mistaking caffeine for crack cocaine and vice versa – wrong.

According to my calculations, caffeinated beverages and FDA approved foods do not currently contain any kind of the freebase cocaine product more commonly known as crack. Likewise, I have never seen an episode of COPS where the aging prostitute with shmeared blue eyeliner stains on her cheeks and one shoe was caught smoking cappuccino gas out of the suspicious looking (and smelling) pipe she’d been hiding in her vagina. While these two factoids may seem isolated, I’m here to tell you that they’ve helped me approach an important epiphany of which I’m about to share with you. Caffeine is not the same thing as crack. Crack is not the same thing as a caffeine.

Unless you are between the ages of Fetus and 2 months old, there is absolutely no excuse for you to spaz out like a crazed maniac with rabies after a cup of coffee. I don’t mean to deny that 17 cups of double espressos at 3am might impede a good night’s rest. I do mean to imply that any grown person who has a cup of coffee after lunch and immediately proceeds to act like somebody just shot a potent eight-ball up his/her asshole needs to actually have someone shoot a potent eight-ball up his/her asshole. I mean are you serious people? What kind of home did you grow up in? Was macaroni and cheese drugs too? Were you not allowed to wear your D.A.R.E. t-shirt because it was too risque? Did you take your first drink at age 42? Was it a wine spritzer? Was it Zima? One cup of coffee shouldn’t make you all jittery and unable to concentrate on anything. You shouldn’t have to sprawl out on a cold bathroom floor for thirty minutes to puke and/or sweat it out.

Every time I’m around one of these morons I feel like I am suddenly the lone grown up at the Babysitter’s Club sleepover of my nightmares. I imagine all these adult coffee-tards in flannel PJ sets that are covered in teddy bears (no offense to teddy bears), talking about zits and hickeys and giggling guiltily as they stuff their faces with the chocolate-peanut butter spread they found under someone’s mom’s bed. And then I picture me, sitting in the corner, holding a bottle of Grey Goose and staring at everyone in disgust and confused disbelief. “You can’t have vodka because COFFEE makes you JITTERY?” I yell to them, over and over again. “Kristy? Mary Anne? You won’t even TRY it? You had a Cappuccino and it raised your heartbeat to 239 bpm? What if I mix it with Gerber Baby Apricots or breast milk? What if I let you drink it right out of some lady’s tit?”

And then I’d probably end up knocking the bottle back alone and punching myself in the face repeatedly. This is what I get for attending a sleepover that doesn’t involve penetration, early morning horror, and a clandestine escape.

Just grow up people. Have a cup of coffee and then just sit still! Or shoot some crack in your eyelid, bug out, and try to swallow your own face! Stop getting these reactions twisted already. And remember this mantra next time you see me and your caffeinated beverage in the same room: “COFFEE ISN’T CRACK AND IF I ACT LIKE IT IS, I’LL SOON BE SHOT BY AN ANGRY JEW.”

poorly thought out chivalry – wrong.

Everyday I ride an elevator up to the 20th floor. This elevator stops on floors 12-21, so logically, I am often standing in the back on my way down to the lobby.  An amazingly bright, worthwhile cast of characters often joins me in this claustrophobic box that takes me to and from the largest gaping hellhole where which I wallow in suicidal thoughts on the daily. Pseudo-buff (see: FAT) Guido lawyers with porcupine spiked plastic legos for hair in silk purple ties, short stubby dudes in tattered khakis who will likely spend the day plugging and unplugging computer cables while pretending to “network” something. And the people who work on my floor: personality devoid zombies who feel entitled to pass themselves off as human because they can walk on two feet instead of four. It’s a real treat.

Here’s the thing. Let me reiterate. I’m at the back of the elevator.  So let me say this. If you have to slam me into the elevator wall and/or hold me up for 14 minutes while you do some sort of idiot shuffle where your backpack ends up inside someone else’s asshole in order to let me out of the elevator first, then IT IS NOT CHIVALRY. Give it up.

First of all Guido lawyers, it is obvious to me, BROS, that while you may put on some crazy chivalry show by tripping over your shiny clown shoes while you unsuccessfully try to let me out of the revolving door first, I am well aware that you are the same dudes who roofied and raped several girls while you shat your way through the University of Indiana Fratville. And after one beer and a slightly oversized piece of chicken marsala, you would rape me too.  This is actually not chivalrous behavior at all. So your day glow orange face is idiotspeak for “heinously transparent contradiction with McDonald’s hamburger meat for a brain.”

I mean are you serious with this chivalry bullshit? Next time you find yourself sharing a street with me where there is an imminent possibility that some irritated Frenchman might dump urine out his 8th floor window then by all means, walk on the inside and make yourself the target. But last time I checked, we aren’t in a commercial for “White Diamonds” by Elizabeth Taylor or “Diamonds are forever or until I eff your best friend with the fake tatties” commercial by DeBeers. Last time I checked, I was fully able to gather the strength in my pale and measly arm to open a cab door by myself. Last time I checked, I wasn’t interested in getting a close-up sniff of your Axe-drenched stankass armpit as you hold the door and awkwardly make me crawl underneath it and eat your deodorant crumbs. Last time I checked, I was smarter/faster than you and not interested in interacting with you at all.  So I’d really appreciate it if you would let me pretend you don’t exist as is my preferred way of dealing with annoying tools such as yourselves.

*Note: You should still always warn a girl 5-7 seconds before you impregnate her tonsils.

a cappella – wrong.

What do you get when you mix seven to ten skinnyfat white girls, a few microphones, awkwardly not-synchronized snapping and some bland, forgettable song by The Fray?  You get an audio-visual nightmare called an a cappella group, and I get major douchechills.  I was unfortunate enough to catch an a cappella “performance”  on my local cable channel just a few short hours ago, during which I was reminded that my eyes and ears could simultaneously bleed. The Danny Tanner father-daughter talks on Full House were less corny than this bullshit.  A cappella is glorified Bar Mitzvah karaoke. And to be honest, I’d rather be at the Bar Mitzvah because at least I’d have a drink to lessen the sensory blow.

When a bunch of color coordinated black ladies get together to sing with or without instruments, it’s called a gospel choir and it makes me want to stand up and praise the Lord – and I don’t even have a Lord. I want to cry tears of joy and hallelujahs as I wait for the heavens to fall from the sky. This is because black ladies are innately cool and can clap to the beat like motherfuckers. Also, they can, you know, like SING. [See example below from my favorite movie of all time about my favorite black ladies of all time - The Pointer Sisters: Up All Night. RIP June Pointer, crack is truly whack.]

When a bunch of middle-class ex-drama geeks get together to sing without the aid of a piano or anything remotely musical, it just becomes totally embarrassing for everyone watching.  I mean even before we get to the so-called singing, I need to know why they are always wearing white button down shirts and bowties, or like crushed velvet jumpers. It doesn’t have to be a Disney family channel Christmas concert circa 1992. Why do they all have skin, hair, and eyes that are the same color – an unsettlingly unattractive condition that an ex-coworker of mine so aptly called “military slut face”? Why does every number have to start out with them attempting some awfully mutated beatbox/scat/incomprehensibly slurred post-stroke patient combo? Bloop-dee-doop-da-doo-da-doo-beep.  Hey ladies, they already make things that produce sounds and beats and melodies for you – they’re called INSTRUMENTS. GET SOME.

For a group of supposedly musical people, the movement skills are seriously lacking- and it’s seriously embarrassing.  It’s like watching a group of 5 year olds with ADHD and borderline autism try to follow an 8 count.  I mean, I’m a terrible dancer and Laurie Ann Gibson would BOOMKACK me out of the room faster than you can say BOOM KACK BOOM BOOM KACK, but even I can snap on a beat.  And why are you snapping anyway?  And making that stupid “I’m too cool” bad dancer white girl face?  I HATE that face. Get a new fucking move. Or better yet, just don’t.

Also, newsflash – not being tone deaf is not the only requirement for being a person who can officially sing, okay? I can carry a tune.  I sound like a chipmunk, but I can do it, and trust me, I am not a person who can sing officially or otherwise. It’s like all these bitches do is hum. There’s a reason that the term “hum” can also refer to sounds produced by washing machines, vacuum cleaners, airplanes, trains, and other inanimate objects. Would you want to watch a concert starring the appliances in your basement? Does your garage door really deserve a record deal? Nope. Neither do you and your repertoire of ironic songs. Why do these biatches always need to throw in a song by the Backstreet Boys or like Diddy to be cute? Like “Look how ironic we are, pop music is so beneath us but we’ll totally transform Backsteet’s Back Alright!” Yeah sure, into an exponentially bigger disaster than it already is. Just shut up and hum your Indigo Girls and off-off-broadway jazz shit and Regina Spektor, and cover your mouths while you do it.

[before you go, pay your respects to the greatest group of all time:]

breaking up dessert that is not meant to be broken up – wrong.

Breaking up 7 donuts into 57 small pieces, and eating them all over the course of an hour, is the same thing as eating 7 whole donuts at once. I know this may sound like some hard mathematical, Excel-calculation-required formula, but it’s totally true. Not only are you shoveling the exact same amount of lard into your mouth as the person who just outright motorboats the 7 donuts all at once, you’re also self-identifying as delusional and pathetic. “Oh I’ll just have a little piece.” Uh… no you won’t. Here’s what’s going to happen. You’re going to be like “Heeeeeey, I got everyone donuts!!”. Then you’ll break off a little piece of your Entenmann’s donut and put the box back on the table and leave the room. Then I’m going to go to the bathroom, and you’re going to race back to the table and nervously, excitedly try to break off another piece that is somehow big enough to satisfy your fat ass but also small enough to deceive me into thinking you didn’t alter the donut at all (this is complicated, especially under tight time constraints, and you’ll be sweating and praying I’m having some sort of extended miscarriage in the bathroom). Then you’ll race back to your chair like nothing happened, wait 4.3 minutes, walk back over to the donuts and casually break off another piece, like oh, they just happen to be sitting there, WHAT a surprise. Repeat process 400x. This bullshit is just so annoying to watch. You’re not tricking anyone okay? Not me, not God, not your pants.

The worst part is when I go to get my own donut, and what do you know, all that’s left is an 1/8 inch of chocolate floating in a pool of your saliva. What a shitshow.

sing-a-longs – wrong.

I hate musicals.  Musicals are a disgrace. A DISGRACE. When 47 adults spontaneously break into a perfectly coordinated, nineteen minute song and dance number, I fully expect at least ONE of them to come to his senses midway through, scream out in a panic, “What the FUCK are we doing/singing/wearing/ON”, pull a North Korean-built machine gun from the crotch of his spandex tights, lose his shit completely and go Columbine on the whole place.  I mean are we serious? Talk about unrealistic.  When I was 13, three of my friends and I made up a 2.5 minute dance to the La Bouche classic “Be My Lover”. We performed this amazing routine at every single Bar Mitzvah we went to during the 1994-1995 school year, and being raging Jews, that number was somewhere between 87 and 1,093. And guess what?- WE MESSED IT UP EVERY TIME. If four New Jersey Jews with sparkley dresses and brand new boobs can’t get their La Bouche together after a whole year, then I don’t think a group of pasty, midwestern-born, sexually confused, muppet-brained jizzclouds pretending to be homeless skanks or homeless orphans or homeless Disney characters could do it either. But no one ever stops the mess, and the horror show rolls on, flames and sparkles and American Idol rejects and all. When intermission finally rolls around, I generally find myself to be the only one in a full sprint out of there like a you-know-what running from the you-know-who. Am I the only one who took the training wheels off my brain when my boobs came in?

However, there is one thing worse than a musical, and that is a sing-a-long.  Nothing makes me angrier than a bunch of tone deaf adults clapping and swaying and singing along to the Star Spangled Banner or Bon Jovi or Happy Birthday To You. NEWSFLASH – Most people suck a singing, and the last thing I ever want to hear when I’m trying not to kill YOU for sucking so bad is for you to tell me to “Join in!” Uh…nooo…NO…NO-FING-NOOO.  I don’t care if I’m at a birthday party for blind babies or a karaoke night or a harp concert in Seattle (true story, happened to my friend last week). I’m not opening my mouth unless it’s to ream you out for the damage you’re causing my sensitive eardrums. When I see people participating in a sing-a-long and enjoying it – smiling, laughing, not killing themselves in shame- I am really disturbed. I’d rather watch two cousins become one on an Appalachian hilltop in West Virginia than have anything to do with an F-ing sing-a-long. I have no desire to act like I’m mentally challenged or 3. 

To further illustrate my point, I’d like to horrify you with video footage from my new favorite show, Little Miss Perfect on the oozing vagina Lifetime wannabe network, also known to many as WEtv. This show is a real piece of work, and all I can really say is that it involves beauty pageants, moms with cankles and the one and only Miss Michael Galanes.  Miss Galanes is a “pageant director, mentor, advisor and friend” somewhere in the swampland of central Florida.  If he weren’t totally covered in sparkles, eyeliner and Joan Rivers’ face circa 1997, I’d be worried about where he sticks his dick when the show ends and all the little girls go back to their hotel room. Anyway, this guy is totally ridiculous and at the end of every pageant he sings some variation of a song involving citrus colored rainbows and magic carpet rides. Despite the fact that he’s obviously writing his lyrics while he’s dropping his morning semen-soaked chocolate miscarriage, these pageant bitches always know the words and sing along like stupid dancing oompa loopa tools.  Take a look.

If this isn’t enough to make you want to stone anyone involved in a sing-a-long, then you have real problems.

“St. Patty’s Day” – wrong.

I’m trying to retire the term “douchebag” because I think its improper use has gotten totally out of control, but there are certain situations where I need to pull it out from deep inside the vag, charge it overnight and let it loose over civilization like a U.S military plane dropping expired TV dinners over Africa. St. Patrick’s Day is one of those times.

There are a lot of holidays that make good use of the scumbag-magnet, wherein the most heinous people are drudged up from relative obscurity and catapulted in front of my face.  Halloween, for example, crowds the streets with sticky, disgusting children who all deserve to be crushed by my giant metal spikey-heeled combat boot (what…maybe I was just dressed up as a goth/lesbian/Daria hybrid and it was an innocent costume accident…). Then there’s “Ash Wednesday”, aka the day that features a bunch of guilt-ridden Catholic retards, who haven’t been to church since the day they made their human being debut at their own Christening, visually assaulting me with some kind of smeared black sewage rot in the shape of a nondescript blob on their fatass foreheads.  But St. Patrick’s Day, aka the International Convention of Douchebags Aging Backwards (ICDAB) is by far the worst piece of shit holiday on the planet, and here’s why.

1. Any holiday that comes with a color theme sends my eyes into a rapid 24-hour rolling tailspin.  What motherFing practicing adult wakes up, thinks “Oh my god, I ‘m going to put on my bright green t-shirt from 6th grade and my light up four-leaf clover pin” and doesn’t immediately melt into a puddle of self-disgust? Unfortunately, the answer is a good majority of the 18+ population and I can’t stand them.  

2. About .00000666667% of the celebrating population is Irish.  And by Irish, I do not mean that your great-grandmother came to America from Ireland in 1894 or that your fatass motorboats a plate of french fries every night.  If you haven’t spent at least half of your life in Ireland and/or speak fluent Gaelick to the point where you could have an hour-long conversation with a leprechaun, have his baby and then sue him for date rape, then you are not Irish enough to be celebrating this “holiday” and screaming like a startled retard in the middle of the street. I have a friend who claims to be 1/16 Squaw Indian (or some bullshit), but you don’t see her racing to the nearest open field, plopping down a casino and dying from Cirrhosis of the liver due to excessive alcoholism. Sorry Asians, your green converse sneakers aren’t fooling me, I know what you are. Hello gigantic-nosed, Long Island-accented upper east side…Shabbot Fing Shalom, now get back to the Bloomingdales makeup counter where you belong and calm the F down. 

3. People who need to participate in public group douchebaggery need to turn 12 yesterday. Remember how when you were in college, it was cool to party like you were in college? Well now you’re 37, pulling gray hairs out of your idiot head by the pound, and there’s a reason the frat house doesn’t want you coming over anymore. Adults who party like they’re 19 have a LOT of problems and they need to stay far away from me. This many stunted adults out and drunk together can only lead to a lot of beer-soaked date rape and I can only pray that the condom industry has produced enough product to prevent the terrifying number of potential morons who would otherwise be conceived.

4. I don’t know if anyone told you this, douchebags, but ALCOHOL. IS. LEGAL. PROHIBITION. IS. OVER. Do you really need to celebrate someone else’s made up holiday just to get trashed? Breaking news, so you might want to sit your cottage cheese ass down for a second, but you can buy alcohol and/or go to a bar and be served spirits at any time, on any day you choose! Get some class, buy a bottle of vodka and pass out in your own living room like a fully-developed adult.

selling m&m’s on the subway – wrong.

AHEM.

“Hieverybody, muh name is Je’CarryousJackson, and this is muhbrotherJamal.  We sellin m&m’s for $1.00. We ain’t sellin candy for no basketball team or no school trip, we sellin it to keep ourselfs off the street and not sell drugs. We bof got peanut M&Ms for $1.00.  Thankyouandhaveaniceday.”

AHEM.

Hi Je’carryous! Hi Jamal! How’s everything? I’m not going to be purchasing peanut M&Ms from you today, or ever, and here’s why.

1.  Boys, your logic is totally backwards! Although I would under no circumstances purchase anything from anyone with such poor grammar, I’m certainly going to be even more averse to your plea when you’re flat out telling me that you’re ripping me off!  I’m sure there are some guilty rich white people who might consider funding your alleged “basketball team” [cheesy no-karat gold bling] or “boy scout trip” [gang raping a drunk bitch behind the dumpster] or “groceries” [Newport 100s], but nobody is going to buy the second worst candy in the world from you for no reason! In fact, I can’t think of anything I care about LESS than keeping you off the street, except maybe helping LeAnn Rimes make a comeback.  I’d expect someone who went to 6th grade THREE times to have better business logic than this!

2. You’ve got to do a better job explaining the ways in which selling M&Ms on the subway is at all related to you staying off the streets. We all know you’re not going to college, and public school just happens to be 100% free of charge! Perhaps you might want to take advantage of that non-limited time offer and spend your time in a classroom instead of F-ing around on the train.  I think everyone knows what you’re going to do with the $17.00 you’ll make this afternoon, and unfortunately, the answer is not “buy condoms”.

3. Je’carryous.  Jamal.  Guys.  We’ve all spent many a morning in the corner bodega, waiting 30 minutes for a shitty egg white sandwich.  We’re all familiar with the look and feel of a wholesale, bought-in-bulk product versus the kind available for purchase to an average consumer like yourself.  I’ve been to many a Shoprite superstore and even those with the most heavenly of snack aisles do not sell gigantic cardboard boxes filled with bags of peanut M&Ms with wrappers that read “Not for individual resale.” You’ve get to get real – everybody on the train knows that you’ve jacked your product from the backroom of a deli.  How can you ask us to support your “staying off the streets” cause when you haven’t made any effort to prove to us that you’re trying to change? There’s a reason that you’re the ones on the train selling M&Ms, and everyone else isn’t… and the reason is that you are really, REALLY dumb.

stolen product

not a stolen product.

4.  I happened to notice that you both have on some very nice Nike sneakers.  Luckily, my good friend Cloff Hran has a horrifying obsession with sneakers, and therefore I am well aware that the combined net value of your footwear is somewhere in the neighborhood of $500.00 USD. Now, I’m not saying you stole them [which is actually exactly what I'm saying], but I have to tell you that if you can afford such luxurious kicks,  then I’m going to have a very tough time believing your schtick.  Your credibility is rapidly disappearing, my friends.  Think about it like this.   If I came up to you, and in my left hand was a box of expired wholesale M&Ms that I was trying to pawn off on you for $20.00, and I was holding in the other hand a check, made out to me, for $10,000- would you pity me and give me the 20 bucks?  Or would you say, “F dat bitch, she rich!” You’re incredibly slow-minded, so I don’t expect you to have followed the analogy, but what I’m saying to you is that you can’t have expensive things and then cry poverty.  It’s not consistent.

5. M&Ms cost $.85 cents everywhere else.  Even morbidly obese fools don’t pay retail for candy during a recession.

padma lakshmi -wrong.

Remember those black and white filmstrips you had to watch in history class – they were usually from circa 1973, about colonial Williamsburg, and involved powdered wigs, wooden teeth and a narrator with a drone voice that MADE YOU WANT TO STICK A FORK IN YOUR EYE….THRICE? Well I remember them, and when I watched Top Chef for the first time and heard Padma Lakshmi speak, I had that same urge- only this time I wanted to stick the fork in her eye.

Padma Lakshmi defies urban dictionary.  She’s like if you crossed a tool with a douchebag, replaced the human brain with an android brain and smeared a little Tory Burch juice on the final product.  She is CRUSTY. First of all, watch this interview clip, and if you can make it through even 30 seconds without having violent fantasies about scraping her face off with a sharp, rusting metal tool, then you’re a real trooper:

I think she’s supposed to be talking about food (and this bitch is NOT a chef and I’ll get to that in a minute) -but after 1.7 seconds my eyes glazed over and I almost drowned in a puddle of my own drool.  Luckily I woke up right as she spit out this gem:

“1492 – very big year for Spain.” – Padma Lakshmi

Wow, really Padma? That’s amazing.  I think that religious studies professors and Sunday school teachers might consider re-writing some of their classroom material to read, “Zero, B.C.  Very big year for Jesus.” If things go as planned, 2009 is going to be a very big year for me kicking Padma in the gigantic nutsack that I know she’s hiding between her ass cheeks.

Second of all, Padma is like a mediocre model/actress and professional gold digger at best.  Her crusty ass should not be a Top Chef judge for the same reason I should not be the head sportscaster for Monday Night Football – I don’t know shit and neither does she.  Being a kickass binge-purger doesn’t qualify you to judge how food is supposed to taste going IN your mouth okay? I mean if I were Tom Colicchio, I would sneak into the Top Chef kitchen, steal the hardest, most rotted hunk of gorganzola cheese in the freezer and chuck it at her stank face until she cries uncle and runs back to the nursing home to be with her boyfriend. But then again, I get the feeling that no piece of rotted dairy could rival the stench of her natural BO.

Also this bitch says the stupidest shit.  I mean I could go on for decades, or at least until we explode into flaming bits come December 2012, but I just want to run her over with a commercial strength tractor ALL THE TIME.  i.e.:

1. “As she has stated, ‘I was the first Indian model to have a career in Paris, Milan and New York. I’m the first one to admit that I was a novelty.^‘ Despite Lakshmi’s comment about her being a pioneer as a model of Indian descent, her career follows in the footsteps of Persis Khambatta, a former Miss India, who modeled for Revlon.“

2. “When she was 14 years old, she was involved in a serious automobile accident, causing an injury to her right arm, which required surgery leaving a 7 inch scar,^[1] between her elbow and shoulder. The accident happened on a Sunday afternoon on her way back with her parents from a Hindu temple in Malibu. She remembers a loud bang, looking out the windshield and realizing the family’s red Mercury Sedan was airborne. Padma describes the event in the April 2001 edition of Vogue as “Flying in a car felt like an exhilarating hallucination, an unbelievable ride that oddly remains one of the most beautiful images in my memory.” The car flew 40 feet down an embankment straight into a tree. The tree trunk fell directly on top of the car. She remained conscious, covered in glass, for the 40 minutes it took for the paramedics and firefighters to get through the traffic.”

Well you stupid slab of beef, if the most beautiful image of your life is the one where you almost kicked it, I would be happy to help you create many more beautiful moments.

LOSER.

using an actual stick as a cane post 7 B.C. – wrong.

You know how they created cotton toilet paper so people no longer have to use oak leaves, and toaster ovens so Jews don’t have to throw their bagels in a fire pit to make them crispy and warm? Well guess what a-holes, they also make canes that you can BUY in STORE so you don’t have to walk around civilization using a walking stick you found in the date-rapey woods at your neighborhood park. If I ever see a person who is younger than Jesus walking around with a goddamn tree branch as a support pole, I’m going to run up behind them with a giant pair of hedge clippers and snap it in 2.

NOT A CANE.

people reading stereotypical books about their own race/tribe in public – wrong.

Look – I love stereotypes but most people don’t.  If you want me to stop stereotyping you then HELP YOUR GOD FOR SAKEN SELF OUT and don’t remind me of the many reasons I have to roll my eyes at your stupid behavior.  That said, the first shit you need to cut out is reading stereotypical books about your own race in public places, like on the train or in a coffee shop or anywhere I can see you, throw up in my mouth and reinforce my right to judge you.  Below are some examples, and I’ll start with white people so no one gets all crazy or thinks I sport a white hood with eye-hole cutouts and have sex with my brother and/or the scarecrow on my front lawn.

1.  If you are pasty, pale to the point where I can see through your skin and measure the square footage of your kidneys, chunky, wearing black velvet/velour, a shark tooth necklace and sporting a cape emblazoned with the face of Harry Potter/Gandolf/a wolf howling at the moon, then don’t advertise the fact that you are reading this book:

Goddess of the Sea – After her plane crashes into the sea, an Air Force Sergeant finds herself occupying the body of the mythic mermaid Undine-and falling for a sexy merman.

Uh…NOPE.  People who read fantasy shit like this blow my mind.  If you’ve ever taken 8th grade statistics then you should be well aware that there is a significant negative correlation between the dipshits that read this book and the probability that they will ever a.) be in the Air Force; b.) be on a plane to anywhere; c.) find true love with anything other than their golden wizard stick.  The only thing similar about mermaids and people who read books about mermaids is that neither of them have ever or will ever make use of their genitals. Post-F-ing-Script, retards: MERMAIDS ARE NOT REAL, NEITHER ARE MERMONS, and if you have ever seen The Little Mermaid then you should know that if they WERE real, they would be about as sexy as Bea Arthur after a chemical peel.

2. If you are F-ing ghetto, and you even once get angry/frustrated/preachy about how sick and tired you are of people calling you ghetto, stupid, loud, discriminatory, rude, obnoxious, lazy, stupid, discriminatory, inappropriate, unqualified, and/or stupid, then I better not catch you reading this b-s:

Thugs and the Women Who Love Them – In a ‘hood boiling over with sex, brutality, and crime, three friends are at a turning point. They can surrender to the streets — and the murderous men who rule there — or walk a totally different path. But nothing is simple for women addicted to life on the edge. And everything has consequences…

When I look at this cover art, I think a lot of things, none of which are: “Hey, I should hire you to work for me”, “You look really intelligent”, “I bet you are capable of reading this book”, or “You’ve been to prison 17 times?  That’s so surprising, I NEVER would have guessed!!” I also know that your “chain” was most likely fashioned out of Pathmark-brand aluminum foil.

Girls From Da Hood 3 – Stripping in one of the hottest clubs in the country affords you a nice “hood rich” living. Well, that’s how it is for Latisha Lovely and her roommate, Lexi. With nothing but money on their minds, the two agree to take part in a more lucrative hustle than stripping. But when things start to turn bad, Latisha and Lexi must decide to either become “Snakes of Snitches.”

First of all, there are grammatical errors in this book’s BLURB.  There are about seven different tenses, the use of second person POV (ALWAYS WRONG!)…I’m pretty sure no one showed these bitches School House Rock before they dropped out of 2nd grade.  It’s obviously too late now – the conjunction junction train has left the station.   Assuming that this MENSA member author meant to write “Snakes OR Snitches”, then I need to know on exactly what planet are” snakes” and “snitches” valid antonyms.   Newsflash whores, putting a sunflower in your hair doesn’t distract me from the fact that you’re a walking genital wart.

3. Hello Azns! I’ll never understand why you like wacking off to pictures of cartoons violently date-raping each other and drawing yourselves to look exactly like Keanu Reeves circa 1992! Do whatever you want, but when I see your ass reading this (or watching it on a portable DVD player with your hand on your crotch), I start to understand why every single idiot who sticks his dick in a park bench and has to be rescued by the fire department also happens to be Asian.

Naruto, Volume 33 (seriously?!?!?) – Morphing out of control, a stronger-than-ever  Naruto turns on his own teammates! Orochimaru triggers a frightening change in Naruto as he reveals a sinister plot that’s been the death of far more people than anyone knew.
NOPE! That’s all.

4.  “Religious” people.  Listen I’m glad you found God or Allah or C3P0, and it’s lovely that there are grown people who have large enough egos to truly believe that if they read the Bible, God and JesustheirLordandSavior will personally protect them.

The Bible – In the beginning God created the heavens and the earth.

Nothing against people who believe that (vomitinmymouthtwice), but like if you are older than 7, it’s just like….HAVEN’T YOU READ THIS ALREADY? I mean I’m sorry, whatever, I’m sure it’s a really amazing read but when your pocket bible is dirtier than the girls on the cover of Girls from Da Hood 3, it’s time to move on.

 

 

5. And just to be fair – you will never catch me reading this in public:

Latkes and Applesauce – A Hannukkah Story.

L’chaim bitches.