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| Okay, first of all kilts are bullshit. They were invented by ponces like Sir Walter Scott back in the early 19th century to satisfy England’s fascination with the Scottish highlander. All that clan tartan and knife-in-the sock/Braveheart shit is completely made up. Highlanders were drunken savages who wore whatever plaid blankets they could find and only cared about not dying. You might as well say, “I’m a member of the Zulu nation.” However, the great thing about DON’Ts is, no matter how irritating something is to look at, there’s always another chief ready to come along and shit a bigger pile of salt into your eye holes. |
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Like this. When you buy a shot in New Orleans they ask you if you “want a skirt with that” (meaning salt and a lime). This is because men don’t wear skirts. “Oh, but what if it’s a hearty and tough Utilikilt that I read about in the New York Times?”
Oh, but what if it’s an Uneh neh neh that I read about in The Neh Neh Neh? (Repeated back at him with a face that’s purple with rage and spit flying everywhere.)
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| Or how about the “reinventing the wheel” skirt-wearer who thinks he’s changing the world by turning the oppressive pants theocracy on its head? This guy even ceremoniously ripped the top off a pair of pants and stuck it on his dress like a crazy Indian putting the white man’s head on a spike. Who’s laughing now, pants? |
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| Then there’s the mentally ill fags that politicize their fucked-in-the-headedness and all the fat Canadian girls agree with “her” until “she” starts saying stuff like, “People totally underestimate children’s sexuality. Did you know even babies can get erections?” And they’re all, “Um, I don’t know if it was the Smarties but I feel kind of sick.” |
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| Of course, if you do finally convince these stupid fucking idiots to change their Scottish Zulu I-hate-pants macho-drag trans-man-gender-queer-bi-boy-bending ways they’ll be all “No problem, buddy” (in a German accent) and bust out something so much worse you’ll be chasing them down the street holding a tartan Utilikilt and bawling, “I’m sorry. I’m sorry. Please. Wait!” |
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| The good news is nobody’s going to rob you in your sleep, but the bad news is your face is six inches away from a pair of balls. And we’re not talking nice, groomed, male model’s balls that just got back from the spa and are super nervous about meeting you—we’re talking homeless-dog balls. |
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| Sometimes urban thugs can get so good at “the game” they start to make some serious cash. Now, a big part of cash is treating yourself and “looking fine” but when you’re stupid and crazy and grew up with a single mom, this need for flair can come out as a really fancy five-year-old-girl that lifts weights, races sports cars, and has a “born to sew” tattoo. |
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| What would you rather do: have to change your name to “Speak English” and eat watery lasagna and beer for breakfast every day OR have to walk around with a really insulting caricature of yourself on the back of your jacket for the rest of your life? |
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| Holy shit. Have you been to a normal-person club recently? The kind where ugly people line up outside and inside it’s all $8 shots and reggaeton? Dude, it’s torture. All the guys look like Italians dressed as black punks for Halloween and the girls look like they were created by a 14-year-old boy that’s beating off. |
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| Know this: when you are lying there in bed thinking you don’t want to take on the day becuase it’s too hard, there are human abortions out there stumbling around town in a spastic daze repeating, “Don’t pee your pants, Bruno. Don’t pee your pants.” Please cut this out and tape it to your alarm clock. |
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