Bored Hellis and the Effed-up Texts
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?
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