Fuck you, flan. You think you can walk around calling yourself dessert like you’re dessert, when you’re not dessert. You’re slime. You’re a fucking stack of slime.  Do you see any other stacks of slime at this dessert party? Of course you don’t, you fucking sad slippery pukepuck. Because it’s a dessert party, like custard probably told you on its way down the stairwell after its stupid colloidal ass got kicked out too. Pick a physical fucking state and get back to us when you don’t taste like stamps. Go be liqid. Go be fucking solid. But don’t fucking come back while you’re still snot. What? Oh you’re mad because creme brulee got invited?  Go to Ikea. Buy a fucking mirror. Take the mirror home. Mount it on your wall. Look at it. And tell me if it looks like you just bought a nice framed picture of creme brulee at Ikea. You didn’t buy a nice framed picture of creme brulee at Ikea. You bought a fucking mirror. And you’re looking at a monster who has ruined every fucking Mexican restaurant birthday dinner I ever had. They bring you out and sing and expect me to fucking smile because you’re free? You’re not free. You cost me my whole fucking dinner when I threw up after my first bite of you. You owe me some dinners, flan. Or you can just stop existing, and we’ll call it even.
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Fuck you, flan.

You think you can walk around calling yourself dessert like you’re dessert, when you’re not dessert. You’re slime.

You’re a fucking stack of slime. 

Do you see any other stacks of slime at this dessert party?

Of course you don’t, you fucking sad slippery pukepuck. Because it’s a dessert party, like custard probably told you on its way down the stairwell after its stupid colloidal ass got kicked out too.

Pick a physical fucking state and get back to us when you don’t taste like stamps. Go be liqid. Go be fucking solid. But don’t fucking come back while you’re still snot.

What? Oh you’re mad because creme brulee got invited? 

Go to Ikea. Buy a fucking mirror. Take the mirror home. Mount it on your wall. Look at it. And tell me if it looks like you just bought a nice framed picture of creme brulee at Ikea.

You didn’t buy a nice framed picture of creme brulee at Ikea. You bought a fucking mirror. And you’re looking at a monster who has ruined every fucking Mexican restaurant birthday dinner I ever had.

They bring you out and sing and expect me to fucking smile because you’re free?

You’re not free. You cost me my whole fucking dinner when I threw up after my first bite of you.

You owe me some dinners, flan. Or you can just stop existing, and we’ll call it even.

Fuck you, toilet seat covers. I didn’t come into this stall to solve a fucking Rubik’s Self-Destructing Tissue Puzzle, but that is exactly what your three stupid fucking “tear me right here to release the center piece but just a little no that’s too hard oops I’m confetti” pieces provide me with every fucking time. I actually think confetti would be more practical. There should just be a big fucking bucket of confetti next to the toilet that I can grab and throw straight into the toilet because I think that would be just as effective as sitting on the shredder ribbons I end up with once I’m done with your fucking MENSA Paper Challenge. Am I supposed to bring scissors? Is there some fucking incantation or rap that releases your useless fucking center? Should I just go in my pants? I feel like that would be easier and preserve twice as much of my self-worth. And why do you even have that center part? It just gives me a fourth and larger “Bonus Round!” because there is no fucking way I’m letting that thing hang into the toilet so the toilet water can climb it up to my ass. So I’ll just tear that off too and oops thirty-fifth time’s a charm, I guess. Fuck it, I’m going to salvage as much of you as I can, and arrange you on the seat like a fucking homemade jigsaw puzzle made by Edward Scissorhands after drinking a twelve-pack of Four Loko™.  And that should take me just long enough to convince the fucking motion sensor that I’m sitting and not surgically restoring the Shroud of Turin on this toilet seat, so when I stand up, the toilet automatically flushes and pulls the whole fucking thing in so I have to start over. I’ll just hold it until next time I’m in Chicago O’Hare where they have that fucking Hogwarts shit on their toilets that automatically re-covers the entire seat after every flush. That makes more sense and costs less than the therapy bills.
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Fuck you, toilet seat covers.

I didn’t come into this stall to solve a fucking Rubik’s Self-Destructing Tissue Puzzle, but that is exactly what your three stupid fucking “tear me right here to release the center piece but just a little no that’s too hard oops I’m confetti” pieces provide me with every fucking time.

I actually think confetti would be more practical. There should just be a big fucking bucket of confetti next to the toilet that I can grab and throw straight into the toilet because I think that would be just as effective as sitting on the shredder ribbons I end up with once I’m done with your fucking MENSA Paper Challenge.

Am I supposed to bring scissors? Is there some fucking incantation or rap that releases your useless fucking center? Should I just go in my pants? I feel like that would be easier and preserve twice as much of my self-worth.

And why do you even have that center part? It just gives me a fourth and larger “Bonus Round!” because there is no fucking way I’m letting that thing hang into the toilet so the toilet water can climb it up to my ass. So I’ll just tear that off too and oops thirty-fifth time’s a charm, I guess.

Fuck it, I’m going to salvage as much of you as I can, and arrange you on the seat like a fucking homemade jigsaw puzzle made by Edward Scissorhands after drinking a twelve-pack of Four Loko™. 

And that should take me just long enough to convince the fucking motion sensor that I’m sitting and not surgically restoring the Shroud of Turin on this toilet seat, so when I stand up, the toilet automatically flushes and pulls the whole fucking thing in so I have to start over.

I’ll just hold it until next time I’m in Chicago O’Hare where they have that fucking Hogwarts shit on their toilets that automatically re-covers the entire seat after every flush. That makes more sense and costs less than the therapy bills.

laughingsquid: It’s Called ‘Airplane Mode’ for a Reason Don’t get me started New York Times too late you just got me started. So yeah, when our electronic devices have their radios disabled, they are harmless to a plane’s important electronic plane brainery. So let me just turn that off, and we’re good, right? Oh, we’re not. Because this plane is a tiny little country run by a crazy dictator who just likes to tell people to do crazy shit like turn a camera off because taking a picture while landing will totally make the plane explode. Yeah. First-world problem. I know. But it still drives me crazy that we all just accept that because something that is trying to talk to space will fuck up a plane, EVERYTHING THAT USES ELECTRICITY IS FORBIDDEN DURING QUIET TIME. Because it’s not REALLY the technifuckery, it’s the distractery. We need to give the back of the seat in front of us our full attention in case our little flying Pringles can smashes into the ground and bursts into flames. You need to REALLY experience that shit. Dying in a horrible fireball is a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity. Don’t let all the nuance slip by because you’d reading an ebook. But go ahead and talk to the people around you. Or read an ebook that has no e. Or play a little travel chess set. Or sleep. Or be a crying baby. Or fucking think about anything you want as long as those thoughts don’t come from anything that use electricity because that shit is black magic that scares our fucking giant eagle into flipping upside-down and exploding. New rule: If you have been diagnosed with A.D.D., you just got blacklisted. You don’t have the attention span to concentrate on your highly improbable death. Here’s the number for Greyhound. They’ll let you travel with your selfish thoughts about not being dead. Now please let us get back to our SkyMall magazinesOH SHIT I’M ON FIRE WHEN DID THIS HAPPEN I WAS DISTRACTED BY THE SELF-CLEANING LITTER BOX FOR $500 UGH
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laughingsquid:

It’s Called ‘Airplane Mode’ for a Reason

Don’t get me started New York Times too late you just got me started.

So yeah, when our electronic devices have their radios disabled, they are harmless to a plane’s important electronic plane brainery. So let me just turn that off, and we’re good, right?

Oh, we’re not. Because this plane is a tiny little country run by a crazy dictator who just likes to tell people to do crazy shit like turn a camera off because taking a picture while landing will totally make the plane explode.

Yeah. First-world problem. I know. But it still drives me crazy that we all just accept that because something that is trying to talk to space will fuck up a plane, EVERYTHING THAT USES ELECTRICITY IS FORBIDDEN DURING QUIET TIME. Because it’s not REALLY the technifuckery, it’s the distractery. We need to give the back of the seat in front of us our full attention in case our little flying Pringles can smashes into the ground and bursts into flames. You need to REALLY experience that shit. Dying in a horrible fireball is a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity. Don’t let all the nuance slip by because you’d reading an ebook.

But go ahead and talk to the people around you. Or read an ebook that has no e. Or play a little travel chess set. Or sleep. Or be a crying baby. Or fucking think about anything you want as long as those thoughts don’t come from anything that use electricity because that shit is black magic that scares our fucking giant eagle into flipping upside-down and exploding.

New rule: If you have been diagnosed with A.D.D., you just got blacklisted. You don’t have the attention span to concentrate on your highly improbable death. Here’s the number for Greyhound. They’ll let you travel with your selfish thoughts about not being dead.

Now please let us get back to our SkyMall magazinesOH SHIT I’M ON FIRE WHEN DID THIS HAPPEN I WAS DISTRACTED BY THE SELF-CLEANING LITTER BOX FOR $500 UGH

Dear people who like Neapolitan ice cream: You like horrible things. Neapolitan is for people who don’t know what the fuck they are doing with their lives. Pick an ice cream already, sugar sluts. I wouldn’t wish this shit on Hitler. Because I care. Do I seem like a guy that would be totally cool with showing up at your little party and clapping and singing about your goddamned birthday while there is a big tub of “I HATE MY FRIENDS” ice cream next to the cake?  If you don’t respect me enough to at least give me options that AREN’T TOUCHING EACH OTHER, then walk away and don’t look back unless you want to see my back because I started walking away first. Or hey, why don’t you come over for pizza and boiled rat? Oh I put the boiled rats ON THE PIZZA because it’s just easier for me to do it that way. Just take them off if you don’t like them. HERE IS A NEW CAR BUT IT’S FULL OF DEAD HOOKERS I HOPE YOU LIKE DEAD HOOKERS. I think “New Car Full of Dead Hookers” should be the Ben and Jerry’s name for this ice crap. BUT HEY A LOT OF FOODS HAVE OTHER TOUCHING FOODS LIKE NACHOS RIGHT? How much absinthe did you snort this morning? To preserve this nacho analogy, you would have to be the kind of mutant who would open a tub of Neapolitan and drag your spoon ACROSS THE FLAVOR SPECTRUM OH MY GOD before taking a bite. I don’t even think Neapolitan Bonaparte HIMSELF would have in his darkest maniacal fever dreams imagined that his invention would be abused like this. If you want to pretend to be so open minded that you like all three flavors, and hope every team wins the Super Bowl, and Jesus and Satan and science ALL COME OUT AHEAD on Judgement Day, you go right ahead and lie to yourself and all of creation. But DO NOT corrupt the world in which I have to raise my children by releasing into it the idea that it’s not only legal but SOMEHOW OKAY TO TAKE A BIG FUCKING BITE OF CHONILLABERRY ICE CREAM. I just threw up a little in your mouth as I typed that. BUT I DOUBT YOU NOTICED.
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Dear people who like Neapolitan ice cream:

You like horrible things.

Neapolitan is for people who don’t know what the fuck they are doing with their lives. Pick an ice cream already, sugar sluts.

I wouldn’t wish this shit on Hitler. Because I care. Do I seem like a guy that would be totally cool with showing up at your little party and clapping and singing about your goddamned birthday while there is a big tub of “I HATE MY FRIENDS” ice cream next to the cake? 

If you don’t respect me enough to at least give me options that AREN’T TOUCHING EACH OTHER, then walk away and don’t look back unless you want to see my back because I started walking away first.

Or hey, why don’t you come over for pizza and boiled rat? Oh I put the boiled rats ON THE PIZZA because it’s just easier for me to do it that way. Just take them off if you don’t like them.

HERE IS A NEW CAR BUT IT’S FULL OF DEAD HOOKERS I HOPE YOU LIKE DEAD HOOKERS.

I think “New Car Full of Dead Hookers” should be the Ben and Jerry’s name for this ice crap.

BUT HEY A LOT OF FOODS HAVE OTHER TOUCHING FOODS LIKE NACHOS RIGHT?

How much absinthe did you snort this morning? To preserve this nacho analogy, you would have to be the kind of mutant who would open a tub of Neapolitan and drag your spoon ACROSS THE FLAVOR SPECTRUM OH MY GOD before taking a bite. I don’t even think Neapolitan Bonaparte HIMSELF would have in his darkest maniacal fever dreams imagined that his invention would be abused like this.

If you want to pretend to be so open minded that you like all three flavors, and hope every team wins the Super Bowl, and Jesus and Satan and science ALL COME OUT AHEAD on Judgement Day, you go right ahead and lie to yourself and all of creation.

But DO NOT corrupt the world in which I have to raise my children by releasing into it the idea that it’s not only legal but SOMEHOW OKAY TO TAKE A BIG FUCKING BITE OF CHONILLABERRY ICE CREAM.

I just threw up a little in your mouth as I typed that. BUT I DOUBT YOU NOTICED.

Dear person writing a check in the supermarket line: It is with great sorrow that I write to inform you that everyone you have ever known or loved has died from exposure to the passing of time while you slept in your fucking steam-powered hibernation chamber. Other shit you missed: the Renaissance happened, Mike Tyson eventually got knocked out, and people still get leprosy if you can believe that shit, except that guy Jesus who was in town when you went down for your nap isn’t around anymore to give them a hand. One last bit of housekeeping here before I let you continue fumbling through the future with your ancient bullshit: PEOPLE DON’T FUCKING WRITE CHECKS ANYMORE. I understand that there are outlaws about, and that carrying your fucking gold bullion around is a terrible idea, but check this shit out: we have these little plastic bits of sorcery called “debit cards”. You give it to the fella at the prairie general store and HOLY FUCKING SHIT THE CARD TALKS TO YOUR BANKER AND LITTLE FUCKING MAGIC PARTICLES BRING YOUR MONEY OVER SO YOU CAN BUY YOUR FUCKING HARD CANDY AND TV GUIDE. I KNOW. NO MORE SEALING WAX BURNS. Talking magic cards are some scary next-level shit. But you’ll stop shitting yourself eventually, I swear. Maybe. Have I got it all wrong? Are you some historical actor who gave up that mainstream Gettysburg shit and is now dedicated to recreating 1984? Where are your British Knights, motherfucker? You’re not from 1984. You’re from nineteen eighty fuck you. Hang up your pilgrim outfit and find a job more appropriate for your natural GETTING IN MY FUCKING WAY talents. Maybe you can lay in a parking lot and be a fucking speed bump. Maybe you just wanted to show off those sweet fucking custom checks you ordered from the back of the fucking weekly coupon mailer. WELL I’LL JUST GO AHEAD AND BE GODDAMNED IF THOSE AREN’T THE CUTEST FUCKING PUPPIES I HAVE EVER SEEN GRACE A MEDIEVAL CURRENCY EXCHANGE SCROLL. No fucking bank logos for your fancy ass. You paid good money to pay good money WITH FUCKING FURRY LITTLE HUGGABLE PIZAZZ HOLY SHIT ARE YOU A ROCKEFELLER? CAN YOU BUY ME THE MOON BECAUSE I JUST WANT TO TELL PEOPLE I MET A FUCKING GENIE IN THE EXPRESS LANE WHO HAD ACCESS TO INFINITE WEALTH AND COULD SPEND IT IN A REALLY FUN WAY AND BOUGHT ME THE GODDAMNED FUCKING MOON WITH A PICTURE OF A FUCKING PUPPY CHEWING ON ANOTHER FUCKING PUPPY’S EAR. THAT PICTURE IS SO FUCKING CUTE IT’S WORTH ALL THE MONEY EVERYWHERE SO JUST GO AHEAD AND LEAVE IT BLANK AND GIVE IT TO ME I HAVE TO HAVE IT. And don’t you worry your solid gold ass about me or the line around the fucking equator that’s waiting for you to fill in the memo space to remind yourself that this wasn’t for a new longsword or passage on the fucking Titanic. You go on and keep your records in order, Pharaoh. We’ll just be here decaying and wishing we were still allowed to throw rocks at you until you die. Image from here.
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Dear person writing a check in the supermarket line:

It is with great sorrow that I write to inform you that everyone you have ever known or loved has died from exposure to the passing of time while you slept in your fucking steam-powered hibernation chamber.

Other shit you missed: the Renaissance happened, Mike Tyson eventually got knocked out, and people still get leprosy if you can believe that shit, except that guy Jesus who was in town when you went down for your nap isn’t around anymore to give them a hand.

One last bit of housekeeping here before I let you continue fumbling through the future with your ancient bullshit: PEOPLE DON’T FUCKING WRITE CHECKS ANYMORE.

I understand that there are outlaws about, and that carrying your fucking gold bullion around is a terrible idea, but check this shit out: we have these little plastic bits of sorcery called “debit cards”. You give it to the fella at the prairie general store and HOLY FUCKING SHIT THE CARD TALKS TO YOUR BANKER AND LITTLE FUCKING MAGIC PARTICLES BRING YOUR MONEY OVER SO YOU CAN BUY YOUR FUCKING HARD CANDY AND TV GUIDE. I KNOW. NO MORE SEALING WAX BURNS. Talking magic cards are some scary next-level shit. But you’ll stop shitting yourself eventually, I swear. Maybe.

Have I got it all wrong? Are you some historical actor who gave up that mainstream Gettysburg shit and is now dedicated to recreating 1984? Where are your British Knights, motherfucker? You’re not from 1984. You’re from nineteen eighty fuck you. Hang up your pilgrim outfit and find a job more appropriate for your natural GETTING IN MY FUCKING WAY talents. Maybe you can lay in a parking lot and be a fucking speed bump.

Maybe you just wanted to show off those sweet fucking custom checks you ordered from the back of the fucking weekly coupon mailer. WELL I’LL JUST GO AHEAD AND BE GODDAMNED IF THOSE AREN’T THE CUTEST FUCKING PUPPIES I HAVE EVER SEEN GRACE A MEDIEVAL CURRENCY EXCHANGE SCROLL. No fucking bank logos for your fancy ass. You paid good money to pay good money WITH FUCKING FURRY LITTLE HUGGABLE PIZAZZ HOLY SHIT ARE YOU A ROCKEFELLER? CAN YOU BUY ME THE MOON BECAUSE I JUST WANT TO TELL PEOPLE I MET A FUCKING GENIE IN THE EXPRESS LANE WHO HAD ACCESS TO INFINITE WEALTH AND COULD SPEND IT IN A REALLY FUN WAY AND BOUGHT ME THE GODDAMNED FUCKING MOON WITH A PICTURE OF A FUCKING PUPPY CHEWING ON ANOTHER FUCKING PUPPY’S EAR. THAT PICTURE IS SO FUCKING CUTE IT’S WORTH ALL THE MONEY EVERYWHERE SO JUST GO AHEAD AND LEAVE IT BLANK AND GIVE IT TO ME I HAVE TO HAVE IT.

And don’t you worry your solid gold ass about me or the line around the fucking equator that’s waiting for you to fill in the memo space to remind yourself that this wasn’t for a new longsword or passage on the fucking Titanic. You go on and keep your records in order, Pharaoh. We’ll just be here decaying and wishing we were still allowed to throw rocks at you until you die.

Image from here.

Dear guy who just made my burrito: Have you ever been to earth? On earth, we use the word “burrito” to describe a tortilla filled with things you eat. Pretty simple stuff, and I’m surprised you at least got that part right. My burrito was, in fact, filled with food. In this, you and I agree and are friends. But this is also where my lifelong hatred begins for you and anyone else whose brain has been repeatedly scrubbed with the same mixture of bleach and Pop Rocks as yours has. Because that should have killed you, but left you around long enough to do what you did to me today. Let me explain: You’re an idiot. Let me further explain: Burritos are eaten from one end to the other. So that means when you assemble a burrito with motherfucking ZONES of ingredients going that direction, you create a disgusting experience for the burrito’s end user. When you make a burrito, you should put the ingredients in layers lengthwise. That way, every bite has AT LEAST A FUCKING CHANCE of getting at least two types of ingredients, and there is little chance of becoming almost hopelessly trapped in a goddamned cilantro cavern. Have you ever eaten one of the things you make all fucking day? You should try one. They are pretty good WHEN YOU ARE NOT WILLING YOURSELF THROUGH THE FUCKING EMPIRE OF SOUR CREAM ONLY TO END UP IN LETTUCE COUNTRY. When you eat a burrito, you don’t stand it up and bite down on it lengthwise like a fucking Rancor. Humans cannot usually dislocate their jaws, and I’m not a fucking pelican. But you must think that’s how it’s done, since that would be THE ONLY FUCKING WAY to take a bite of your crapstrosity and have it taste like a burrito and not a multi-stage rocket to the planet Fucking Disgustingupiter. And guess what else, player? You probably can’t guess anything, because I’m pretty sure you’re just a mop with a hat on it that fell over and spilled some shit into a tortilla, but just in case, here’s what: Humans also don’t eat burritos like fucking corn on the cob. Like a fucking typewriter from one end to the other a little at a time and then DING next line. But today I wish I had tried that. Because at least THEN I would be able to eat some rice, then beans, then be all like HEY BEANS I’LL BE RIGHT BACK JUST GOING OVER HERE TO THE GUACAMOLE FOR A SECOND. Nope. My experience was more like HEY BEANS IT’S JUST GOING TO BE YOU AND I FOR A MINUTE UNTIL I CAN FUCKING EXCAVATE THE RICE FROM BENEATH YOU BUT BY THEN YOU WILL BE A FADING MEMORY OH HEY I WAS WRONG I’M IN THE FUCKING CHEESEOSPHERE NOW RICE MUST BE NEXT I HOPE IT’S NOT ANOTHER FUCKING SALSA POCKET. You built this thing life a fucking pack of LifeSavers. And don’t even fucking think I’m about to open this shit up and re-engineer this nonsense. I ALREADY PUT A HOLE IN IT WITH MY FUCKING MOUTH. YEAH. THAT’S HOW I DISCOVERED YOU FUCKING SUCK AT LOOKING AT THINGS. I AM NOT GOING TO DO FUCKING TORTILLA ORIGAMI TO GET THIS SHIT BACK TOGETHER. In conclusion: You’re the worst thing that has ever happened to the universe, you owe everyone everywhere an apology for this burritobomination, and I hope your babies look like monkeys.
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Dear guy who just made my burrito:

Have you ever been to earth?

On earth, we use the word “burrito” to describe a tortilla filled with things you eat. Pretty simple stuff, and I’m surprised you at least got that part right. My burrito was, in fact, filled with food. In this, you and I agree and are friends. But this is also where my lifelong hatred begins for you and anyone else whose brain has been repeatedly scrubbed with the same mixture of bleach and Pop Rocks as yours has. Because that should have killed you, but left you around long enough to do what you did to me today. Let me explain:

You’re an idiot.

Let me further explain:

Burritos are eaten from one end to the other. So that means when you assemble a burrito with motherfucking ZONES of ingredients going that direction, you create a disgusting experience for the burrito’s end user. When you make a burrito, you should put the ingredients in layers lengthwise. That way, every bite has AT LEAST A FUCKING CHANCE of getting at least two types of ingredients, and there is little chance of becoming almost hopelessly trapped in a goddamned cilantro cavern.

Have you ever eaten one of the things you make all fucking day? You should try one. They are pretty good WHEN YOU ARE NOT WILLING YOURSELF THROUGH THE FUCKING EMPIRE OF SOUR CREAM ONLY TO END UP IN LETTUCE COUNTRY.

When you eat a burrito, you don’t stand it up and bite down on it lengthwise like a fucking Rancor. Humans cannot usually dislocate their jaws, and I’m not a fucking pelican. But you must think that’s how it’s done, since that would be THE ONLY FUCKING WAY to take a bite of your crapstrosity and have it taste like a burrito and not a multi-stage rocket to the planet Fucking Disgustingupiter.

And guess what else, player? You probably can’t guess anything, because I’m pretty sure you’re just a mop with a hat on it that fell over and spilled some shit into a tortilla, but just in case, here’s what:

Humans also don’t eat burritos like fucking corn on the cob. Like a fucking typewriter from one end to the other a little at a time and then DING next line. But today I wish I had tried that. Because at least THEN I would be able to eat some rice, then beans, then be all like HEY BEANS I’LL BE RIGHT BACK JUST GOING OVER HERE TO THE GUACAMOLE FOR A SECOND.

Nope.

My experience was more like HEY BEANS IT’S JUST GOING TO BE YOU AND I FOR A MINUTE UNTIL I CAN FUCKING EXCAVATE THE RICE FROM BENEATH YOU BUT BY THEN YOU WILL BE A FADING MEMORY OH HEY I WAS WRONG I’M IN THE FUCKING CHEESEOSPHERE NOW RICE MUST BE NEXT I HOPE IT’S NOT ANOTHER FUCKING SALSA POCKET.

You built this thing life a fucking pack of LifeSavers.

And don’t even fucking think I’m about to open this shit up and re-engineer this nonsense. I ALREADY PUT A HOLE IN IT WITH MY FUCKING MOUTH. YEAH. THAT’S HOW I DISCOVERED YOU FUCKING SUCK AT LOOKING AT THINGS. I AM NOT GOING TO DO FUCKING TORTILLA ORIGAMI TO GET THIS SHIT BACK TOGETHER.

In conclusion:

You’re the worst thing that has ever happened to the universe, you owe everyone everywhere an apology for this burritobomination, and I hope your babies look like monkeys.

Just look at this. Just go right on and take a good long look at this fucking holy terror of a thing that is real. Look at what humans have done. Listen. When the plants come back to take what is theirs, I’m laying out a fucking welcome mat, some ice water, soft jazz cds (they fucking love soft jazz), and some piles of cow shit. Because they deserve it. We lost the plot, and I’m pretty fucking sure we stopped looking for it the second we started dressing our baby girls like elderly hookers. I’m sorry, elderly hookers. You don’t deserve to be compared to these glittery hellspawns. I’m sorry, glittery hellspawns. Don’t get me wrong, as a matter of fact, get me very fucking right when I say I don’t blame these girls for the nuclear blast of candied shit that leveled what chance they had of ever using their faces like a normal person, and made their lives a fucking… this. I blame all humans everywhere. I blame myself. For still using the plants’ space. Sleep tight, fellow meat mistakes.
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Just look at this.

Just go right on and take a good long look at this fucking holy terror of a thing that is real.

Look at what humans have done.

Listen. When the plants come back to take what is theirs, I’m laying out a fucking welcome mat, some ice water, soft jazz cds (they fucking love soft jazz), and some piles of cow shit. Because they deserve it.

We lost the plot, and I’m pretty fucking sure we stopped looking for it the second we started dressing our baby girls like elderly hookers.

I’m sorry, elderly hookers. You don’t deserve to be compared to these glittery hellspawns.

I’m sorry, glittery hellspawns.

Don’t get me wrong, as a matter of fact, get me very fucking right when I say I don’t blame these girls for the nuclear blast of candied shit that leveled what chance they had of ever using their faces like a normal person, and made their lives a fucking… this.

I blame all humans everywhere. I blame myself. For still using the plants’ space.

Sleep tight, fellow meat mistakes.

(via thedza)

Source: octopussoir-