Seven Things We Can’t Be Fucked About – Brain Spurs For The Me/You/Now Generation

“Not giv’n a shite since 1976, so you don’t gotta be fucked about it.”

indifferent

7. The Annoying Orange

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some of you, i assume, are good people

6. Newly-Discovered Earth-like Exoplanet Kepler-452b — Once, Mad Steve and I huffed a whole bottle of neon yellow nail polish (you paint the nail polish on the inside surface of a plastic shopping bag, place the opening of the bag over your nose and mouth, and breathe deeply until you witness cosmic events) and I ended up actually going to Kepler-452b. It’s a fucking pit. Suppurating pustules going gleep glorp all the goddamn time, filthy grunting pituitary glands dangling from the ceilings, leprous insectoid flesh . . .

5. Brain-Eating Amoebas — The New Orleans water supply is infested with amoebas that travel up your nose and eat your brain. Which is a matter of civic pride on Kepler-452b, where “indoor plumbing and flesh-eating amoebas for every household” is a familiar political slogan, and where it is considered the height of ill-breeding to decline brain-eating amoebas when they are offered. But I’ve never wanted my brain eaten by amoebas. There, I said it. If Traouskliffian wants to get his noses out of joint, so be it.

4. Pistoleros ad nauseam — I feel safer when I’m surrounded by people armed with deadly weapons. I went to see a double feature of Amy and Ted this weekend, and I couldn’t help but wonder which of the people seated around me might be armed, and if they were, which ones were likely to snap and go on a bloody shooting rampage, and which ones were likely to be heroes, there to protect the innocent. It was tough to sort them out just by looking at them. You would have had to run thorough background checks on all of them to be sure, I suppose.

I found myself wishing that everyone had guns, in the hopes that it might tip the scale in favor of the heroes. If a self-styled vigilante with a political agenda opened fire by the concessions stand, I’d like to know that the pimply kid shoveling the popcorn into boxes could drop him at a hundred paces with his open-carry Glock. Or if a psychopath who forgot to take his mood levelers decided to mow down everybody in the parking lot after the show, I’d like to know that deputized rednecks with semiautomatic weapons could sweep by on a flatbed and take him out.

Anything but reconsider my stance on gun-control.

3. Duck Dynasty Buttplugs

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1. Having to Come up with Seven Things — Six things is more than enough things.

About Old Sid Vicious

After successfully faking his death in 1979, Sid Vicious went into hiding in New York City. Unsuccessful in his efforts to discover the real killer of his girlfriend Nancy, he made his way to Los Angeles, where he kicked junk with the help of The Church of Synanon. He used his royalties from The Great Rock and Roll Swindle to purchase an estate in Honduras, where he erected several greenhouses. His subsequent propagation experiments involving the hybridization of rare orchids (he developed several hybrid species, including Cyrtopodium ritcheii and Spiranthes simon) have revolutionized horticulture. Those close to him report that he is dismissive of his stint as the Sex Pistols bassist, referring to it as, “that twilit era of my life when hubris very nearly got the better of me.” In the late nineties, he returned to Britain and took up residence in his childhood village of Tunbridge Wells, where he resides to this day. He is an amateur fishkeeper, specializing in marine aquaria, and an enthusiastic birder, having established an endowment for the preservation of the black-crowned night heron (Nycticorax nycticorax,) the doleful cry of which he is rumored to be an excellent mimic.
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