Showing posts with label state senators. Show all posts
Showing posts with label state senators. Show all posts
Saturday, April 28, 2012
Congratulations on Ruining Board Game Night For Your Whole Family!
In the middle of board game night you’re going to take off your pants and squat over the board game board (it’ll be Ticket to Ride). Then you’ll poop on the board game board.
Then you’ll call your family faggots for the rest of the night.
If you have any questions about why your family will no longer talk to you feel free to post them in the comments section and we’ll try to fill you in on them as time permits.
Congratulations on Ruining Board Game Night For Your Whole Family!
Friday, December 31, 2010
Congratulations Frostbite Survivor!
Some people get frostbite on their toes or their fingers, valuable digits crucial in getting off most contemporary sexual partners. Compared to you those people are getting off incredibly, incredibly easy. That’s an amazing double entendre, and you’re about to see why. See, you have a unique fetish – a desire to fuck a woman buried completely inside of a snow drift until you reach simultaneous orgasm.
Somehow, impossibly (you’re a state senator) you’ll have managed to find a willing partner, a partner who is so GGG that she won’t bat an eyelash at risking her health so that you can get your rocks off inside her through a shell of snow during a blizzard (she’ll have severe daddy issues, which will make the whole thing awesome). As you thrust away you’ll be so occupied in your own motion, the powerful feeling of fulfillment as you finally get what you’ve wanted for so long, that you’ll lose track of your partner.
First you’ll lose track of her movements against you, muffled already by the snow. Eventually they’ll seem like part of your own motions, divine in their synchronicity. Then her cries will vanish from your mind, because, due to the aforementioned daddy issues, she’ll be really quiet in bed. It won’t be until you reach your moment of ecstasy and don’t hear her shriek opposition to the fact that you just came inside her that you’ll realize something is very very wrong.
You’ll reach inside of the snowman and pull out her body, bleached white by the cold and fastened firmly to your now frigid penis. Panicking, you’ll tumble back into a snowdrift with a young woman on top of you.
You’ll crawl, dragging the two of you slowly along the ground to your pants, where you’ll dial 9-1-1. An emergency response team will be there in seconds. They’ll leap out of their ambulance, assess the situation and pull you and the young woman whose name you’ll just now be realizing you never learned into the back of their truck with a series of knowing glances.
They’ll rush you to the hospital, and you’ll become unfastened from your now obviously dead partner in the process. But the feeling won’t return to your pinkies or almost all of the shaft of your penis. It’ll make you a little worried, especially since this is election year and sexual deviants who don’t have pinkies don’t traditionally get re-elected to public office year after year.
Eventually you’ll start crashing, and they’ll remove the penis. You’ll learn that it had already died and if it stayed attached it would just become infected and eventually ruin the rest of your body. So while you’ll be discharged from the hospital by a smiling nurse with no idea that you just ruined your political career and lost the vast majority of your penis a few days later and life will still be pretty grim we just want to say Congratulations Frostbite Survivor!
Somehow, impossibly (you’re a state senator) you’ll have managed to find a willing partner, a partner who is so GGG that she won’t bat an eyelash at risking her health so that you can get your rocks off inside her through a shell of snow during a blizzard (she’ll have severe daddy issues, which will make the whole thing awesome). As you thrust away you’ll be so occupied in your own motion, the powerful feeling of fulfillment as you finally get what you’ve wanted for so long, that you’ll lose track of your partner.
First you’ll lose track of her movements against you, muffled already by the snow. Eventually they’ll seem like part of your own motions, divine in their synchronicity. Then her cries will vanish from your mind, because, due to the aforementioned daddy issues, she’ll be really quiet in bed. It won’t be until you reach your moment of ecstasy and don’t hear her shriek opposition to the fact that you just came inside her that you’ll realize something is very very wrong.
You’ll reach inside of the snowman and pull out her body, bleached white by the cold and fastened firmly to your now frigid penis. Panicking, you’ll tumble back into a snowdrift with a young woman on top of you.
You’ll crawl, dragging the two of you slowly along the ground to your pants, where you’ll dial 9-1-1. An emergency response team will be there in seconds. They’ll leap out of their ambulance, assess the situation and pull you and the young woman whose name you’ll just now be realizing you never learned into the back of their truck with a series of knowing glances.
They’ll rush you to the hospital, and you’ll become unfastened from your now obviously dead partner in the process. But the feeling won’t return to your pinkies or almost all of the shaft of your penis. It’ll make you a little worried, especially since this is election year and sexual deviants who don’t have pinkies don’t traditionally get re-elected to public office year after year.
Eventually you’ll start crashing, and they’ll remove the penis. You’ll learn that it had already died and if it stayed attached it would just become infected and eventually ruin the rest of your body. So while you’ll be discharged from the hospital by a smiling nurse with no idea that you just ruined your political career and lost the vast majority of your penis a few days later and life will still be pretty grim we just want to say Congratulations Frostbite Survivor!
Monday, October 18, 2010
Congratulations on Remembering Where You Put Your Wedding Ring!
You didn’t want to lose it. That’s a fucking nightmare. You get home one night and bitch is all like “Harold. where’s your ring” and you’re all “I think I left it at your sister’s” and then you’re on your ass looking for a new job because your wife sent kiddy porn to everyone at your old job from your email. Then you start sucking dick just so you can have some more paint to huff and you end up working for some bunch of future fags because all that paint gave you the ability to see the future and I lost track of my train of thought somewhere in there.
Anyhow, today you’re going to realize, waist dip in a grave you’re digging down by the old mill, that you have no idea where the fuck your ring is. You’ll check your duffel bag, your car, the floor of the abandoned slaughterhouse where you killed the girl, and there won’t be anything anywhere. You’ll bite your lip and pout, imagining just what this will do to your marriage and, by relation, your career as a senator.
You’ll see for an instant the flash bulbs as those whorish reporters with their loud, raping eyes cry out their headlines, shrill and edged for your ears. “Impotent, hooker murdering senator divorced by implausibly hot wife, full story on page nine. It’ll be enough to make you want to choke the life out of a teen drifter.
But after a few minutes using the breathing exercises that the Dali Llama taught you you’ll think of all the places you could’ve lost it and then you’ll realize how foolish you’ve been. You’ll stop panicking, snap on a rubber glove and bury your hand in that hooker’s still warm corpse, carefully probing so as to avoid cutting yourself on any of her sharp, angular bones.
After almost ten minutes probing her many, many wounds and orifices you’ll pull your hand out and find, in your fingers, your ring, covered in viscera. You’ll laugh with joy as drop it into a ziplock bag for future cleaning and smile as you carefully re-dress the corpse for burial. Just like they say, it’s always in the last place you look.
Congratulations on Remembering Where You Put Your Wedding Ring!
Anyhow, today you’re going to realize, waist dip in a grave you’re digging down by the old mill, that you have no idea where the fuck your ring is. You’ll check your duffel bag, your car, the floor of the abandoned slaughterhouse where you killed the girl, and there won’t be anything anywhere. You’ll bite your lip and pout, imagining just what this will do to your marriage and, by relation, your career as a senator.
You’ll see for an instant the flash bulbs as those whorish reporters with their loud, raping eyes cry out their headlines, shrill and edged for your ears. “Impotent, hooker murdering senator divorced by implausibly hot wife, full story on page nine. It’ll be enough to make you want to choke the life out of a teen drifter.
But after a few minutes using the breathing exercises that the Dali Llama taught you you’ll think of all the places you could’ve lost it and then you’ll realize how foolish you’ve been. You’ll stop panicking, snap on a rubber glove and bury your hand in that hooker’s still warm corpse, carefully probing so as to avoid cutting yourself on any of her sharp, angular bones.
After almost ten minutes probing her many, many wounds and orifices you’ll pull your hand out and find, in your fingers, your ring, covered in viscera. You’ll laugh with joy as drop it into a ziplock bag for future cleaning and smile as you carefully re-dress the corpse for burial. Just like they say, it’s always in the last place you look.
Congratulations on Remembering Where You Put Your Wedding Ring!
Monday, April 19, 2010
Congratulations on Not Sucking Dick for Meth!
You don’t have a whole lot of money and you love meth, so not sucking dick for meth is kind of a big deal for you. Unfortunately it’ll come at great cost. You’ll have to take it up the ass for meth. You’ll have trouble really saying which one is less pleasant. In the end you think it’ll have a lot to do with the guy and how violent he is. You’ll think about this for a little while before you take a huge hit of meth and trip balls for a few hours.
Congratulations on Not Sucking Dick for Meth!
Congratulations on Not Sucking Dick for Meth!
Friday, July 24, 2009
Congratulations on Solving the Mystery!
You less “solved the mystery” and more “figured out a Hardy Boys book before the end.” It’s the first time you’ve done this. You’re in your mid forties.
We’d love to say that this is a product of your hard work, but really you just quit smoking weed a week and a half ago and your brain has begun recovering from the drug. A child should be able to do what you’ve accomplished.
On a totally unrelated note, we have no idea what your wife is doing with your best friend on Thursdays and Tuesdays. If we had to take an honest guess we’d assume that they’re planning a party for you.
Yeah. A party. That’s it.
Congratulations on solving the mystery.
We’d love to say that this is a product of your hard work, but really you just quit smoking weed a week and a half ago and your brain has begun recovering from the drug. A child should be able to do what you’ve accomplished.
On a totally unrelated note, we have no idea what your wife is doing with your best friend on Thursdays and Tuesdays. If we had to take an honest guess we’d assume that they’re planning a party for you.
Yeah. A party. That’s it.
Congratulations on solving the mystery.
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