Bearded Girlfriend

I don’t like going to the park. At least parks with swings. It’s because of my girlfriend’s beard. She likes me to push her on the swings but somehow she manages to get her beard tangled in that top bar overhead. Always. Don’t ask me how. It’s a gift. So she’s hanging there from her beard, head back, neck strained, kicking her feet and whining. I look for someone to help me laugh at her, usually a jogger, but they never stop. So what happens is some lady pushing her kid in a stroller will pass by and call me a jerk. I’ll call her damaged goods. Then some dude will ask “why is that goat hanging from the swing set?” “That’s animal cruelty, man.” And I’ll say “Hey buddy. That’s no goat. That’s my girlfriend.” The dude will be like ‘fuck’ then resume picking dinner out of the trash. You’d think that a bearded woman dangling from a swing set would draw a crowd but I guess it’s all that froth coming out of her mouth that scares people away. I take out my beard trimming scissors but she deftly kicks them out of my hand. “Do it the right way!” she screams. “Get the toolbox!” A half an hour and quart of Gatorade later I finish disassembling the swing set. She works her way off but her beard is split and mangled with bits of rust and metal flakes. She cries “My beard is ruined. I’m so ugly.” She always says this. And I shrug. I never argue with her because it’s the truth. I just hope she’s not ugly after the sex change is done.

Metro-Taur

Once upon a time, a man with the fashion sense of a woman had sex with a cow. A female cow. He either wanted to tick off the god Zeus or piss off his dad. Either way, the cow got pregnant and gave birth to an abomination. The half-cow, half-metro sexual beast known as the Metro-Taur. Filled with shame, the cow sent the creature to Ohio to hide and work as a convenient store clerk. The Metro-Taur grew tall and lanky and developed a lisp and never once did he ever commit a fashion faux pas but the beast's patience grew short and he delivered snappy, poor service to his customers. And so a rumor foretold that one day, a groovy man with jiggy ass drawing skills would encounter the beast and slay him with his verbal kung fu skills. And behold on this day, said groovy man did meet the beast and stood still as the creature sized him up through his hip, thick rimmed glasses and asked him if he wanted credit or debit. So the man paid the beast for his hoagie and double chocolate milk and left quickly, sparing the animal's life. Many will ask why he let the beast live that day. Some will say cowardice and others, mercy. Well it should be known that he couldn't wait to get out of that shop because it's uncomfortable as hell getting eye-fucked by a Metro-Taur. He dost not swing that way.

Gary Cant

Gary is a self taught Casio keyboarding genius. I first met him standing on the sidewalk outside a supermarket playing his hit single “What time is it?” Most people would say that the 4 word verse/chorus is repetitive and the out of rhythm foot stomps are distracting. I say it’s art. From his over sized wristwatch to his crayon box, squiggly line, camo-pants, the man oozes style. What drives a man to create a 12 minute long symphony with only 4 words? A passion for time management and love of soulful music. Coming out to see Gary perform on the sidewalk is like watching a preacher give a cripple boy in a wheel chair his vision back and then the boy transforms into a dove made of rainbows and paints a picture of interracial children jumping rope. It makes me tingle like butter. You gotta be careful though ladies, Gary may break your heart. For Gary, it’s always music first, and then health and other stuff second and third. He’ll ask “What time is it?” but he already knows. We know he knows. It’s time to cross the street.

Fuck You Ben

Fuck you Ben and your jerk-off facial hair. Ben, you are not a magazine that I would ever subscribe to. In fact I wouldn't even browse you at the book store. I would consider using you to potty train my dog but I would be wary that it might catch what ever douche virus you are carrying. You are a 23 story building of suck with broken elevators and a sock puppet full of curdled milk and rotten egg plant as a doorman. If you were a superhero you’re power would be making things awkward. If you were a supervillian, your power would be raping rainbows and drowning cats. You are the first sober person I’ve ever seen throw a beer pong ball underhand like a horseshoe. People that drink until they have Down Syndrome can understand beer pong but for some reason you can’t. Trying to impress your partner by telling her you’re a waiter for some ass-fuck of a restaurant may get you to first base but it’s just because she looks like a doll from a Japanese horror film and no one else will touch her anyway. Do you know what other sanitary wipe was named Ben? That’s right, Benedict Arnold. And he was a damn traitor. Just like you. And he’s probably the type to take the shit I say seriously, even though I’m so drunk that I can urinate out of my ears. Dear Ben, you are the worst kind of person ever. You probably buy your Grandmom men's shoes for Christmas just so you can borrow them knowing damn well you won't give them back. You are the type of guy that likes to get spermed up in the mouth. And the worst part is that you're not gay. You're all about the sperm. P.S. Ben. Go fuck yourself.

Anorexic Husky Vs. Asthmatic Husky

The only stats you need to know is that the Anorexic Husky is 40 pounds underweight and has an icy bitch stare. (HAHA she’s a female! Pun intended!) Asthmatic Husky has a bottomless stomach and weak lung capacity. What happens is when I put some food in Anorexic Husky’s bowl, she’ll look at me with her sad eyes of contempt and ignore the gesture like I’m asking her for money. Then I go back to my room angrily mumbling to myself. Asthmatic Husky moves in now to finish Anorexic’s food, but she’s a jerk and doesn’t appreciate anything and thinks she’s a princess and won’t look you in the eye when you pet her, so she snaps at Asthmatic. Asthmatic snaps back but gets winded and retreats to the back corner of his cage to bark and rant at Anorexic in safety. I come back out to the scene and Anorexic is pretending to be all sad so I go to yell at Asthmatic for picking on her but then I realize that he’s dead. As I turn to retreat, I realize it’s too late and I hear the cage door slam behind me as I see Anorexic with my car keys dangling from her mouth. As I cry and try to eat my way through the cage I can hear my car start and drive away. The winner: PETA.

Teenage Headed Baby

Regular headed babies are annoying enough as it is. They cry, poop all over themselves, make horrible conversation, cheat at video games and can’t hold their liquor. Other than having a crawling foot rest, I can’t see any practical reason to have one. Now if having a regular, healthy baby, (if you can even call a baby healthy. I think the fact that a baby is unable to defend itself and can’t walk makes it defective) is a hassle, imagine what fat armpit of hell it would be to raise a Teenage Headed Baby. As the name implies, you get a baby with a baby sized body but the head of a teenager. Imagine the shit you'd deal with! Having to ignore whispers from friends that your child is a hobbit or Humpty Dumpty. Having your child spit up food and follow it with “whatever”. Those damn looks of disapproval like you’re not cool enough to push his stroller. So you curse at him to cut the ish out, but he keeps doing it anyway because he’s a stupid baby that can’t speak English or answer the phone and you raise you hand to strike him in the face but remember it’s a baby so you go for the two-handed choke around the throat but before you can crush his windpipe he utters the words “daddy” and so you pull back and a tear rolls down your face as you walk out the door right into a moving bus because you realize that your baby is just a midget of below average intelligence and he’ll never play pro basketball.