Most days I keep my boredom at bay by adding cartoon characters or celebrities I’ve never met to my phone’s contact list, or by pranking unsuspecting people who happen to incorrectly dial my cellphone number. Then there are days when the boredom is too much and I share my pain by sending random and nonsensical texts to the poor souls who happen to know me.
Featured here are the best responses to the inane chatter that escapes my head on a daily basis:
Irrelevant Elvis cares not for your tidings.
— Behold the field in which I grow my fucks, and thou shalt see that it is barren, and without fucks.
If you opened up a restaurant, what would you name it?
— Eat Me
Please bring a bucket or big bowl when you come to bed.
— Someone’s gettin’ lucky! I hope…
I like chestnuts.
— I like specialty hardware.
— FUCK YEAH!! BACON TOO!!
— I’ll see your cheese grater and raise you a microplane.
When a set of conjoined twins fight, do they fight themselves or each other?
— Yes and no.
Jesus sees what you do in the shower.
— It’s my soap and I’ll wash as fast as I want to.
Fuck you and your monkey.
Kenny Loggins called…
–DON’T YOU DARE SAY IT!
No one needs to see Donal Logue naked.
— There ain’t enough liquor in the world.
I just finished your eclair while watching My 600lb Life.
— Good for you! That’ll show ‘em.
Curious Poop Emoticon agrees.
— Mom you need help.
I wonder what Freud would say about my love of squid and octopi?
— He’d say you’re one of those Japanese addicted to tentacle porn… what are you doing right now?
I want to add a wood-burning oven to our kitchen. Just saying.
— For burning witches, right? I’m down.
If we ever take a plane ride longer than two hours, it will need to be at night and I will need to be sedated.
— Make sure they have me stowed in the cargo hold first, please.
I am an amazing waitress. Like, I could be a maître-de if I wanted.
— I mourn my days as a tiny ballerina <sob>…
The average fart leaves the body at a speed of 7 miles per hour.
— They’ve never measured me, then. I’ve punched holes in reinforced concrete and set fire to porcelain.
Ron Perlman’s wife’s name is Opal. That’s unfortunate.
— At least it’s not ‘Necklace’ or something, you know.
I will never hire a Mexican cartel to murder you.
— Fuck. Can you try any harder to ruin my fucking day?
I do not think I would make a very good undertaker.
— Yes, you’re tiny. I’d make a good overtaker.
Does everyone from California sound like you?
— Duuude. Like totally.
I think I would make a very good warden.
— Remind me not to drop the soap tonight.
TV says the government is open today.
— Yes, but is anyone manning the office?
I am going to go on the treadmill so don’t freak out.
— OK. I’m visiting the toilet now, so you’ll have to do whatever in the gas mask.
Pick up. Pick up. I had hiccups and I wanted to see what the text speak feature did with it on the phone.
— For a minute I thought you were texting me some fucking rap song. Yo.
I’m tied up with Erin.
— Fuck yeah, I’m on the way home now!
It’s not ‘want,’ it’s ‘can’t.’ Murder scene day.
— Goddamn it. I just cleaned the shovel. We’re out of tarps, so pic which rug we lose.
I decked the halls. Still miss you.
— We should get married. Now.
Aren’t you glad that I don’t have your number?
A dear friend needs our help. Please click here for his story and contribute to a happy ending.
VISIT MY FELLOW FUNNY BLOGGERS:
Victoria of Angst Anarchy
Alanna of White Girls Be Like…
Jamie of Fits of Wit
Jessie of Jessie Reyna
Ben of Ben’s Bitter Blog
Gina of Endearingly Wacko
Eric of Opticynicism
Jenn of Properly Ridiculous
Alice of Alice At Wonderland
Lisa of Buddhaful Britt
JC of JCS Bloggery
Sarah of No Cry Babies
Elke of The Pretty Platform
Jack of The Things I see Up Here
Chicks A & E of Too Funny Chicks
Charly of Crazy Life
Kevin of Trailer Trash Deluxe
Karilin of That Nameless Color
Arthur of Pouring My Art Out
What’s the slushpile, you ask? The slushpile, my friends, is the virtual trash bin where your manuscript lands the moment a prospective agent determines it is not yet ready for publication. Believe me, after all your hard work this is no place you want to be.
So how do you avoid the slushpile? Read widely? Write often? Find yourself a solid writers’ group?
Hell no! You do it by following my advice, of course! I’ve spent the past year creating a collection of books designed to help would-be authors navigate their way through the jungle that is the publishing world. Choose from the following: (more…)
Long before I became a New Englander I was a native of the south, specifically southern Florida. And as anyone who’s either lived in or even just visited the south can attest, no one throws a party better than a southerner (back me up here, Dayton). Because in the south a party isn’t just a party- it’s a balls-out drunken feeding frenzy of Bacchanalian proportion. I blame the heat.
It should come as no surprise that the southern party of the year, Mardi Gras, is celebrated in the party Mecca better known as New Orleans, Louisiana. French for “Fat Tuesday,” Mardi Gras reflects the practice of the last night of eating richer, fatty foods before the ritual fasting of the Lenten season.
Fat Tuesday, my friends, just happens to be today. (more…)
For Valentine’s Day I thought it only appropriate to interview the most wanted man, uh…boy in the world. I’m talking about the one, the only….CUPID.
CUPID – Pleasure to be here. Despite this being my busy time of year, I can always find time for you H.E., you helped my blog become what it is today and for that my heart is ever at your service…..You know, if you wanted I could set you up with somebody? I still feel bad about your last relationship. In my defense though, you were the one who fucked that up. Cupid’s arrow is rarely wrong and sometimes you got to give a little to get a little if you know what I mean….
***** So tell the readers, what is the hardest part being the God of Desire?
CUPID – The hardest part? My cock. (more…)
Here’s the concept (shamelessly stolen from Rants’ Blog): A weekly picture is posted, and the writer is challenged to produce one-hundred (more or less) words of some sort of fiction with a complete plot (beginning, middle and end). I’m calling out my girl Megan to give this one a try. Now, on with the frivolities!
THE THIRD WISH
Bob Geldof caught a glimpse of his reflection in the glass and realized he was Gary Oldman. Or was he Ewan Mcgregor? No matter. His first two wishes; a London flat and cash to go with it were executed perfectly. He didn’t mind the Leprechaun taking license with the third. There were many handsome Brits to choose from as a model for his new body. He had been lonely long enough.
Girlish giggles preceded the knock on the door and he rushed to answer shouting, “Just a minute.” The sound of Annie Lennox’s voice leaving his throat stopped him cold.