Sunday, December 16, 2007

Poetry dot motherfucking com

Before I begin my rant, I want to apologize about not bitching about something for so long.

Okay, onto these fucks...

Fuck They're horrible, sick, sons of bitches who need to be euthanised immediately.

Here's what happens when you decide you want to see if you can get published through You send in your poem, which is probably a good work of literature. They then send you a little card that says "Editors award" and of course it's generic signed by someone named "I suck choad." Then you go "Wow, they liked it? Maybe they'll publish it?!"

Yeah, so you then wait for a while, keeping your hopes up, posting more and more poetry to their site. Then one day a letter comes. The sent from area on the upper left hand corner says "Bitch-ass-losers-dot-com"... I mean and you get excited! Omg! What could it say?!

Upon opening the letter you find something that says they decided to publish your poem. "HOLY SHIT?! WHAT?! THAT'S SO COOL! I NEED TO TELL SOMEONE!" So you call/txt/im anyone and everyone you possibly know. Frantically spreading your news like an aids infected escaped rapist on the streets of miami spreads disease. What do you tell them? Something along the lines of "ZOMG! I'M GETTING PUBLISHED!"

So, after informing everyone that you're getting published by and explaining exactly what the fuck is, in some fashion, you decide to read the other literature that is contained in the envelope they gave you. Which says something along the lines of "We're assholes... If you ever wanna show any of the people you just called up cause you only read the first couple lines of this your poem in a book, you need to send us 50-100 dollars for a copy. You might ask why we would need money from one of the authors contained in the book, that's fine with us."

Yes. Basically they tell you that you need to send them money for a copy of your published work. Who does things like that? Scam-artists bastards who deserve a head-butt from Pinhead.

To paraphrase (at the end of the post I know but hey, you read this far didn't you?) they get you to pay for your own poem along with a bunch of other suckers who played their game. They just get 400 poems from 400 authors, and get some of them to pay for the book, enough to cover the making and printing of the book, along with enough profit to help pay some assholes overpriced mortgage on his mansion out in New Fuckshire.

And this my friends, is why I absolutely fucking despise

Tuesday, November 20, 2007

If you ever...

If you ever feel like you're going crazy, or feel like you're down... Just watch this. I swear to you, you will laugh. Hard. And if you don't, you suck at life and should eat some lead paint, or just climb the nearest building and jump off it... Being sure to land head first.

If you've seen it before, then don't worry about the above statement of sucking at life if you don't laugh.

Thursday, November 15, 2007


Alright, so I decided I would change my anger and rants and such over to a different blog than my writing blog, just so that the writing community wouldn't be so pissed about my anger and those who enjoy my anger wouldn't be bored by my writing.

Fair enough? I fuckin' hope so.

So, to start this one off, I'm going to repost my rant on those little bastards called children.

(Note: Yes, I am admitting to bitching and moaning before this post, so you don't go ahead and tell me anyway.)

1.) Those of you who've never been in a restaurant that had a toddler or infant, shouldn't bother reading this one. You'll understand one of these days and feel the same spite for the little bastards as most do.

Almost -every- fucking restaurant I've been in has one of these little sons of bitches. You've gotten your drink, ordered your food, you're having a grand old time. Then the moment you become content and adjusted, it happens...
That teeth grinding, vein twisting, blood boiling, high pitched, banshee embodiment of hell fire and wrath that is a child's scream echoes throughout the facility. All conversation halts, even the cars outside seem to stop as the fucking kid starts, and as much as you hope and pray, it will not end there.

The screams begin to vary in pitch and length, stopping for a split second for -maybe- once every 6 minutes so the kid can breath in just enough to continue the current scream. Conversation STRUGGLES to continue, but is continually interrupted by one of those classic "punch tones," as I call them, where the scream punches out an ear-bleed inducing pitch at a volume higher than you would expect if you were to stand behind a goddamn 747 engine.

As you continue to try and keep your composeur, the crying then becomes WAILING. The kid stops screaming and just fucking yells. Trying to form words and understandable justification as to why they're crying, only justifying -your- reason for wanting to grab the kid, walk outside, and spike the little bastard like you just made the winning touch down for the super bowl.

About 45 minutes after the kid finally stops, or gets taken somewhere and accordingly is forced to shut the fuck up, your food will HOPEFULLY have arrived. Ah, sustainance. Now you can enjoy your meal in silence... Right?

Fuck no. You'll get half way through that *food/meal of choice inserted here* and if you're lucky, the same kid will start up again. But most likely, it's a new kid, and you have to wait another goddamn 45 minutes until that parent straightens their fuckin' kid out.

And on the -god forsaken- seldom occasion, you'll have 3-7(yes, I've had to deal with 7 screaming little bastards at ONE time) kids feeding off each others screams and fits. Only to be stuck in what seems like a governmental facility for testing new age sound weaponry.

The message of this rant/informational essay: KEEP YOUR KIDS AT HOME OR DON'T COME AT ALL. No one wants to have to sit there while your diaper-wearing shit stain alarm goes off in a restaurant.

2.) Who doesn't love a good freedom of speech abusing, bug-eyed little fucker molesting your personal space with an onslaught of questions?!

You know the kind. The kids who apparently found a book of

"Pointless, aggitating, and stupid bullshit questions to ask your friends(on IM)/co-workers/strangers when you can't come up with enough stupid shit to make small talk with! 68th Edition."

(For the book cover: )

You've seen them, or had the agonizing "privilage" of answering their seemingly endless supply of questions. The kind of questions that you've already answered 10-20 times throughout the day because of people who find it suspiciously necessary to act as if they give a fuck what you think about the weather or the lastest pop culture gossip that no one besides house wives(for pseudo-intelligent phone conversation use) and homeless people(for the only GOOD reason, being a blanket) give two shits about.

These kids must tell their parents that they're going to be fucking with people throughout the day, because I've NEVER seen a parent near a child, who amazingly fucking appears David Copperfield style, next to you.

I've had to deal with the overlapping of questions, that occurs when the kid asks questions before, during, and after they sonic-the-hedgehog their ass up to you.

The best thing to do when this happens, is to walk away, or change seats. Though this is usually impossible, because these kids became parasites, -somehow- attaching themselves to you with some silly puddy, magic markers, and a piece of 50 year old bubble gum they found under a bench and chewed for the past 20 minutes. Another option, is to punt the little fucker away. When, and yes -when- this is not an if, they come back, punt the son of a bitch again, and harder. Eventually they'll realize that being kicked in the sternum or neck means to go the fuck away.
Though the most satisfying way is to force-feed the kid cookies until s/he begins to choke... or can't talk without a drink first. But it's no fun to waste cookies without sending the kid in a panic.

3.) My final problem with kids, is the kind who act or are stupid. A -prime- example of this, would be my stint of babysitting.

Background: My babysitting career opened and closed in 20 minutes upon stepping foot into that door.

I was asked by a friend of my parents to babysit their kid for 2 hours while they went to the theatre. I could only think "Good money, and only 2 hours. Only one 2 year old, can't be too bad?" As I look back on that day, I think I would have rather offered to have my face picked off by a flock of malicious crows.

(For effect: )

Immediately after closing the door behind me, I was greeted by the parents, accompanied by the child whom I now know is the son of Satan. 5 seconds after arriving, the parents pointed out contact numbers, food, gave me parameters on the kids bedtime, TV watching restrictions, and sweets restriction, they were gone. I looked at the clock, and it was now "6:00:20."

To avoid the readers of this thread aquireing induced psychosis and malignent tumors, I've decided not to run through the experience in detail. I also avoid this because of the length and traumatizing occurences at that house.

To sum up a long story into an analogy, I suggest thinking of how it would feel to:

Build a sturdy wooden 5 x 5 ft box, without a lid.

Add 2 parts maggots, 4 parts feces(any will do), 3 parts rusty fishhooks, 2 parts freshly harvested "drifter" organs(I suggest younger, dirtier drifters, they tend to work better with this recipe), 6 parts toxic waste, and a hint of screaming insanity.

Mix ingrediants well.

Jump in. Have a friend nail the top down.

Mail the crate to Rosie O'Donelle or Rosannes residence.

Lastly, and this is the most important step, after being devoured up to the waist by either said "actress," have them curb-stomp you onto a nail-laiden metal bathroom fixture of your choice.

If you follow all these steps, you may have a slight understanding what baby sitting that cock sucking little bastard for only 20 goddamn minutes is like.

All in all, parents need to beat their children more or at all.

Hell, start out spanking them, and on occasion, do it just so they know you're the parent and you're the one in control.

Thank you for taking to time to understand why I despise children with such a passion.