That fucking cracks me up.
That fucking cracks me up.
Finally, a KitchenAid mixer in my color.
I know there’s some yummy bread around here somewhere. I can totally smell it.
What’s your particular addiction at Starbucks? Do you wish you could just point and grunt because your drink order sounds so fricken gay spoken outloud?
“triple grande sugar-free cinnamon hazelnut half-fat two-splenda cappucinio”
I know it is ridiculous to pay nearly five bucks for a cuppa mediocore joe at a pretentious fast-food joint where “tall” means “small”. My heart truly is heavy for the spoken word artists who are being forced out into the elements because The Corporation has no soul. But really… who needs beatnik ambiance in the A.M.? A fat Daddy rolls up for the mofuken CAFFEINE. I am *addicted*, gotdammit, and chemical jonesin’ craves consistency.
Anyways, if you have no idea who you are, you can enter your usual Starbucks drink order into this widget and the Starbucks Oracle will decipher your complex personality for you. Behold, the Oracle said that I am high maintenance and my friends find me intolerable. That brightened my day. 
This is an oldie, but I will share it again. Gather round, inverts. Daddy gawn tell a story.
Back in the primordial olden days… when the internet was only gray or blue, and blinking text was hiiiigh tech like an Etch-a-Sketch… long before I had ever glimpsed the sassy shashay of Miss Sweet Bumps and long before I tattooed her name all crooked on my arm… I decided on the spur of the moment to go on a date with a local Sweet Sugar Smack I encountered online. What the hell, right? Yes. *Hell*. Hellish!
Was the blind date my type? Weeeelllll…. Like my friend Austin once said: "Does the Pope shit in the woods?!??" Still, there was no doubt I was going to be polite. Only I dint yet know I would be Driving Miss Crazy. I shoulda just hit a fricken drivethru and ended this rendezvous with a taco and a packet of hot sauce. But no.
Yeah. Turns out this girl was some fruity pebbles figment of some infernal imaginary everlasting fireball! Shhhhhoooooooooot! This one was wired in such a corn flaky fashion, she accidentally proved there was no god. Cracked wheat, and not even stacked sweet. You know what I am sayin.
Mmmmhmmm. HoneyBunchesofOats was a bit of an enthusiast. She tried to go all koo-koo on my cocoa puffs and molester my stone, but I proceeded to circumlocute to the right when she was circumnavigating to the left. I was all: “NO! You cannot possess me. You cannot lick my chakra. You cannot turn my cap around forward!” When I finally got the succubus out of my home a few hours later, I hid in the hallway as flat and taut against the wall as a fat Boootch can. Meanwhile every soundtrack from every scary movie ever made was playing in the background, and she was outside banging on my bathroom window, hollerin and carryin on about how she loved me! Hey, when you do me like that, my politeness slowly begins to wane, ebb and fade. In fact, when you screech like a cockeyed rice crispy freak and try to bust out my dayum windows… well, my southern hospitality pops right the hell off!
Yeh. I had to call the cops and the long arm of Johnny Law got her in a headlock. My neighbors were all standing outside in their robes with their children and their dogs and their picnic baskets and their cameras. Their accusing hetero-normative glances said, "This is what happens when the boodaggers start moving in." Pretty craptacular evening all around.
Anyways, the point of the story is… when it comes to trix, be wary of granola lesbians. Hell, I can’t recommend dating any kind of cereal! Period. Especially that off brand shredded wheat. Pay the extra fiddy cents, Good Time Charlie. You know that cheap store brand shit don’t taste right!
So… just remember ya'll — ix-nay on the chex mix-nay.
Cheerio! ~
Daddy Rhon
Disclaimer: I have nothing against granola. I like it with milk or plain.
This made me think of a total midlife crisis… penis pump and sports car combined.
Need to kick some folks in the face?
Then you will need the right motherfucking pants.
Crop circles are Chuck Norris’ way of telling the world that sometimes corn needs to lie the fuck down.
When Chuck Norris was denied an Egg McMuffin at McDonalds because it was 10:35, he roundhouse kicked the store so hard it became a KFC.
Look around carefully. If you can see Chuck Norris, he can see you. If you can’t see Chuck Norris, you may be only seconds away from death.