Posts Tagged “Rants”

Like my belly?

Random Unrelated Image: People Holding Large Things

Walking along the aisle in Target, I notice the signs for boy’s pants. On the sign, there’s a six-year-old dressed up like a modern rapper. Thug attire, baby blue headband with random insignia, baby blue jersey shirt of same random insignia, and baby blue sweatpants. $15 thrift store I-swear-I-bought-it-in-the-mall grey puffy jacket. You can hide a few Uzis under there, a nine millimeter, a crowbar, a brightly colored energy drink, a basketball, anything and everything the modern typical teenager needs. But this kid is six. He’s black, he’s white, he’s whatever, race is an annoyance now more than a trademark. The youth that once was so happy and joyous is gone from these suburban urban country-style kids. The plague of a standardized fashion has gripped the entire age group now extended into the single-digit years and kids of all geographical location.

I won’t mention what’s in the girl department. Let’s just say walking around the mall will reveal more preteen stomachs than even a child pornographer could imagine. We’re a society of stomachs, piercing, drive-by readiness, and younger-aged development. The punk rock kids are the counterculture, but in the process they’ve only proven themselves just as bad, but without the local department store’s attention. The black-clad entities, draped in white skin that looks like they applied too much acne scars cream, and masqueraded melancholy, “fight the power” with their collective subconscious woes.

Hope is the destruction that we seek. Hope for getting that $20 gray puffy jacket and step up the social ladder. The hope of having to work an extra two hours at McDonalds to get it. The hope of watching more MTV to see the latest music video. Rap, punk, emo, metal, alternative, pop, techno, rock, country. The factions in an everlasting modern-day culture war. You’re with us, or you’re against us. We hope for a new car tomorrow, one that’ll be modded and insanely sleek-looking, one that’ll guzzle a gallon a mile to keep taxes sky-high and the clouds all but clean. By hoping for our daily Starbucks coffee, by hoping for a new shirt from Wal-Mart, something is destroyed. We hope for more money, but that means it has to come from somewhere. Kids are working in Columbia to bring you that Starbucks coffee. Kids in Indonesia are making that new shirt in Wal-Mart that’s dirt cheap because the cashier isn’t paid dirt. Some insurance agent is fired in Wisconsin because their web site server cost was increased due to the software company’s latest release price hike since they elected another executive who needed a vacation added to his benefit package. When we hope, we destroy.

Random Unrelated Image: Fuck You, Candy

My milkshake brings...

You’re an asshole.

Yes you. The person who their dog around in a sweater in the middle of summer. Your Dalmatian. In the heat and humidy. Because your dog needs a fucking sweater when it’s eighty five degrees outside in the shade. Did your dog say ‘arf arf arf arf arf?” (loosely translated: I need a fucking sweater so I can eternally know what it feels like to overheat my balls into liquification). I doubt he did. Because he’s a fucking dog. And he has a coat already.

Asshole.

And you. You who had the dressing room tied up all day while trying on ten pairs of pants five sizes too small for you. Of course you’re a size 16 lady. Denim doesn’t stretch. You fit into those pants because you’re forcing all your ass fat upwards. If you ever succeed in getting into them you’ll look like a bulbous gastropodial ice cream cone. You fat fuck in denial.

Asshole.

And you. You who shows up to work four hours late. Why do you even show up? I know it’s not because you need money for car insurance. (That piece of junk can’t cost you more than $10 per month.)Haven’t you figured out that you get less of a reprimand if you just call in sick? And the smell on your breath. Eat a tic-tac. Or better yet, brush your greenish/yellow skank ass teeth.

Asshole.

And you who gets in front of me at the check-out line with your eighty five children, three hundred dollar Citizen watch, Phat Farm attire, faux Gucci purse and an attitude. Fuck you. Your WIC can’t be used until next week. And you can’t buy beer with it. And it’s all your fault. You have gold teeth and your four year old isn’t wearing any pants. I bet your thighs are lonely, because I’m sure they’ve never met. Allow me to shake your hand, you are the most worthless human being alive. Now allow me to wash my hands.

Asshole.