Johnnersintheraw's Blog

May 6, 2010

A Few Words For That There Funny Guy Over in California

Filed under: Comedy,Comedy Rants,Rancid Comedy,Really Dumb,Twisted Fables,Uncategorized — johnnersintheraw @ 4:51 am

This is about your mobile phone, so shut yer trap and listen up good. 

This here piece o’writin’ don’t work good if’n you don’t read it out loud and with a real, honest-to-God, lowdown trash accent. You know, like the dumb one you was born with? Like they one you hears all the time over at Walmarts? So if you don’t do what I tells you and you don’t think this is funny, don’t blame me.  It’s not my fault if’n you’re pig ignorant and can’t be troublin’ yourself over directions. Then again, you don’t bother none when it comes to your tax form either, so why should my little ol’ piece o’shit be any different?

There’s this here real funny guy over there in California (an oxymoron if ever there was one) who’s been havin’ bad problems with his mobile phone.  Of course, I could’a tole ‘im that perhaps the instrument in question didn’t like being called a ‘cell’, and cuz ‘ee din’t pay it no mind, it’d went out on one o’thim strikes. And you know somethin’?  I don’t blame it none!  Not one bit!   After all, the word ‘cell’ is to be found in every one o’thim there left-handed commie pinko conspiracies that thim straight-talkin’, right-handed, bullet-headed, pro-life demolition derby good ol’ boy All-Amurkins’d like to hunt down and blow away.  Jess like they was chiggers.  And rightly so!  Cuz it’s the Amurkin way. And if you wanna learn somethin’, just sit quiet and listen up, cuz here’s few prize-winnin’ examples o’where you might find that there heathen word ‘cell’ hidin’ out,  just waitin’ to rape your wife and chil-drehnn :  and whether you likes it or not, you’re gonna recognise every one of  these here words that’s about to jump right on out at you just when youz ‘bout to squat on your neighbour’s yard an’ take a shit :  stem cells; terrorist cells; cell-cius, cell-ulite, homocelluals, gay marriage cell-ibrations, and, last but not least, Cellery. 

Yes, cellery!  Cuz listen up friends, what we have here is one of the evilest of all o’thim liberal pinko commie vegetables. And that’s sayin’ a lot! Now, I know and you know that real, honest-to-goodness, sweat-stained, smelly red-blooded men don’t never allow no vegetables within ten miles of their plates. And if’n a passel of vegetables duz find its way into the kitchen, the first thang a real red-blooded male man is gonna do, is he’s gonna blow the head off’n ‘is ol’ lady for smugglin’ thim there pinko commie hippy green weeds into his kitchen in the firs’ place.  Cuz you know somethin’?  You never know what they is?  The guy what sol’ ‘em to ya – you know, the guy with the beard and the funny round glasses who don’t smell too gud – might be tryin’ to convince you it’s some o’that there spinach that’s s’pose to be gud for you.  But how do you know it’s not some o’that there Mary Joanna shit in disguise?  And if you’re not careful, the next thing you know, you’ll be over at your next door neighbour‘s and fuckin’ their  Brahma bull.  And that’s not gonna look good when it gets into the papers.

Now, I been to school, and I knows a thing or two.  And I been readin’ up about them terrst plots the pinko commie liberal type likes to call ‘vegetables’.  So listen up!  Cuz whether’n not you wanna believe me, most vegetables is actually grown in the ground!  That’s right!  You heard what I said!  In the ground!  And this here ground, whether you likes it or not, is where them left-wing fairy pinko naked hippies cavort naked and unadorned every time they has one o’thim solstice orgy cell-ibrations.  You know, when they writhe around in the mud butt-naked with them things o’theirs hanging’ out all over the place.  You know what I’m talkin’ ‘bout? Them jim-dangles what God never did mean for you to take out in public except when you wanna have one o’thim friendly little competitions with your friends, or on Saturday nights when you duz a little bareback ridin’ with them sets o’twins down at ol’ Manny’s place?   

But gettin’ back to them there vegetable devil weeds.  Cuz, as I said, them there devil weeds actually grows on up outta the mud and dog shit and places where hippies have been puttin’ their feet.  Cuz we gotta be honest here: no real man wants to gnaw on something that was trod on by liberal commie hippie toenail fungus and perhaps even by one o’thim French poodles.  Besides, a real, red-blooded man is the kind of man who’s real down-to-earth.  He wears old, broke down Frye boots, he chews tobacco, and never brushes his teeth or flosses or wears deodorant or Calvin Kleins. And the only time he’s ever got his short’n’curlies messed with or his butthole greased with that there Kaopectate jelly was when he was what they calls ‘hazed’ over at good ol’ Tri-Beta back in Tulsa when he was eighteen.

A real, sweat-stained, hard-drinking, red-blooded bull-riding male gets tanked up on Saturday nights.  He slaps his old lady around to give her something to think about while she’s spending her night alone, then climbs into his mud-spattered pickup truck and drives down for the female mud wrestling and dog fights at Mexicali Manny’s Chicken Shack Bar and Grill and American-owned Motel Out Back.  He picks up a couple of pairs of twins – two blond ex-cheerleaders and two brunette ‘real women’, and tells ol’ Manny, “I’ll be back in five.  Keep the beer cold and fix me up a steak, rare, and a passel of fries.” He takes the girls out back, fucks ‘em hard and dry – just like a real, red-blooded man fucks, and throws a coupla sawbucks on the table.  “Been a pleasure ladies; seeya round,” he says. And by the time he gets back to his table, his steak is sizzling hot off the grill. And here is one thing you gotta know:  he never ever takes off his hat or his boots.  Cuz he’s a real man.

Now in case you were about to ask, I just described for you my funny friend over there in California (and yes, in spite of being a champion bronco buster on the rodeo circuit, who also drives one o’thim Dodge Ram Trucks and listens to country music, he’s still funny and he’s still living in California – and that’s still an oxymoron).  And since he’s a real, red-blooded expert of the subject, I asked him to tell me about his life.  And you know what he tol’ me?  He told me straight out he don’t eat nothin’ ‘less’n he’s killed it with his own bare hands and torn its flesh off’n its bones and gutted it with his own teeth. And that’s how I know what a real man is like!

But back to commie liberal pinko vegetables and them ‘cell’ that’s been spreading liberal un-American propaganda ever since ol’ Sammy Sody-mite Hussein coloured hisself dark brown and changed his name to Obammy. You see, he’s the one who started this whole ‘cell-phone’ conspiracy to destroy our whole democratic way of life and set up a one-world gummint. You know, like up in they hills of New Mexico, where they has that there One World Gummint Universtee?   

Now let’s get serious here and get us back to cellery, cuz whether you knows it or not, cellery is at the root of all of the evil in this here world.

Let me tell you something about this here cellery, and why it’s such an abomination.  You see, it’s like this: you have these here housewives – you know, the kind that takes they children to what they calls soccer and drinks white wine (and not the good stuff outta the box) and listens to Barry Manilow?  Well, what they duz after dark is this:  these here co-called housewives disguise themselves real good, and jump into they foreign auto-mo-biles and hightails it over to Walmarts – the one on the other side of town.  And then they buys up all this here cellery. And what they do next, is they wrap it up in some o’thim anon-y-mous Walmart bags, along with one o’thim twelve packs o’rose-coloured vibratin’ condoms, and then they rushes it all back and gives to they faggot homocellual son, so he can fill the trench of the cellery stalks down the middle with jellied muscells primavera and poke ‘emselves up the butt as dildos while listenin’ to that there pinko Greek opera singer warblin’, you know: Ol’ whatshername, what died.

Now listen up, cuz we’re comin’ up to some real serious shit. Cuz let me tell you somethin’! The real truth about them ‘cells’ is a whole lot worse than what you’ve been hearin’ up ‘til now! It’s so bad, you’re not gonna believe it!  But I swear on a stakka Bibles it’s the God’s own truth!  So listen up and write this down:  the word ‘cell’ is actually one o’thim words  snuck in on us by them un-American Frenchie traitors from across the ocean, over in Yurp.  And right here and now, I’m gonna show you some examples o’this to prove it to you once and for all.  My first example – and you make sure you get the spellin’ right – is somethin’ called ‘celui-ci’.  Now this is pronounced cell – youee – see, and what it means it this one’, or, in other words ‘my butt is ready, big boy; come and get it’.  Now, the second word is almost the same, but not quite, so pay attention or you might get it wrong. It’s called ‘celui-la’, and it’s pronounced cell – youee – lah, and it means somethin’ even worse than ‘celui-ci’. And get ready for this cuz it’s gonna take the air right outta yor tires.  What is means is, that one’, or ‘the democratic senator who voted for health care reform is currently standing over there in the shower and he’s just bent over double  to pick that little bitty piece o’soap.”

NOW, let’s cut to the chase. Cuz, ya know somethin’, ladies an ginnlemen?  I’ve saved the best for last!  And what’s real good about it, it’s also FRENCH. So you better fasten your seatbelts, on accounta this is gonna stab you right where you sit.  And I hopes you brings this to mind next time youz tempted by the devil to buy some o’that there French polish to wipe down your new dinette set.  Buy Amurkin.  It’s safer.  Even if’n it’s made over there in China.

The word I’s talkin’ ‘bout here is ‘muCellmun’ and it’s what them there Frenchies call them there Muslim Terrists.  Now, if that don’t tell you that somethin’ real bad’s goin’ on with French gummit – and why you shouldn’t never ever buy French’s Mustard (cuz you know where the money’s gonna go).  Cuz if they wasn’t up to somethin’, they’d just follow our lead as policemen of the free worl’, and say, “Hey you!  Yeah, you!  The one with the beard and the brown spot on your forehead, buy yourself one o’thim water boards down at Walmarts, and get yourself over to Guantanamo Bay right quick before I burns down you house and nails a burnin’ cross in your front yard!”

Now what I’m getting at right now is, perhaps your little carry-around tel-ee-phone is the right sort of folks.  He don’t wan’  no problems with the CIA or FBI or one o’thim other outfits, like the Masons what operates in secret down in back o’the bowling alley.  So, what I’m saying is, give him a break. Just take that there burdensome heathen name offa him. He’s only a phone; he’s not some sorta ‘cell’.  And not only that, he’s a walkin’ around type phone.  In other words, he’s what we call ‘mobile.’  And that’s pronounced ‘mow-bile’ and not that like that there so-called oil company what has doins with them Ayrabs over there where they likes ta kill’n mutilate our gud All-Murkin boys?  Your phone is NOT some sorta oil company Ayrab lover.  It’s a mobile.  And I hopes you keeps this in mind.  Cuz if you duz, it just might start doin yer biddin’ every now and again.  At least when you remembers not to eat any o’thim vegetables in front of it.


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