Thursday, July 18, 2002

Anybody Remember To Cut Him Or Herself A Piece Of "I'm A Filthy Whore" Cake? Day!
Carvel might not have these on display. But trust me, they sell 'em.

Now come on, for God's sake. You work hard all day just pawning away all those pieces of yourself into which you might have invested a little pride. You run the hustle and you skim the till. You lie and you scam and in the end you'd partake in a haggle over the asking price for your baby's asthma pump. When you walk past a church nuns shout "There he/she is!" and then they run out to the sidewalk to kick you in the genitals. I don't care if you're selling the land out from under an assisted living facility to make way for a parking lot or you're in the truck stop ladies room from 10 PM till 2 AM performing oral sex for crystal meth. You're a filthy whore and you're way fucking good at it. It's time you got some goddamn cake.

Sorry, but I'm sick of this shit. My Dad was given a cake last September just because he turned 68. And here you are sanding away at every characteristic of your person that might designate you a member of the human race as opposed to, well, a cunt, and do you get a cake? Sure, the Guide Dogs For The Blind Association was good enough to put your face on a poster that reads: "God May Have Taken Our Vision, So Fuck God, But This Guy Made It So We Can't Bring Our Dogs Into Grocery Stores, So Double-Motherfuck This Guy!" but did they give you a cake? And it wouldn't have had to say "Way To Be A Filthy Whore, Douche!" They could've written, "You Made The Poster!" and the whole filthy whore thing would've been implied. Christ.

Happy Anybody Remember To Cut Him Or Herself A Piece Of "I'm A Filthy Whore" Cake? Day! Now get your hand outta my pocket shitbag.