Fuck betches

So, it was brought to my attention that there is a site actually called betcheslovethis.com that was probably created by some poor mistreated and severely confused whore. It is going to be a goal of mine (another brilliant idea, which I never follow through with) to take this shit out, finally ending this awful masquerade of  quasi-feminism. Every shitty post (every post) I see, I will critique with a link to said shitty post. Also, if you have something you’d like to submit here, pleeeeeeeaase do.

Here is the first:

http://betcheslovethissite.com/2011/08/31/how-to-text-like-a-betch/

I can’t tell you how incorrect and unjustified the section on texting guys is. I don’t text my gf back if she initiates a “convo” frequently and I’ll tell you it is not because I’m not into her. It is simply because I have a busy schedule and I am a real person with better things to do than adhere to some bullshit texting policy created by troll-skanks. This rule contradicts a rule previously stated that you should never reply to someone within a ten minute span, they suggest 2 hours, 1/12 of the day later. This limits your ability to text someone 12 times in one day if you stay up for 24 hours, as the smush-smush-snooki-skank-troll species do.

What every betch doesn't realize they look like

I’ll give you a clue ladies, guys don’t stay up for 24 hours contemplating this shit because we have lives, drink beer, watch sports and maintain some form of activity not involving love-sodomizing our pet Chihuahuas (video games, or some form of training, either is fine). With that said, if a girl doesn’t text me back right away, I don’t get mad I just give up on the conversation.

When a betch doesn't understand how to get a guy.

Take a lesson basic betches.

Last and final point, in the article they state phone calls are only allowed to shorten a conversation with “loved” one. I’d rather recieve a phone call any day over a text. Texting should be a utility for when vocal conversation is impossible or inappropriate. They are right, phone calls are shorter, but it shouldn’t be the sole reason to make a call. I have shit to do and if I can call someone and display a genuine interest in them I will.

No one wants to fuck/love this.

A man's wet dream. And what betches can't grasp.

Please, do not run this awfully misconstrued texting game with guys or friends. If you do, you are an ingenuous calculative cunt with no real moral code on how to treat those dear to you.

Fuck this website.

Leprechaun

Alright, so it is yet again St. Patrick’s Day and once again I am so fucking confused about what I should and should not do. Not because it is tough to figure out the most common activity that befalls this day annually, but mainly because right now my room mate/bestfriend, Patrick, is sitting across the table just pointing his finger at me and neither of us are saying a word, all while I type this. I’m not sure what this means, whether I should play the video game he just loaded, or if the spirit of St. Patrick has entered my Patrick and is subtly telling me I am not living up to my drunk potential today. If I am writing a blog right now for the first time in months. I am definitely not doing my part.

Although, I am going to happy hour with my mom and her old friends at 4:15 at our town’s most rich and pretentious golf club. So, fuck you St. Patrick, stop possessing my friends to antagonize me into bad behavior. I’ll get around to it, gosh.

Please, have a fun and safe Holiday.

Gut Instincts

This post is going to be a little less critical and a bit optimistic. If pursuing things and not being a drone doesn’t interest you, then it is safe for you to leave now.

For the past year, I’ve dealt with the common indecisiveness of musicians, actors and actresses, painters, any sort of artist you can think of; that is, my direction in life. It seems romantic and Kerouac-esque to drop everything and just tour the country; live on venue guarantees and merch money, until being picked up by a label, or receiving some sort of national attention that can sustain me further than one meal a day at McDonald’s and maybe enough gas money to make it to the next venue. It seems like a blast, but let me tell you, and I’m sure others can tell you even more (my friends in I Call Fives), it is scary as fuck. If I stay in school, play it safe, get my degree, I can make probably 100,000 dollars a year in around half a decade. That is a very tempting option. I can buy a house, settle down, start a family, basically live the fucking American dream.

Lately though, it has been a commonly occurring theme to me that the American Dream is not only a fallacy derived to maintain the stable citizen sheep we are, but really, not even that safe of an option anyway. The American Dream is a plateau we search for; finish school, make money, buy shit, have kids, send them to school, start the cycle over for them, retire. I know now though, the plateau doesn’t happen, adults are searching more and more frequently for meaning than ever before. 60% of marriages fail, houses and jobs are being taken at an alarming rate. Having anything listed before isn’t going to bring me instant and completing happiness. I’m sick of the mold, my family, individually, are all loving and loved, but together earlier in life it was one of the most absurdly self-destructive and despondent constructs ever. I’m not saying this applies to every family and I’m not implying that having a family will make you unhappy, or even that I don’t want to make one of my own.

What I am trying to say is, break the fucking mold. I know it seems naive and cliche, but really it is far less cliche than partaking in the rat race. I am not going to school next semester, regardless of my touring situation, or not. School is supposed to unlock unlimited doors and yada yada, which is true for some, but for me it is closing the only window I want to climb out of.

Stop being fed, stop buying into things, become an individual. Break the cycle and break your chains.

Swim Lessons

In approximately 1 hour, I will be swimming around in a pool, with multiple little children; all frolicking about like some sort of pedophiles wet dream. I don’t do this because I share a common interest with the formerly mentioned demographic of child-molesters, but because it is my job. Yes, I know what you are thinking, I am the last dude, ever, that you would want to teach your children anything. Ok, maybe I rank after Dieter Gieseking (look him up). The thing is, apparently, to one of the most world renowned health and safety education and rescue organizations, The American Red Cross, I am qualified on multiple levels to do this. Want to know how I became such a pro at teaching kids how to swim? I took a week long class involving 8 hour days of being instructed in methods employed in teaching children the art of primates in the water.

What’s hilarious is there is a test at the end of this class that I’m sure any of my 3 year old clients could pass. I literally studied for this test for a maximum of 0 minutes. To be certified as a WSI, “Water Safety Instructor”, I had to do this very basic and laughable “training”. What I’m trying to say here folks is that any sort of certification is a fraud. I’m not saying sending your kids to a seasoned instructor is necessarily a bad idea (kids respond better with physical activities when taught by a neutral third part anyway). However, the only reason why I can manage to pull this off, is not because I paid 300 dollars to a corporation, or went through a silly program, but because I’M NOT FUCKING RETARDED.

Realistically, take this concept and apply it further. By the way the 20th centuries most highly regarded physicist, did physics in his spare time, for fun. He also failed multiple levels of schooling. I’m, of course, talking about Albert Einstein.

I don’t fucking care what your major is in college and stop asking me for mine. I currently major in molecular biology, but honestly right now, if someone asked me to help out with finding some sort of active interferon derivative of a new virus particle, I would laugh and probably write about it on here.

Baseball.

With the preliminary start to one of America’s greatest tournaments/series/whatever, THE WORLD SERIES, I’ve come to a singular conclusion:

My sudden interest in baseball has come to a all time high. Originally, I really enjoyed watching the Phillies for the sheer reason that some crazy shit was happening toward the end of this season and last season as well. I wouldn’t even necessarily say I have pride for this team, I just actually found an appreciation for the sport called baseball. I won’t lie, Kenny Powers had a major influence on my making that decision.

Earlier in life, I think baseball received a terrible rap as a sport when I first encountered t-ball. I was so fucking confused as to why smacking a ball off of a post presented any sort of challenge at all. It sounded like something I would tempt a reh-tard in my class to try out for a piece of candy. All for the sheer amusement of myself watching a retarded person hit a ball off a post thing with a stick. Oh wait, that actually happened. Want to know what happened next? Myself, playing the very necessary roll of catcher, was shown immense gratitude from said polyploid  expressed in the form of a thrown bat and later (soon) received by my skull. Baseball and me were never cool since.

Until now! Thankfully, super-sayen asian men with the ability to scale walls to concurrently catch a ball speeding at around 100 miles an hour, over a barricade, have changed my entire perspective, finally. I did at first despise the pseudo-athleticism involved that requires the same sort of hand-eye coordination a professional dart-player may require. However, I started to realize roided out grumpy and suave dudes wearing tights, fitted hats that are dubbed America’s favorite past time is OF COURSE America’s past time. Why would it not be and why would I not buy into it?

If you don’t like baseball, tobacco, or Umerica, in the words of Kenny Powers, “You’re fuckin’ out.”

 

On Why I Wear Flannel

Imagine, you are riding through the woods on your cutthroat grizzle bear, clutching your axe which was just used to chop down a villainous wolf and nefarious mutated nematode; venom oozing from every one of it’s pores. Trusty, old yeller’ is running beside you and you feel your mighty-man-beard rub against your wool-like carpet of chest hair. Suddenly, you notice your jean cutoffs snag on something and you turn to face whatever the fuck it is that would defy you and your aura of masculine pheromones. You notice the garb you are wearing has been torn, you scream out in man-fury, “WHO THE FUCK RIPPED MY __(Insert article of clothing)____.”

If you answered anything but flannel, fuck you.

Seriously, flannel is more than just a man’s dream attire, it is the cloth of true warriors of the American frontier. If you love America, trucks, grizzly/were-anything, monster trucks, loud noises, tree chopping, logging, starting fires, eatin’ muff, etc. Flannel should be your choice garment above anything else. No one fucking cares if your new cardigan sports a wolf howling at the moon (although if flannel is not available, that should be your second choice). If a wolf were faced with a man wearing said cardigan and a man wearing traditional flannel, then that wolf would definitely eat the shit out of the former and offer the carcass to the latter in an offering of truce.

Seriously, Paul Bunyan? That dudes cock is huge.

Blighted Pussy

NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!

If you are at all interested in regurgitated pussy-blood-puddle-rhetoric, or words and concepts soaked in progesterone and estrogen, then you have probably read a blog titled shmitten kitten. Unfortunately, 1,130 people, currently, enjoy this disgustingly “cute” blasphemy of ideas.

This weblog pretty much covers everything vulva related. From things you absolutely “love love love” about your boyfriend, to how to be a perfect girlfriend, terrible date stories, to hating the idea of philosophy and rationale thinking (which is probably due to highly irrational writing-while-on-the-rag). If you are a female with time to kill, you’ll probably relate to this. Unfortunately, this may seem like a huge generalization and some sort of sexist banter, but really if you watch Lifetime for women. EVER. This is something you might enjoy.

I originally didn’t give a fuck that this existed. What compelled me to write this blog which will be read by none – 60 people (my all time high), was the post about hating philosophy, which ultimately lead me to believe that this highly emotional and faulty logical thinking cannot be spread any further. I am legitimately concerned that the liking of “his shitty handwriting<3″ could be greater than a liking of philosophy, which is literally defined as the love of wisdom. What further propelled me into a despair of disbelief is that the hatred of philosophy is of an equal place holding to that of a user submitted “things that makes her sad about his house: an empty box of Pasta Roni”. Fuck… me, dude. Not only is this bitch against gaining any sort of wisdom, but she is equally concerned with topics that are horridly lesser in relativity to most sensical peoples’ lives. To be clear, this has lead me to believe that this woman is a knowledge hating mongoloid with a low threshold for being dramatic, so much so that an empty box of Pasta can send her into an obese fury of food depraved rage.

Clearly the publisher, or self proclaimed: Kitten in Chief, has some issues of being… a typical (overweight) woman. There is a clear progression of traits in her posts. This is the increasing value of not having a boyfriend to ultimately settling for a fat dude because you are also fat and alone, while simultaneously begging to get in touch with your inner female because you have been regarded as a stout troll your entire life. Seriously, this loneliness to settlement increase value can be plotted on a statistical graph (the name of this graph I’m not sure because I fucking hate statistics, maybe dot, or line, or some other obvious title) by the amount of posts with “I love love love guys that do/wear/whatever the fuck _____” to the amount of posts with “I love love love his cock/attire/friends/etc.” Now, that you are “happier” and less alone, please stop poisoning the women I associate with, thank you.