Most people would be embarrassed if they did what you’re about to do. But you won’t be. Not a smidge. Because this is going to get you in the paper, and that’s all you’ve ever really wanted.
Today, while bow hunting, you’re going to be sighting on a big stag, a majestic beast standing woods without a care in the world. You’ll feel as if you’re trespassing just looking at him, and this feeling that you’re committing a crime against nature just by trying to kill this wondrous creature.
This feeling will prove so distracting that it will lead to you fall upon your own bow and arrow, impaling yourself in the stomach. You’ll be in okay shape, as much as you can be at least. You’ll be able to call 9-1-1 and within forty minutes a team of paramedics will have you on a gurney and out of the woods. You’ll be fine and you’ll have a scar that makes it look like you had gastric bypass surgery.
You’ll get in the paper a few days later under the headline “Local Plant Rapist Impales Self on Own Arrow!”
Congratulations Clumsy Bow Hunter!
Showing posts with label delicious irony. Show all posts
Showing posts with label delicious irony. Show all posts
Saturday, July 9, 2011
Saturday, January 3, 2009
Congratulations, You Son of a Bitch!
You piece of shit. You know just what you did, and its not for us to tell you, but we all hope you’re happy. As far as I’m concerned you deserve exactly what’s coming to you.
The investment fraud, cheating at ping pong, murdering your father and sleeping with your mother. I’m not sure how you thought it would end, but tonight it's all coming to a head.
You’ll be out on a date with a supermodel, one of the ones with three names, at least two of which sound vaguely Russian, and it’ll seem like nothing could go wrong. That’s when your deliciously ironic punishment will strike.
A falling safe will cave in your skull and crush most of your upper torso. According to the model it will be “kind of fucking sweet,” but also “totally gross.” We wish you’d had better taste in women so we could’ve gotten a vaguely literate depiction of your death, which we’ve been aching for for months, but hey. We’ll take what we can get.
Oh, and congratulations, you son of a bitch.
The investment fraud, cheating at ping pong, murdering your father and sleeping with your mother. I’m not sure how you thought it would end, but tonight it's all coming to a head.
You’ll be out on a date with a supermodel, one of the ones with three names, at least two of which sound vaguely Russian, and it’ll seem like nothing could go wrong. That’s when your deliciously ironic punishment will strike.
A falling safe will cave in your skull and crush most of your upper torso. According to the model it will be “kind of fucking sweet,” but also “totally gross.” We wish you’d had better taste in women so we could’ve gotten a vaguely literate depiction of your death, which we’ve been aching for for months, but hey. We’ll take what we can get.
Oh, and congratulations, you son of a bitch.
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