Dear Waffle-Jiggler,

As I was sliding toward your speeding turned suddenly immobile van at a speed that promised self defecation, I couldn’t help but notice your child was an honor student. That is good news! That means they didn’t inherit the same fucktard life sense you have.

I’m sure you’re not the biological parent. Ironically enough stupidity such as you displayed has evolved through the centuries. From neanderthal to neanderthal to un-coordinated son. You are the type of person that could fuck up a wet dream.

Seriously. I fucking HATE when people do not use turn signals. You? You took the cake, frosting, candles, box, cake truck, cake truck driver, cake factory, cake recipie, and cake batter. You prick! There is a special place reserved in hell for drivers such as you. Satan will use you as a foot rest while he whips your genitals with Newt Gingrich’s tie.

Let’s go over this again! The road was slick from freezing rain. Everything was going good. Then without notice you stopped,  and THEN put on your turn signal. IN THE NON-FUCKING-TURNING-FUCKING-LANE. YOU BITCH!!!!

I applied my brakes in a manner that would have the fucking Flash saying “Goddamn! That mother is fast as Hell!!!”. When I came to the conclusion a second and a half later that this car was not going to stop unless it was buried deep within your ass, much like your father’s penis, I pulled the wheel right. Into the turning lane. The irony does not escape me as I was sliding up beside and even past you in the lane that you should be in if you’d have any goddamned sense.

While my asshole is puckered tighter than the the actual results of the Florida Recount, I still found it in the depths of my Bastard Mind to extend my left hand up, the back of it facing the drivers side window. My right hand still gripped tightly on the wheel, bringing the car under control as it still slides across the frozen roadway. My face staring straight ahead, as *SNIKT* my middle finger slides into place and shows you exactly what kind of prick you really are. I’m sure you’ve been witness to many middle fingers in your days. Maybe even incited people to roll down their windows and question your family tree.

There are numerous things that top my fucking list of hate when it comes to driving. NUMEROUS! There is a mountain of fucks that I do not give. From basic douchebaggery of being impatient, to the shit that should be a “Pull them over, and taze them on the brown eye” offense. You’re idiocy was not only moronic, but dangerous. If I was to wreck the car, *I* would be fucking dead. My wife would hit me so hard I would grow my tonsils back, then she would fucking pull them out from underneath my pinky toenail.

But before she got to me…you better believe I’d be getting out of that car and jerking your bitchass through the seatbelt, and feeding you your turn signal mechanism. Ever been fucked in the ass by an instrument cluster? It would happen. I’d take it up to 88mph, and go back to where you just decided it would be a good idea to be a dickheaded radio flyer cunt bag, and I would bitch slap you. *Poof* bitch. *SLLLLLLAAAAAAP* BITCH! Gone!

In closing, I would like to say, you’re the reason “Justifiable Homicide” on the law books. I hope you’re taking a shit, and your asshole falls into the toilet. Then you, being a busted ass whore, do not notice and flush. Fuck you. Fuck you very much. Expect a fucking bill for the cleaning of my underwear, my pants, my carseat cover, my carseat, and deoderizer!

Bastardly Yours,

Smalley

Dear Douche-Nut,

Yes, Douche-Nut.

When I’ve been sitting in my idle car, trying my best to patiently wait my turn so I can order food, it is not…NOT acceptable for you to act like Tweedle Dee the Wonder Dummy. Are you busy? No doubt. Does it excuse your actions? Hell no.

You ask me how I am. I replied with fine, and asked how you were. I was raised with manners. You then proceed to tell me to go ahead with my order. Which just happens to be, not pick and choose from a numbered menu and needs concessions made due to special dietary wants or needs. So I go ahead.

Silence.

More Silence.

I assume you’re punching everything in. I didn’t speed through it, but I am ready to repeat due to the large order.

More Silence.

You then tell me to repeat my order. I ask which part. You said the whole thing. I shrug it off and do ask you ask.

Silence.

MORE SILENCE.

STARTING TO GET PISSED.

Cop behind me has his window down and I hear him ask what the hold up is. I ask him if he could legally arrest them for this. Sadly, he replies no.

So you…my squatty little pimply faced friend, you decide to poke the badger of hostility and utter words that would get you choked if I could figure out how to reach through the speakers:

Could you repeat the order?

COULD I REPEAT THE ORDER? You fucking register jockey. I repeated it three times. Can you repeat this? “FUCK. YOUR. MOTHER.”

Yeah…I didn’t think so.

I made up my mind to repeat it one more time, and if you screwed me over again, I would try to come through the speaker anyway.

It was a miracle. You got it down. I thought I made it home without another scar upon my fractured patience. Then, my Mother-in-Law states something that sends me off to the deepest level of pissedivity that I’ve only reserved for incompetence:

“No Honey Mustard?”

WHAT? I FUCKING TOLD THOSE FUCKING LARD NOSED, BURGER SNORTING, SNEAK KINGING, FRY KID MOLESTING, GRIMACE SHITTY DICK BURLAR!!!! I TOLD HIM RANCH AND HONEY MUSTARD! NOT FUCKING RANCH AND…BBQ? THEIR BBQ SAUCE TASTES LIKE SNAILS DICKS FERMENTED IN A PISS WINE!

Around that time I about faced and then got back in the car. Arriving at your humble fuckbode, I decided to approach this calmly. Anger and threats of violence, as funny as they may be, would not solve anything.

Apparently being calm doesn’t either. Apparently unless you’re an incompetent douchebag,  you’re not allowed to slip your fucking A.)Fat, Waddly, Ass, B.) Skinny Meth-headed, Crank Induced Paranoid Schizophrenic, or C.) Dementia Induced Fuckwiggle Who is 15 Years Past the Mandatory Retirement Age but Won’t Give In.

I get out, and go to the counter this time. I wait patiently, AGAIN…this time behind an old, annoying lady who doesn’t know how to shut the fuck up. All the while, she’s chatting to a cashier who thinks the definition of customer service is to ignore another customer and chat about how you can only operate a computer to check your email lists about fucking GETTING OLD AS SHIT, LOSING COMMON FUCKING COURTESY, COMMON SENSE, AND YOU.

HOW ABOUT YOU WORK THE FUCKING CASH REGISTER AND TELL THE BITCH TO STEP TO THE SIDE?

I desperately wait for a slip and fall, but I don’t see any wet floor signs, so the probability is still there.

I finally get up to the counter and I explain the deal. She then hands me 3 Honey Mustard cups. I look at them like their alien technology. 3? THREE? FUCKING THREE? As far as I’m concerned that is one for each one of your orifices. Supposed to get 8 per order. That was 4 ranch. 4 honey mustard. I got 4 ranch. 2 honey mustard. Last time I checked, and I asked my daughter to check my math mind you, that was only six. SIX. FUCKING SIX. So you fucked me on the wrong sauce. Then you fucked me on the amount of sauces.

So I ask for a couple of more. The manager happens to walk by and asks whats going on. It obviously isn’t customer service in her eyes, it’s how to fuck another customer and make them pay for sauces. She tries to explain that I had already received six sauces, and three is giving me one more that I already should have got. I ask her what I am going to do with her barbecue sauce? Use it to scent my trashbags since no one will eat it?

Then I offer to bring the sauces back in and trade. She manages to find it in her heart to give me TWO more sauces. OH GLORY DAY!!!!!

So I manage to get back home without any further transgressions. Thankfully. What is the point of this, you ask, my dear Burger Bitch? I just wanted to let you know what a fucking dipshit you, your co-workers, your manager, your mother, your father, your dogs, cats and fucking gold fish, your third uncle with the cancerous tumor on his left testicle twice removed, are.

So fuck you….fuck you very much!

Love,

Smalley

A old fat man in a furry red suit with white trimming is on your rooftop with a sleigh and reindeer. Reindeer that are currently dropping rather large shits, encasing your meticulously placed holiday lights in frozen feces. If his fat ass doesn’t fall through the roof as he tromps his way toward your chimney he will surely wake up the kids that were hard enough to get to sleep on this night. The urge to wait until he’s about half way down and then fire up the ol’ cozy fireplace is high. Make reindeer jerky and shove the antlers up his ass.

Merry Christmas from The Axalon, guys!

So there I was, kicking back and watching television with the family the other day, enjoying our time together. Then, out of nowhere, it was ruined beyond redemption, by what appeared on the screen that so many worship. How you ask? How can an audio/video feed ruin quality family time?

SIMPLE.

Yes that is what you think it is. Yes. That is a kids game. Yes it is called “Doggie Doo”. YES. IT IS A FUCKING GAME ABOUT A FUCKING DOG SHITTING!!!!

This was no normal moment of WHAT IN THE BLUE FUCK?. This was a triple take of WHAT IN THE BLUE FUCK, ARE YOU FUCKING SERIOUS? Followed by looking intently at my 8 year old daughter, as she watched with rapt attention. Mentally daring her to ask for it. Luckily, no such thing happened.

I had a short nightmare sequence where she did ask for it. Going to the gaming section in Walmart and looking around like a criminal as I picked up the box that does all but show the dog taking a big fat steaming shit on the front. Standing in line, getting looks from parents who have gone through the same thing. We share a knowing glance and only hope that the kid doesn’t ask us to play with them, and that their short attention span takes over.

So you can throw it away.

Then I woke up.

The fucking nerve. Can you imagine?

“Hey! Johnson! We need a good mover for the board games department!”

“Well, Sir. Dogs are big sellers!”

“Excellent…now any ideas what we can do, that pertains to a dog?”

“Well, Peters in R&D likes to smear peanutbutter on his–”

“Damn it Johnson! I’m sic of that perverted shit….SHIT…Shit? SHIT! That’s it! SHIT!”

“Sirrrrrr?”

“Johnson! Take your ass out to the pound and video tape 300 dogs taking some smelly dumps, then model the game after it! We can use playdough for the shit!!!!”

“Excellent, sir.”

Yes. They are getting parents to pay for fucking shit. Yellow playdough shit. SHIT! Here kids! Feed the dog this playdough bone, then make him shit it out! WATCH THE DOG SHIT KIDS! YEAH! LOOK AT THAT YELLOW LOG!!

Of all the fucked up games I’ve seen in my day, a game about a dog shitting is pretty fucked.  Personally, if I had a chance, I’d replace all the yellow playdough with brown. At my own personal expense.

Back in the day, we had a game called Splat.

In that game, you make playdough bugs and then you get splat throughout the game. Today? Our kids have a game where they make a dog shit and then cleans it up. We got to smash playdough bugs with a plastic hand, they feed a plastic dog a playdough bone, and make it squeeze out a steaming playdough log. We had fun. Now, our kids and kids all across the world have “fun”. Honestly if any kids fucking find making a plastic dog shit playdough, and then clean up said shit playdough, then that kid needs fucking counseling.

Major fucking counseling.

“Yes, sir. I…I have an addiction…to watching the family dog shit. My wife finds it terrible, but I can’t help it. I’m now up to 3 8 balls a day, 3 midget hookers with birth deformities, 9 5ths of Whiskey, and a partridge in a pear tree.”

“What the fuck is a Partridge in a Pear Tree?”

“I stick my dick in the mail slot and wait for the mailman to lift the slot…and it all started with a game I used to play with friends…”

I fucking wish my fucking door had a mail slot…

This time of the year is filled with things red, and green. Brightly lit, multicolored lights adorn many houses, porches, windows and trees both large and small. Millions are made on wrapping paper, bows and tape alone. Cheap trinkets are sold by the thousands. Some hang from the tree, and some are deposited under it. Each one of these gifts come with a tag saying Santa.

Santa. Santa Clause. Saint Nick. Chris Cringle.

Many names for a borderline obese, balding man in a furry suit, leather boots, and an oddly shaped hat. His cheeks are rosey from all the sly drinking on the job no doubt. His nose is red because of all the ruptured blood vessels due to massive amounts of cocaine. Think about it. All that white shit outside of his house is NOT snow. Why do you think he lives so far out? No one can get to his ass. I blatantly flaunts it too.

Let’s take a peek at Dear Old Santa, and his operation, shall we? You know all is not right.

First, he has an operation that works year round. How does he fund this? Why? Well. My theory is he puts a little special WHITE SOMETHING in the stockings of all the good addicts around the world. Hell he probably supplies the dealers proper! Frosty is made of coke! Hell…stupid bastard said “Happy Birthday” the first time they put that hat on his head! You know he’s coked out of his head if he doesn’t know what season it is!

He has numerous elves (Our resources have not been able to acertain exact numbers.) to build his toys, feed his reindeer and fulfill every fantasy he has. There isn’t an excuse in the world that can cover up why the elves look like little kids. They sit in (pun intended) for all those days throughout the year where he can’t have an actual child to sit on his lap! Hell. Make no mistake, he also gives them a vaguely phallic shaped piece of candy he created, called a candy cane. The sick bastard.

The elves are probably shackled down, and only allowed to use the restroom once every 12 hours. If they screw up a toy or waste a resource, they are fed to the cannibalistic coked up reindeer that children sing songs about all over. Rudolph. It glows brightly alright. Motherfucker is so fucking tweaked he acts as a fucking GPS for Santa.

Then we come to Mrs. Clause. Bitch HAS to be a dominatrix. She probably has her own harem of dirty slave elves with ballgags, blindfolds, and shackles that she whips constantly for the entertainment of herself and her masochistic husband. She whips them to their delight for hours and finally beds down with her husband on top of them as they are ordered to be tables, and construct toys.

Finally we come to the final piece of something that isn’t right. The reindeer and the fucking sleigh fly. FLY! Once again, I think that Santa and the reindeer are all drugged out on something. Probably the fresh, newfallen snow. Hell…look at the reindeer names. Dasher (He smashes back fucking gallons of liquor, and drunkenly rapes the elves), Dancer (Motherfucker loves Ecstasy!), Prancer (Dancer’s fetish partner), Vixen (Mrs. Clause’s personal sex slave. Probably equipped with her own riding crop, skimpy nighty, and fishnets.), Comet (Bastard is ALWAYS crashing from some sort of high.), Cupid (Loves to get plastered on Absinthe and fly around trying to “cause” love with dirty, dirty deeds.), Donner (A drug induced cannibal), Blitzen (Always blitzed on elf and rum smoothies!) and we already mentioned Rudolph the coked up reindeer.

You make your decisions. I know I wouldn’t trust anyone on his damn lap!