NEWSLETTER



DOS & DON'TS

That dainty little gesture is just screaming: “Give me a reason to ditch the twat in the hat”. Comments/Enlarge | See all


So far the only funny thing Jerry Seinfeld has done is convince an entire generation of unmarried uncles that it’s perfectly acceptable to dress like a member of a New Edition tribute band made up of guys on their first day out of rehab. Comments/Enlarge | See all






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If there are still any of you out there who refuse to hate the left, this little snapshot ought to put you over the edge. From the self-indulgent bongos to "Tigger" (complete with baby knapsack and his name shaved into his head) to the relentlessly uneducated blowhard who rams the talking stick so far up his own ass it's sort of like he's skull-fucking your ears with his dogma, these people are worse than the fucking Bible- thumping, right-wing, corporate, fascist…oh wait, they're EXACTLY THE SAME as those guys.

I like how this retarded spic is so convinced he's some kind of cross between Ricardo Montalban and Theodore Roosevelt that the shit is almost worn out. The only way this shirt would truly make sense is if you replaced "man" and "legend" with "medication" and "boss." When women grow old gracefully and have their long hair in a bun and these intricate recipes that take days, it makes everything OK in the world. It even makes us look forward to growing old ourselves. However, when old ladies bust out the horny trannie-hooker-biker-fag-skinhead look, it makes us feel like the future is paved with AIDS so we might as well start dying right this second.

...and don't think becoming a raver girl is going to make this any easier to swallow. All you've done is replace evil with stupidity. Can't you be sitting by the fire and telling us wise things? I realize you may have married the wrong guy too early, but you snooze, you lose. Stop punishing us for your mistakes. Is this that weird disease where kids age really fast and next thing you know you have these tiny little 70-year-olds running around Disneyland with two weeks to live? Is this when the toddlers are aged to be in their early 20s and they're like, "Look at my boobies. I have boobies," and the dude is all, "Boobies."



I know this is going to blow your tiny mind, but recent research has proven there's something in prolonged exposure to cat shit that leads to mental illness (Google it if you don't believe me). Single women get it worse because they are statistically less likely to change the litter as much as couples. So the cycle is, the lonelier she gets, the lazier she gets; the lazier she gets, the more cat shit sits around; the more cat shit sits around, the crazier she gets; the crazier she gets, the lonelier she gets; and so on and so on, until this fucking nutbar thinks "Carl Nathaniel" loves Mickey Mouse and hates George Bush. Somebody kill this tiny human and get a penis in her owner's vagina, pronto!

Sorry about the resolution. These two were Brooklyn tough guys talking about martial-arts moves all night (one had a fucking cellphone thing attached to his ear). Everyone was making jokes about how all macho men are secretly fags, to which I was like, "Whatever." But then they ended up on the curb outside the bar whispering into each other's ears about how much "I fucking care about you, man." Whoops! What you can't see is that his cornrow ponytails go all the way down to his ass. It's sad and scary what cocaine has done to comedians like John Belushi, but look what it does to Jersey trash. It makes them feel so sexy and confident, you'd almost forget we're dealing with a high-school dropout who can't spell "lamb" and a mother of two who thinks we are not horrified by her gray vagina.

Indie-rock hipsters have taken the low-slung pants of hip-hop but tapered them a bit and said no to the high-riding boxer thing that made it OK in the first place. You can't do that. When you only appropriate some of the look, we are forced to appropriate your wet anal ass hair and the pink crack that surrounds it all night. Here's a rare shot. A DON'T photographed mere inches from a perfect DO. So you look at her little slut socks and imagine them in the air with her shoes still on (that made my bag tingle) and then your eyes get slammed in the face by Mr. Half Cowboy/ Half SunburntBabyOnHoliday. It's like some kind of Clockwork Orange therapy to condition you to stop getting public boners.