Showing posts with label Ick. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Ick. Show all posts

Wednesday, December 04, 2013

Only if your Christmas tree is a pussy willow

As I find myself often thinking the older I get . . . I picked the wrong day to quit smoking crack, snorting meth, drinking Everclear and sniffing glue.

On the other hand, there is neither enough booze nor are there enough illegal substances in the world to get this image out of my mind. Neither will there be enough to kill the section of your brain where the picture of this hideous thing now resides. Sorry about that.

On the third hand, why should I be alone in my torment? I hate being alone in my torment.

One thing I learned from this page, though, is that there are, per capita, just as many disturbed individuals in Canada as there are here in the United States. I blame our disturbed, shallow and hypersexualized common Western culture.

SOMETIME between the time I was born 52 years ago and now, our genitals (and what we do with them) became no mere fraction of who we are. Instead, who we are has come to be defined by our genitalia and what we choose to do with them. That's not only ass-backward, but just wrong -- as in utterly depraved.

Once upon a time, we put stars, candy canes, popcorn strings and shiny glass ornaments on our Christmas trees, which we regarded as a symbol of new life in the bleak midwinter. Now we put "Were vulva Dead Zombie" ornaments on them. How fitting, considering.

I eagerly await the advent -- not -- of the "Syphilitic Oozing Penis" yuletide ornaments, which should be arriving . . . wait, let me go check Etsy.

How low can we go?  Obviously, somewhere just below the waistline.

Lord have mercy. But I won't blame Him if He doesn't.