzzy collars, leather boots, long tinted hair, the latest and greatest of everything. She looks great. She shines, like a beautiful woman should. And so very unlike the rest of us.
Sometimes it feels as if every dime I make goes into my retirement account, or to the bills. I save plenty. I always have. I have no credit card debt. I own all my cars outright. I can't say I've lived an exciting life, but I've never been poor.
My niece is deep in debt, from various causes and for various reasons, some of which are truly not her fault. She has little money, but she lives a full life. She's enjoyed every minute of her youth and seemingly has few regrets. She lets her light shine as brightly as it possibly can.
I can't recall a time when I ever let my light shine as brightly as possible. These days my light is fading. It's nowhere near as bright as it once was capable of being, yet still I don't turn it on.
What makes us the way we are? What causes one person to dress themself up in the shiniest, brightest, sexiest, most expensive clothes, with perfect hair and perfect ... EVERYTHING, while another person dresses down, wearing old faded clothes that don't cost much, but don't look like much? Why does one person spend $100 to get their hair 'highlighted' and think nothing of the money because it looks great, while another feels guilty for spending $15 at some cheap haircutting chain that gives lousy haircuts?
Is there truly a population of people who were born to shop at WalMart, where the goods are cheap, and you get exactly what you paid for - crap, while another population was born to shop at Macy's or some other nice, but expensive place where the clothes cost an arm and a leg, but they make you look spectacular? Oh, I'm not talking about people who shop at cheap chains because they have no money and need cheap things. I'm talking about people who have the choice to shop at either store, but choose the cheaper one consciously.
Are there truly people born to be losers, while others are born to win? Or is it simply how we are raised to view ourselves? Perhaps its simply how we see ourselves regardless of how we were raised? My niece wasn't raised with the finest things, by any stretch of the imagination, yet she has always sought them out. Even in the hardest times, when it seems somehow inappropriate, she dresses like a winner. But somehow we always felt that she would come out on top in the end, so it was alright. As for me, I work in the world of IT, where computer geeks and technophiles herd together in their khaki pants, powder blue button downs and polo shirts, thick glasses, bad hair, and brown tasseled shoes, wondering why the hot women in sales, who glisten like Superstar Barbie, never give us the time of day. I know why, but I've found it pointless to try to explain to my commrades.
One of my computer commrades has even taken to wearing pink polo shirts to go with his fuzzy beard and fuzzy hair. WTF?
I know I'm a freak, raised by a father who rode Harleys back before riding Harleys was cool and thus it was looked down upon, and a mother who thinks the way to save money is not to use coupons, but to buy only the cheapest possible foods, including and especially steak, so that I grew up having no idea why people loved steak so much. It wasn't until I was living in Memphis, far away from my family, that I discovered what steak is supposed to taste like and that it shouldn't require any ketchup to make it bearable.
There is an old parable about an ant and a grasshopper. The ant works and works all summer long, storing away food for the coming winter. The grasshopper is lazy, sitting around enjoying himself all summer. When winter comes the grasshopper is hungry and cold. The ant is warm in the ground with plenty of food. It's a fable intended to teach the virtues of sacrifice and hard work. I've spent my life being an ant. I've watched grasshoppers driving past me in their leased Lexuses and BMWs, wearing their overpriced but stylish sunglasses and shiny clothes. I've seen their mansions and been inside to admire their $5000 plasma TVs in their museum-like living rooms. I've seen some of them lose their houses when our grasshopper economy, rigged by grasshopper politicians, stumbled and fell on its face.
A wealthy friend of mine patted me on the back when the economic disaster began, telling me he somehow knew that Mrs Memphis and I would weather this storm with little trouble. He's right, of course. It has hardly impacted us at all. Yes, we have survived. But the very man who patted me on the back is a grasshopper. He lives in a 4500 square foot million dollar home and drives a silver Mercedes which he complains is a piece of crap. He wears a Rolex and brags about the multi-million dollar deals he makes several times a year. He has weathered this economic crisis with the same percentage losses in the market that I have, only his percentages equate to millions of dollars. It pained him, but affected his lifestyle not one bit.
One thing I learned while working for the Big Alabama Bank is that the rich people at the top don't admire or respect ants. The big Bank Executives knew our individual credit situations - who was deep underwater in debt and who was living in sync with their means. Yet they never promoted the ants. They had no use for us. They shoved us aside and put their arms around the other young grasshoppers who were so far in debt for their boat houses, Rolex watches, Gucci shoes, ragged Lexus cars and ski boats that failing to make it into the upper echelons of management meant certain bankruptcy and ruin.
These are the people who wrecked the world's economy. These are also the people who seem to enjoy their lives the most. Perhaps I'm wrong, but grasshoppers seem to spend the majority of their lives having a pretty damn good time. Ants, meanwhile, worry a lot, often about possible disasters that never materialize. I'm not even sure that I would say that ants ever really live at all. We exist. We endure. We grow old and die.
So which are you, an ant or a grasshopper? And which do you think is best? Personally, I've grown tired of living the life of an ant. Yet I know it's deeply ingrained in my soul. Even as I open up a bit more here and there I know it's nothing compared to the grasshoppers. I will never be one of them. They certainly know this. It's written all over me.
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Well gee, what's interesting in the news today? I can't think of a single thing.
Except, of course, for Tiger Wood's growing harem of hussies, hookers, and hustlers.
Tiger, the semi-black hero of American golf, mostly by virtue of the fact that he has some black in him, much like our current President, and also a tiny bit because he's exceptionally good at golf, has been held up to White America as a symbol, an example of Hollywood's mythical magical morally superior negro.
Yes, I know it's racist as hell. I didn't make this shit up. Drug-abusing Marxist movie makers in California did. Go yell at them.
So anyway, Tiger was held up to some pretty high standards. He's not just a great golfer, he's a god. He's not just good, he's perfect.
So, in response to these myths of the Superman of Golf, gold-diggers from all over came running.
Tiger had already married the wet-dream of most every red-blooded American man, Elin Nordegren, busty blonde Swedish supermodel AND identical twin sister of Josefin. Seriously, she has an identical busty blonde Swedish twin sister. She's a fucking porn fantasy come to life!
Tiger married Elin in 2003, after chasing her for 3 years, along with a long line of other single male golfers. He had now officially 'made it' in the eyes of every heterosexual male on earth.
You da man!
From the day of their marriage up until November 27, 2009, when Tiger mysteriously hit a tree while fleeing from his hot angry busty Swedish identical twin sister wife, Tiger was the King of the World. But when word got out that he'd been man-whoring around on her with some girl, and Elin found out about it, the King was all but dead.
Um, honey, why do you have my 9 iron - Oh shit!
Rumor has it that Elin went ballistic and ripped into The Tiger's face with her own considerable claws, before grabbing a 9 iron and swinging it at unknown parts of Tiger's body which may or may not have included his head. At this point, it is believed that Tiger grabbed his keys and ran for it.
For whatever reason, whether because Elin was walloping the windows out of the vehicle as Tiger was backing up, with Tiger subsequently swerving to avoid running over his angry wife, or because Tiger was drunk off his ass and barely able to control his Cadillac Escalade, he ended up smashed into a fire hydrant and a tree. Either Elin pulled him out of the vehicle and left him lying on the ground where a neighbor found him, or else he fell out of the vehicle and passed out on his own.
The scandal that resulted was enough to light up the airwaves. But that was only the beginning.
One by one, gold-digging hussy after gold-digging hussy came forward to announce to the scandal-craving world, that she, too, had fucked the Tiger.
Before long, there were enough women to form a new NFL football team.
Whether these women are telling the truth or simply seeking the spotlight, it hardly matters. The American news media is eating it up. Every day and every night the only story being reported with obvious gusto is the Tiger story.
In fact, even as I write this, the show I was watching has ended, and a show entitled "The Secret Life of Tiger Woods" has begun. But here's the thing: I don't care.
I know, I know, I'm suppose to be a big supporter of traditional marriage and the marital contract (did you know that if you misspell 'marital' it becomes 'martial'?) and thus get upset over someone cheating on their spouse. Yes, Tiger is something like one-fourth black and thus has been given extra love from our racist media, and you would think that this would inspire me to celebrate with extra Christmas glee when he is caught being a bad Tiger. Yes, his wife appears to have blatantly violated laws against domestic violence by assaulting Tiger in their home with a deadly weapon and I should be screaming for her arrest. Yes, yes, yes, I know all of that.
But I still don't care.
Tiger cheated on his red hot Swedish wife with a long line of hot women over a period of years. His wife found out and beat the crap out of him, landing him in the hospital. Now he's in deep trouble with his wife and sponsors.
Rumor has it that Tiger's similarities to Magic Johnson, the basketball star who bragged that he had slept with more than 1,000 women, were more than just coincidence. Tiger was going to Las Vegas and meeting up with Charles Barkley, pro basketball star who knows how to party just like Magic Johnson, and helped hook Tiger up with that lifestyle.
So I suppose there's a chance that Charles Barkley is at least partially responsible for Tiger's cheating and his wife's beating him up. He showed Tiger the ropes, or so they say. But I doubt the media is going to go after Mr. Barkley. He's never been viewed as America's King of Perfection.
Tiger is worth over $1 billion. His wife is subsequently worth at least half of that. I know they're suppose to have some kind of prenup, but be serious, this is America. She's a hot blonde female and he's a man. More than that, he's a man who is known to have cheated on her. That's all the excuses a PC judge needs to toss that prenup out. So far the word is that they plan to stay together and try to work things out. We'll see, I guess. I mean, whether we really want to see, or want to ignore it, the media is not going to leave this alone. So like it or not, we'll see how this turns out. But I still don't care. I'm just not interested.
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Today's lovely post, which is not about cheating spouses or groin-kicking Sandra Bullock or punching anyone in the face, is over at Burt's Stache. Please follow me down the yellow brick road and come see what hilarity I have written. Yes, modesty is my greatest asset. Modesty and total awesomeness.
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burt reynolds mustache
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