A whole bucketful of awesome.

This is maybe, perhaps, the funniest string I have ever read in the history of ever.

weselec:

sloganeerist:

weselec:

sloganeerist:

weselec:

sloganeerist:

weselec:

sloganeerist:

(via weselec)

Sounds like somebody’s got himself a nasty li’l case of snatch ache.

It’s chronic hairintheurethritis. It’s a medical condition. I would appreciate just a smidge of sensitivity, you thoughtless clod.

Go on. Tell them the rest. A preventable medical condition. One that could’ve been avoided with a little self restraint, an ounce of precaution, and like maybe some type of salad tong or telescoping grabber-like-arm-thing wrapped in a light gauze or something. But no.

Oh, NOW you want them to hear the whole story? Fine. Let’s tell the whole story, Mr. Had-A-Fantasy-About-Playing-“Operation”-On-A-Real-Grown-Man. Let’s bust the whole thing WIDE OPEN.

I don’t know why we bothered with a safe word at all.

Sure. It’s my fault. It’s my fault that you insisted I spend my Valentine’s Day in a cramped, sweaty cabin with your college “roommate” and his glue-huffing sailor buddies. I’m pretty sure that one guy wasn’t even IN the Navy. But that’s not important to you, is it? Of course not.

Oh, that’s it. Just run away. Run to your scrapbooks. AGAIN.

None of them were in the Navy! You brought those uniforms! And do I need to remind you that everything was fine until you insisted on that little Salad Spinner “experiment?” Those of us who left without chemical burns will be sending you our therapy bills.

And for the fiftieth fucking time, it’s DECOUPAGE.

Decoopage, scrapbooking. You can call it anything you want and it’s not going to bring that cat back. Or the other cat either. Because THAT’S what this is about, isn’t it? Admit it. You still blame me for the skiing accident. That was TWO MONTHS ago.

And let me remind you that the eventual results of that “experiment” paid for that entire semester you wasted in cosmetology school. And what did I get in return? I mean other than a hiatal hernia and 80% hearing loss.

You know what? I’m sick of defining “release form” for you. Furthermore, the fact that you still don’t know how to drive stick has nothing to do with me. And if I recall correctly, what you got in return was no fewer than five free makeovers and ten of the best weeks of your life. Maybe I was wrong about that. Maybe I was wrong.

Anyway, it’s just comically pathetic now that you still use the words “skiing accident” to describe your using strategically placed dynamite to throw a snowmobile end-over-end across a vacant lot and into a dry creek. I didn’t understand why the cats were necessary, that’s all.