That Shit Just Ain’t Right

So, I was watching “Extra” tonight, eating a breakfast burrito for dinner (fuck, yes) and the lead story was Charlie Sheen and his dipshit wife, Brooke, I believe her name is (and I didn’t fact check this, motherfuckers, because I was too busy out playing pool and drinking, so no smartass letters that I misspelled anything or it’s not “AP style”), and that they were both headed to rehab of sorts and who was gonna take care of the Twins (the kids, not his wife’s rack).

And I thought, that shit just ain’t right.

Well, that was my second thought. My first thought was there are really people in this world who should be sterilized. Charlie Sheen can fuck all the hookers he wants, but he should never, ever be allowed to procreate again.

Then I thought: That shit just ain’t right.

You know, our little world is filled with Shit That Just Ain’t Right. And I’m sick and tired of looking at it. Are you ready? Let’s go:

Mario Lopez, you sir, in your Extra, Extra tight-fitting V-neck sweaters ain’t fooling nobody. When you pull up to the studio in your black porsche, with your super, super gamma gamma, extra frothy cappuccino, your mockery of mankind is exacerbated by your sheer lack of talent and the fact that you were always second fiddle to Zack Morris and wore those horrible muscle tees.

The Jersey Shore kids—including Snooki—will all make more this year than I will over the next five. That shit ain’t right.

My Republican friend, Cheeseman, will pull more ass than I will this year…as he has over the last decade. That shit ain’t right.

More twee New York authors/storytellers will get shows/jobs/book deals about their twee little lives detailing how they collect My Pretty Ponies, or are working at Barney’s, or other some dipshit behavior, which marks a great departure from their lives in suburban Connecticut, clearly worthy of great literature that must be documented, when their dads used to bring them home jeans from Barney’s and My Pretty Ponies for Easter. That shit ain’t right.

More asshole kids will wear headbands.

More asshole kids wearing headbands and leggings and fur coats will stand outside the Mud Coffee Truck outside my work, all looking the same, smoking, and complaining about the pressures of undergrad liberal arts life at NYU.

Lady Gaga will make more songs that will played at Top Shop while Kate Moss unveils her latest line of shitty-ass headbands and leggings and fake fur coats that were made in Malaysia by 6-year-olds and selling it for $129 a pop.

And let’s not even get started on Tiger Woods. Elin, honey, you’ve served your time. Obviously, you’re way hotter, and how you fucked that total two-by-four excuse for a man is beyond me. I mean, he doesn’t even have a good personality–a total prerequisite for anyone who doesn’t have a hot ass. Go get yourself some hot 23-year-old, a la Madonna, and fuck your brains out. You deserve it.

And then, maybe, I’ll be convinced that shit is starting to go right. Also, if no 23-year-olds wearing headbands fuck up my morning commute. That would be a good start.

2 Replies to “That Shit Just Ain’t Right”

  1. There’s a lot more right than wrong going on with you. You jet to surf camp on the shores of Central America, enjoy the finest taverns and eateries in Brooklyn, and use the men of your choice as playtoys, discarding them on a whim when they fail to pleasure you adequately.


  2. Bah-zing!

    You should take up boxing. I would not only pay good money to watch you smack around some bull dyke or a mean-ass Puerto Rican from around the way but also dress up in drag as the “in between rounds” girl — with a hole in my short-shorts for my cock to hang out of, to avoid confusion among the Bud-sodden apes in the audience.

    Now that would be so right.


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