When dear American citizens confide in me– either in person or through my Facebook feed– that anybody would be a better President than “Barack Obama”, I let them in on a secret of mine: I’m voting for Casey Anthony in November too.

If voting is such a big deal– if you hold it as something you truly think everybody should be doing– should you really be saying things like “anybody, and ANYBODY would be a better President than Barack Obama”? If you truly believe this then why don’t you throw your vote to me? Write my name in.

If I’m elected as President of the United States I’ll make sure everybody’s dick is getting sucked. Hell, I’ll suck anyone and everyone’s dick that votes for me. I don’t even like sucking dick but if you put me in charge of the free world I want to prove to everybody that I can keep a promise– and dutifully so. That’s important these days.

My therapist calls this “gay-daydreaming”.


I am empathetic– almost severely. For instance, I saw a guy eating alone at Jack in the Box today. I sat across from him and told him I’d kill myself for the both of us tonight.


One day on the news there was this story about a guy who lives in a blue world. And all day and all night– er, sorry. That song’s been stuck in my head all day. And all night. And everything he sees is just blue, like him.

So they’re reporting this story on the news about this little boy who was crushed to death when a TV fell on him. A real human-being was bested by an object that does not, by nature, move. Even after it fell on the four year old it spent the next 100% of the next hour not moving. Spongebob did not make anybody laugh that day.

This got me thinking: what if during that news story was being broadcast another TV set to that channel fell on another small person?

I really want to see it and I know that is wrong.


I never delete pictures of me and my exes on facebook because I want my future ex-girlfriends to think that I’m on good terms with my past ex-girlfriends even though that couldn’t be further from the truth.


So high school graduation just happened in my small-town.

I’m excited for the kids, don’t get me wrong. I’m just less excited, you know, because I’m no longer banging a high schooler.


“I was born ready”

No, you were born in a flurry of amniotic fluids, feces, screaming, and tearing flesh with an umbilical cord wrapped around your neck. You were choking.

You almost drowned in a vagina two minutes into the whole race, Aiden.


Most people remember the first time they get behind the wheel. I don’t because I was drunk and hit somebody, but that’s what being 23 is all about, right?


My girlfriend and I have been talking about having kids. She said it’d be okay to name our kids “One”, “Two”, and “Four”. And our kids won’t be allowed to ask questions.

What I like about this note is that I get to imagine my kids going to school and– in the process of learning how to count– finding out their brother died.


I have a legitimate fear of stupid people. Is that legitimate?

I fear that my legitimate fear of stupid people is not legitimate, which is stupid.


We have to watch our political correctness at work. We’re not allowed to use offensive language like  the words “retard” and “cunt” because some people have retarded cunts that take the short bus to school.


Don’t you hate it when your parents just call your gaming systems “Nintendo” no matter what? Mom, it’s a Super Nintendo.

“Stop squirting me with your water gun,” your mother says.

Mom– It’s a Super Soaker.

“Son,” your mother replies, “You’re super retarded.”

“No mom, it’s advanced autism.”


The girlfriend was screaming at me the other day because she couldn’t remember the “last time we had good sex”. So this is a shout out to sleeping pills.


They found 306 bones in the desert the other day.

Frankly, I’m not impressed; that’s only one and a half people. Maybe if it were 306 of the same type of bone or 306 bones from the same person I’d be more dazzled.


Please don’t introduce me to a girl and say she laughs at everything. I hate that. I’d rather meet a girl that cries at everything. During everything. Just a balling wretch of a person. At least I’d have something to work on.


Sometimes I wonder if I’m really good at something I’ve never tried doing, like carving toddler-sized coffins out of ivory. What a depressing job to be good at, though. Still, it’s better than being the guy who’s really good at picking up donkey shit with his mouth.


The story of Peter Pan is really the story of Captain Hook. Captain Hook is an abortion doctor punished in the afterlife to spend the rest of eternity battling the children he never let grow up.


Doctors are ingrates. Making you call them “doctor”  for the duration of their lives as when they’ve died. What’s the point of putting “Doctor” on their graves if they’re no longer qualified to help the living?


I don’t know about you guys but when I hear sirens I hope they’re headed my way. A tinge of disappointment sets in when I find out it’s not my building that’s on fire. And why can’t more people have heart attacks around me?


My inner-womb detests “balloon artists” that tell me they can make anything I can think of out of balloons. I always say “show me Inception“. What are you going to do now, balloon man? Are you going to make a balloon in a balloon inside another balloon or are you going to plant the idea of which balloon I want in a balloon and then make a balloon of that and then make a balloon of the balloon I didn’t want but you wanted me to want or are you not getting a tip.


When I’m in a bad mood and people try to get me out of it by wishing for me to have a good day I make a visible effort to run my day into the ground. I accept your challenge to have a terrible day in spite of your misplaced tidings of kindness. I do not wish to sleep this evening for tonight I shall be buried.


My girlfriend was angry with me for waking up at 1 pm.

Her: I’ve been dealing with this for eight months.

Me: Nine months. And I would have woken up at ten if you had told me Amy Winehouse died.

Her: We deserve McDonald’s.

She didn’t actually say that. But it makes the story happier.


What’s the Worst That Could Happen?

-What you want to happen won’t happen and you’ll get hurt.

-Nobody will appreciate your effort.

-Due to a minor unforseen oversite that could have been stygmied by a minute’s worth of self-review, you and everybody you love or have loved –assuming you don’t hate them now–dies in front of your eyes as you die in front of theirs– and they know you are to blame. And you know you are to blame. Everybody you have ever disliked immediately learns from your folly and becomes rich and successful by excelling at everything you ever accomplished and, more importantly, everything you couldn’t. They live until they grow bored.



Start a business kidnapping lesbians and putting them in the back of my truck. We’ll call it Edward’s Scissor Vans.

No monetization plans.