Fun With "The Google"

Today I remembered that when I first set up this blog, long long ago (read: 10 posts ago), I added a little visitor tracking system. Now, while this doesn't mean I can track everything you do after visiting this site (I'm working on that), it does mean I can see how many people have visited, what page(s) they have looked at, and my favorite part, what web site brought them here (almost always by mistake).  Below is a list of some of the more interesting Google Searches that have brought poor, unsuspecting victims, er... visitors here.

"have the flu"

"PIGMY FUCK"

"gymnast fuck split"

"midgets fucking grown women"

"iphone sucking every dick"

"Robert Brockway"

Now in the spirit of this revelation, below are some more search terms that, I hope and pray, will bring even more sad and pathetic googlers to this very post...

"mrs. butterworth rape scene"

"cousin-fucker"

"gorillas fucking smaller gorillas"

"hitler sucking off a wildebeest"

"george bush touches small children"

"Sandra Day O'Conner is a whore"

and last but not least...

"Is Barack Obama's dick really six feet long?"

By the way, I hear the answer to that last one is yes, oh good god YES!

Love,

G

I Could Not Be More Offended if You Actually Raped My Grandmother With A Pair Of Salad Tongs

There is a very good reason no one reads this site. It's not because I don't want them to. Of course, I would like the whole world to read my precious words and hang on every filthy syllable. Why, you bastards should be begging for more of my horrifying and angry wit that could force God himself to open the heavens above just so he could vomit without getting any on his shoes. I would like to be hearing screams for more allusions to the odor of Rosie O'Donnell's used tampons (which oddly enough, smells incredibly similar to the inside of my car when I'm doing 90 down the Jersey Turnpike). Or descriptions of the dead cat that's been lodged in my chimney chute for weeks, and what rotting body parts fell from it today. But you don't beg. You don't plead. You don't threaten bodily harm if I don't give you more dick humor. 

Why is this?

Because I'm just not that fucking funny. It's ok, really. I've come to accept this and I'm at peace with it. I'm really just more of an angry prick. And this blog here, it's less of a vehicle for my humor and more an out-patient therapy mechanism on which I release (all over it's face!) my pent-up aggression from not getting laid.

So by now you (read: no one) are probably looking at the title of this post and asking "Why are you so offended, G?" Well I'll tell you why. Today someone called me a "funny guy." It's not important who, at this point, but I'll tell you this, good sir... You are a filthy fucking liar and I won't stand for it! If one person calls me funny, then, all of the sudden, there are expectations. And if there are expectations, I will most certainly not meet them. It's in my DNA. I come from a long line of failures and I'm quite proud of it. 

BUT, if there are no expectations, and then you chuckle during my lengthy explanation of why SPAM is the superior spiced meat alternative (FUCK YOU SPURKEY), then I've succeeded. But if you go on to tell others about how funny that weird bearded guy who sleeps under the desks in the research department is, well those people will have expectations. And when I randomly scream "KILL WHITEY" in their faces, not only will they think I'm functionally retarded, but they'll think you're a total dickbag too, for laughing at retarded guy. 

So you can call me lots of things... Crazy, racist, lunatic, rapist, cripple-fucker, Burt Langcaster, etc... BUT DON'T CALL ME FUCKING FUNNY!

Love,

G

Obama Sworn In... Everything Still Fucked

It's a landmark day as America swears in its first black president, but much to my surprise, the economy is still in the toilet, the war on terror and drugs are still yielding no results, and I still want a fucking cigarette despite promises that Obama would make my cravings go away. I'm still working my dead-end job at a company that WOULD give a fuck about me if it didn't cost them so much goddamned money to do so. My love life is still hovering somewhere in that mythical place between the shitter and the drain (at least in terms of distance and frustration). And my physical health is even worse than it was when the doctors told me "at least it can't get any worse." I thought this guy was supposed to fix shit!?!? What gives?

Well it turns out Barack Obama is NOT the mythical creature sent from the heavens to heal the sick and turn water into wine that produces no hangover. Don't get me wrong, I still think he's a good man and I sincerely hope that he will do as much good for this country (and planet) that everyone thinks he will. But he's not magic. Not even a little. So for the love of God, Allah, Moses, Buddha, or that spot of gum on the pavement that vaguely resembles John Cougar Melloncamp, please stop acting as if he has magical powers. Stop pretending that we no longer have to worry, because we do. We always have to worry. The day we stop worrying is the day we lose the country to those damn soulless Canadians! (I know about their secret plans to take over once we get all soft and doughy. We're halfway there people!) 

So Never Give Up! Never Get Soft! And Never Forget the Canadians are watching with their beady little eyes! Waiting for the right moment, when they can finally invade, and beat us all to death with hockey sticks and over-sized jars of maple syrup. 

Love,

G

Sexual HarASSment

I was planning on writing a little rant today about the ridiculous sexual harassment training I had to go through. But I have the flu, and I don't much feel like being angry. So here's a screen grab from it instead, just to give you an idea of how fucking retarded my company thinks I am.

Love,

G

Holy Fucking Shit! Plane Goes Down In The Hudson River

A fucking plane just crashed like 6 blocks (plus half the width of the hudson river) from where I'm sitting. No one is doing work anymore, we're all just staring at the TV in awe. But you've gotta love how well CNN covers up the fact that they don't know shit about shit, by repeating the same thing over and over again. Lick my balls, Blitzer!

Fuck the Fucking Flu

I've never gotten a flu shot. I don't know why, it's not some personal vendetta I have with the pharmaceutical companies. I don't believe that flu shots are meant to send us into a shopping frenzy right before Christmas. I just never bothered to get one. I've always had a pretty good immune system and I don't like taking drugs when they're unnecessary. But right about now, I really wish I'd just sucked it up, dropped trow, and let em stick that needle right in my ass. But no, I had to sit on my high fucking horse this winter, even though my company gives flu shots to all it's employees completely free. 

So I've got the flu, I haven't had a cigarette in 3 days, I haven't gotten laid in over a month, and this nicotine patch has been giving me some really fucking weird dreams (a few nights ago I was a dog trapped in a closet wearing ski goggles and I couldn't breathe) so I haven't been sleeping well either. Basically I'm in a shitty fucking mood. All I want to do today is go home, jerk off, enjoy a comforting and delicious Marlboro Medium and goto bed. But no, I'm at work, cranky, with the flu. And I just sat through a 3 hour training program that taught me all about the sexual harassment laws in the state of California. That would not be that big a problem if it weren't for the simple fact that I both live and work in NEW YORK! 

Take this post as a warning, if you see me today, don't start shit. Just smile, nod and keep fucking moving. I probably won't yell because my throat feels like I just finished off a carton of my beloved Marlboros, but I'm just itching to punch someone in the taint. 

Love, 

G

An Ode to Nothing (aka Stop Reading This and go to ifightrobots.com)

    ...so I'm trying to write. Let's face it, this blog sucks. There are no more than 3 posts on it (I'm too lazy to fact-check that), and they suck. I obviously have very little talent when it comes to molding the English language in an attempt to produce some form of humor. But still, I soil my precious internet with these horrifically pathetic postings about iPhones and capital punishment. Postings that vaguely resemble a form of literary sodomy that is only legal in Thailand and certain small towns in Eastern Europe.

    "So..." you ask... "Why the fuck are you posting this obvious attempt to curb your writer's block? And why are you wearing that codpiece?" Well, first of all, get the hell out of my apartment, weirdo. And secondly, I'm posting this because I've got nothing else. I'm out-and-out fucked when it comes to material that inspires me to even think something funny. It's a darn good thing I'm not striving to be a comedy writer... fuck.

    But what it really comes down to is that I've been catching up on the work of one of my very favorite authors today. Perhaps you've heard of him, his name is God... Actually his name is Robert Brockway, God is just what I call him while his testicles are resting gently on my chin. Apparently during the past several months Robert has been doing quite well for himself. His blog seems to be blowing up, even though I can't read it because at work it is blocked under the category "Sex." I guess WebSense has a limit for the total number of dick jokes allowed on a site before they ban it. He's also been given his own column on cracked.com, another site that has been blocked in my office, only under the seemingly more accurate category of "Tasteless." A description that I firmly oppose, as the taste of shit is still no less, a taste.

    Then today, while sitting on the toilet perusing my subscribed rss feeds, I came to find out that this man, a man whose words I have come to both idolize and significantly plagiarize, has been given a book deal. You dirty mother fucker. You actually sucked off a publisher didn't you. How bad was it, did you have to swallow? Did it taste of asparagus? 

    Soon I was able to put my jealousy aside (it was around the same time I realized my pants were still around my ankles even though I was back at my desk) and be happy for the guy. After all I'm a huge fan, and for some reason everytime I read some of his work, it inspires me to write... Unfortunately, it still doesn't make me very funny, and I'm willing to bet that anyone visiting this site (most likely from a google search gone awry) is now begging you Robert, to stop writing, if only to keep me from continuing to poison our Sweet Lady Internet with my corrosive and vomit-inducing drivel. But to them I say... I WILL NEVER BE SILENCED, except of course, when I run out of shit to say... which is right about... now.

    So hats off to you Mr. Brockaway, you are truly a gentleman in the most loose and un-meaningful sense of the word, and I applaud you for it. I also apologize that my ode to you somehow got mixed up in my attempt to rid myself of writer's block. And I assure you, that if I had any talent whatsoever, I would concoct a post worthy to have your name in it (actually, I probably wouldn't know who you were).

RATSHIT!

Love, 

G