You self-absorbed, rooster-loving, douche bag, do you really not see me RIGHT HERE?! Yeah, I understand your effing turn signal was on, but that doesn’t mean that you can now defy all known laws of physics and merge into the EXACT SAME SPACE I CURRENTLY OCCUPY! It’s physically impossible, but maybe your overpriced Lexus allows you to phase shift between different dimensions. I don’t know. I drive a Civic.

And to the a-hole right in front of me, there’s a reason your crappy 1982 Ford Fiesta is smoking. IT’S USED UP! The smoke screen you’re throwing up onto the cars behind you has reduced visibility for over 300 other drivers. Nice. Pull that piece of garbage onto the shoulder so those of us who drive faster than thirty miles an hour can get past your broken down turd. Nice trash bag on the window, by the way, is it really more effective than buying a car that doesn’t look like a stained glass window? Your schizophrenic vehicle can’t decide whether it wants to be blue, red, green, or the good ol’ gray primer. In case nobody’s ever cared to tell you before, that stupid ass red tape over your taillight doesn’t mean that you’re not driving a death trap. I hope for your stupid sake that you don’t hit a bump in the road, because your car is going to rattle apart, leaving you sitting in a broken pile of scrap metal on the interstate. Wait, I meant to say I hope you get hit by that semi. Honest mistake.

Speaking of that tractor-trailer, how do you think that passing your other redneck buddy in the semi driving in the right lane at the EXACT SAME SPEED is any help to your cause of getting your load of decorative soaps to Arizona on time. You evidently can’t see anything in your rearview mirror or you would notice the two mile long line of cars waiting for you to execute your pass sometime today. I realize you can’t possibly have any conscious thought running through your tiny, cross-eyed head, but why don’t you get off your CB and drive the truck like you’re supposed to. Candy Cane is not a real woman, and if she were, she would not be interested in your hairy, smelly ass. Drive, asshole.

As for you, grandpa, I understand that you’re trying to retain your mobility and hence, your freedom.  I get it, I really do, but your stooped-over, white-knuckled posture can’t possibly allow you to see over the dashboard. Ask your son, who’s probably also a retiree to put you in a nice home where the uncaring nurses at least allow you to stare at their asses like the dirty old man that you are. It’s not 1935. I thought you would have noticed the advances in transportation technology since you were 72. You didn’t have to crank your car to start it, and it will actually travel at more than 17 miles per hour. Here’s another great technological advance in transportation. It’s called a bus. Take it.

Thanks for being a bunch of crazy ass efftards. Thanks to you, I’m now late for work/a party/my life. I want every single one of you dicks to know how I feel, but I only have these two middle fingers. Oh, and this bottle of pee from my last road trip that I plan on throwing at the next a-hole who cuts me off.

You all really piss me off.

Decaf, I wouldn’t even be so mad at you if you weren’t so ridiculously pervasive. Everywhere I go, I see “Decaf this!”, and “Decaf that!” Nothing pisses me off more than half-assing something, and decaffeinated coffee is the definition of half-assed. Monster Energy drinks got one thing right with their disgusting-tasting slime: more caffeine is better. Along those same lines, less caffeine makes people into homosexuals. That’s right, I said it. You don’t hear any strait men ordering a “half caf, triple cream macchiato” at Starbucks. Coincidence? I think not.

You’re like a body with no bones. There’s absolutely no substance to your effing stimulant-free self. I hate you. One thing that pisses me off more than decaffeinated coffee is when some blundering douchebag wastes the time of the coffee maker at work to brew a pot of what is essentially colored water. What benefit do you get from drinking this? Ulcers? Fan-effing-tastic, your stomach’s upset, and your stupid sleepless ass is still dragging all day long. You deserve it.

Don’t even get me started about that one time when an anonymous roosterbite brewed decaf in the WRONG POT! Brown is good, and that stupid orange color means you’re an idiot. Segregation is still alive, and in some cases deserved. You dumbasses have your own ‘coffee’ pot for your douchebaggery. You may as well drink tea, like a prancing Englishman. Careful, though – that Earl Grey you’re swilling might actually have a wonderful stimulant, and could possibly make you the slightest bit productive today. We wouldn’t want that. Decaffeinated coffee, you really piss me off.

I swear if you come over here once more to waste my time with your stupid puns and irritating laugh, I’m going to punch you right in the baby maker. There’s a reason your wife left you. Nobody on earth can stand you. Don’t tell me you don’t notice your scent? It’s a mixture of unwashed body, curry, and fart. If you insist on eating Indian food EVERY SINGLE DAY, then keep your nasty digestive system locked away at your own damn desk. Thanks for being a complete a-hole.

I don’t give a tinker’s damn about who’s banging who, and what the secretary on the third floor told you about what’s-her-name. Your gossip is stupid and old, and I honestly don’t give a $%&*. I’m bored listening to you, and I don’t know why you think I’m interested. You’ve been blathering on to the back of my head for 20 minutes, and how do you think you’ve picked up the subtlest hint that I want to hear more?! I haven’t even bothered to turn and face your stupid ass to facilitate communication. Your pet effing parakeet could see that I want you to leave. Get out. GET OUT GET OUT GET OUT GETTHEEFFOUTOFMYOFFICEYOUFILTHYPRICK!

Speaking of which, who in the Hell has a pet parakeet? It’s the most worthless pet ever, unless you just want to hear your own words spoken right back at you! Your narcissism is breathtaking, you giant pile of pig turd. It’s not enough to listen to yourself prattle on like a nervous sixth grade girl for 18 hours, you actually want to hear an animal mimic your nasally, irritating voice? The only thing that could be worse is if the stupid animal learns your laugh. I don’t understand how a human can make the sounds/wheezes/high pitched squirrel squeals that come out of your deformed body when you’re amused. I want to punch your laugh. It’s that bad.

I don’t understand why you can’t be more like ANYBODYelse in the world. Look around you at all the other normal people in this room. Is it too much to ask for you to try to imitate actual normalcy for just a few hours out of the day?! If I knew karate, you would be unconscious right now. Where’s that Asian guy in accounting? He’s got to know some martial arts, maybe he’ll teach me…

Until I can master the ways of the ninja, just stay the Hell away from me. Get in your stupid 1992 Honda Accord and drive your stupid ass to anywhere that isn’t here. Coworkers, you really piss me off.

Nobody wants to look at your underdeveloped, pre-pubescent body. Wear some clothes that fit, and try to quit being such a douche. In case your absentee father never told you, allow me to educate your delinquent ass. Women wear tight clothes so we can ogle their curves. Men wear clothes that are functional and comfortable. I bet you have trouble going up stairs, those leggings you’re wearing are too tight to allow full range of motion.

Wipe the effing guyliner off your gayass eyes and stop trying to look like an angst-ridden pop star. Pete Wentz isn’t cool enough to pull off the look you think you’re rocking. What makes you think that anyone gives a fat dump that you want to be different? Everyone your age wants to be different, and all you juvenile bastards end up looking the same. Gay.

The wallet chain connected to your empty wallet (get a job, you spoiled bitch) screams to everyone around you, “I think my band is totally gonna make it big, but we have no talent and I secretly want to kiss Lance, my lead guitarist!” Once you move out of your hometown (or should I say ‘if’…) take a peek around at the successful, non-toolbag adults around you. Nobody is wearing those stupid asshole skinny jeans. Ask your overprotective mommy to take you to the mall, so you can hang out with your friends and be individuals. Then, you can all make a collectively individual decision to start a new “cool” style: nuts on the outside. As gay as that is, that would be cooler than the faggy style you’re rocking right now, and at least it’ll be funny for a little bit.

Those of us who saw this fashion coming figured it was an ironic joke you were playing on your parents. Your dad cries himself to sleep every night, wondering why you can’t play sports like a normal boy. If it wasn’t so sad and irritating, we could all have a good laugh about it, then donate the jeans to all the pant-less 6 year old girls of the world.

Long story short, you look like a malnourished bird, and the swagger you think you’ve earned only reinforces the parody you’ve made of yourself. Make sure you text this to all your friends, I’m sure your whole adolescent group is probably as stupid as you all appear to be. You want to be a cool individual? Get a full-sleeve tattoo. Don’t half ass it. Speaking of half ass, yours is hanging out of your pants. Stupid skinny jeans, you really piss me off.

I wanted to take a second to sarcastically thank you for ruining my date with Jennifer back in 10th grade. Her parents were loaded, and last time I heard, she was sailing around the world on their dime. She got into modeling, because of her incredible hotness, and had a crush on me. Thanks for showing up the night before I was going to do my damndest to bang her. I could be somewhere in the tropics, soaking in the sun and performing sexual gymnastics with the hottest woman I’ve ever met, but instead she took one look at you, in all your greasy, pus-filled glory and said “What the Hell is on your face?!” Great start to THAT relationship, you zitty prick.

If you have pimples, listen to strait yump Julianne Hough, and get Proactiv.

I don’t know what’s worse: that you decide to show up on my body the day of every single significant event in my life, or that you somehow manage to find the most conspicuous and inconvenient spot on my face. Don’t even get me started about that time you plopped down right on the end of my nose. You were entrenched in that beast, and no matter how hard I tried to end your yellowy-white reign, I only ended up with tears streaming down my face and cursing the name of Pimple.

Since I hate you SO very much, I’ve decided to deal with you mercilessly from now on. I bought a knife and the world’s sharpest melon baller. I will remove you with no remorse, despite the cost to my generally fair-featured face. You are my nemesis, and I will destroy you, Zit. Just try that move again where you camped out right on the border of my lip and face. Try it, I dare you. I’ll cut BOTH my lips off, and piss on your bloody carcass. Pimples, you really piss me off.

Guess which one's gay...

Look up “right” in the dictionary. It means CORRECT. You effing left-brained bastards can’t figure out that you’ve been doing everything backwards your entire lives. I can’t believe your parents didn’t hit you more. They really meant it, though, when they told you that you are “special”. You’re special, all right. You’re the window-licking, booger-eating, mouth-breathing, drag-one-leg-behind-you when you walk sort of special.

Be normal and right-handed, or else...

You bastards think that normal people should have to cater to your brain disease by making left handed scissors. Here’s a thought: stop being left-handed. In some languages, they don’t even have a words for right and left hand. Their words mean “food hand”, and “poop hand”, because they eat with their right hand and wipe themselves with their left. You use your poop hand as your primary hand. That’s sick.

There’s a reason that such a relatively high percentage of you fairies are pitchers in Major League Baseball. Normal people can’t hit your stuff, because it’s NOT NATURAL. Every other species of animal smothers their young with hilariously ironic human-print fuzzy pillows if they show the slightest inkling of using their left paw. Nature doesn’t play around with the possibility of you people taking over, and neither will I. Consider your whole alien species, or whatever you are, warned.

Next time I see one of you creepy weirdos shoveling food down your wrong-sided whine-holes in a restaurant, I’m gonna kick that fork down your spaghetti-loving throat.

You really piss me off.

Would you PLEASE eff off?! I understand you’re currently running a “one-time only” sales event offering incredible discounts and ANY other crap you can think to say. You’re an irritating bastard. I want to buy something, obviously, or I wouldn’t be here. Just shut the Hell up and let me figure out what I want. You greasy little bastard, you look stupid in your Burlington Coat Factory suit, and your cologne could not be more obnoxious if it was made with bits of real panther.

Your fake ass smile is about to get pushed through the back of your head if you don’t stop following me around the damn store. Maybe you’ve mistaken the far-off gaze in my eyes for amazement, but I’m really just picturing imaginitive ways to make your death look like an accident. I’m not interested in signing up for a 0% (for 1 month) store credit card, but if you ask me one more time to fill out the paperwork, I’ll use it to paper cut your penis off. Piss off.

I’ve got an unbeatable offer for your bastard ass: quit hovering over my shoulder like the carcass-picking vulture you are, and I might consider giving my business to your hot co-worker over there. She’s doing three basic things right that you can’t seem to manage. One, she knows how to shut the eff up. Two, she managed to attract my attention with her boobs, and three, she’s not you. No no, don’t even think about trying to touch my arm to get my attention. My back is facing you to make it easier for you to kiss my ass.

Your November Blowout sale is what brought me into the store, cockbite. I don’t want you spouting off the same crap I can read strait from my unsolicited mailer that one of your other douche friends sent to my house. See this coupon? Hell yes I’m going to use it. 50% off, bitch. That’s why I’m here, not to listen to you try to relate to me by talking about the local sports team, and how your brother-in-law went to school with a guy who knows the mother of a professional sports player. Eat turds, prick.

I bet your mother is so proud of her youngest son. Your brother is a doctor, your sister works for a senator, and you are trying to hock some overpriced electronic towel warmer to a fellow Gen-Xer with a REAL job. I bet your Thanksgiving sucks when dad asks if you’ve decided to finish school. By the way, thanks for telling me all about your family. The irony is that now I both pity AND hate you.

Salesmen, you really piss me off.

Oh yeah, and thanks, Mom for the Charlie Brown Christmas boxers. You DO realize that I’m almost 30 years old, right? A man of my age wearing these will absolutely guarantee that I get no nookie that night. Thank you. My sexless existence will evidently be fulfilled by whittling away at bars of soap with my new collectible pocket knife with trout handle. It sure is beautiful…beautiful and chintzy. It looks like something you’d see sitting on the shelf in a hunting lodge in the Canadian north. Awesome. Now I can field dress the next deer I shoot, and do it all with classic, collectible style. I sure do look outdoorsy while holding this knife, with a hand-painted mural of a leaping trout. I can’t wait to show all my friends.

Speaking of friends, thanks to all of you douches for this year’s haul. It’s much better than last year. I can’t wait to hang this ironic, yet still very creepy David Hasselhoff poster in my room, so the Hoff can watch me while I sleep. At least one of you got me a bottle of Crown Royal, literally the only thing from this year that I will actually be able to use, as I drink my way to a stupor trying to forget the horrible Christmas I just had. Thanks again, though, I actually laughed when I opened the giant dildo in front of my dad. He’s now more disappointed in me than ever, but it’s still a hilarious gift.

What is with all the Snuggie gifting?! Why in the Hell would you think I needed a blanket with effing sleeves?! Gosh, the zebra stripe pattern sure is pretty, but this stupid ass present is going down in the $#!tty present hall of fame. I’m a little upset that you thought this would be a great gift for me. Do you think that I have a burning desire to curl up on the couch to watch Notting Hill and sob regretfully about my life choices while cats climb all over my bloated body?! I effing hate you.

Thanks again for the ties, screwdriver set, various “As Seen On TV” crap, horrible cologne, and oversized tin of multi-flavored popcorn. Here’s a thought: save your money and hand me the $10 check next year, evidently Grandma’s 300 years of wisdom were more effective than I’d originally thought. I’m sorry Grandma, I love you. Still, all these crappy Christmas presents sure do piss me off.

That’s right, I hate Santa’s stupid reindeer. Dasher, Dancer, Prancer, Vixen, Comet, Cupid, Donner, Blitzen, and Rudolph are all on my $#!t list.

First of all, you pricks work one day a year and expect me to sprinkle glittery reindeer food in my front yard so you will stop by my house. I’ve got news for you dumbasses that are drinking the Kool-Aid on this one: not everyone is leaving carrots and celery for the laziest reindeer on the planet, and I’m officially done on this one. Is it coincidence that when you rearrange the letters in Santa’s name, it spells “Satan”? That’s one big coincidence.

Dasher may be the biggest a-hole reindeer, since he never takes a shower. My gutters clog every year when this unhygienic piece of trash decides to take a fat dump on my roof. I hope this year Dasher slips in his own feces and falls the 10 feet to the ground, rendering him unable to perform his duties in years to come. Dasher can lick my goodies, because I’m just plain sick of his attitude and want him to die.

Dancer couldn’t make it as an erotic pole performer and after his third strike, spent 12 years in prison for armed robbery. After establishing himself as a mid-level mob boss in the penal system, Dancer was released on good behavior. The fact that every year immediately following Christmas, at least one or two things in my house goes missing leads me to believe that Dancer’s life of crime isn’t over. What a prick.

Prancer. Do I really have to say more? This limp-wristed deer can’t be positioned behind Cupid anymore because of his love for Cupid’s backside, and the controversial Ass Lick of 2002. This sick bastard never learned appropriate social interaction, and ended up on the menu for two Scandinavian hunters back in 1942. He was rescued by the fat man in red, to form his sexual deviancy to the purpose of sneaking into every house in the world. Prancer loves making his way to San Francisco, and is often greeted with open arms and opener asses. Gross.

Vixen is the only female reindeer. Vixen is a whore.

Comet was once a great Olympic sprinter, until his fall from grace many years ago. He was found to be doping, and the steroids have given him horrible back acne, shrunk his testicles to the size of jelly beans, and given him an incredible temper. Comet was the reindeer who gave Rudolf his red nose, after a bar fight, when Comet smashed a pool cue across the most famous reindeer’s face over a dispute over who got to bang Vixen first. I’ll say it again: Vixen is a whore.

Cupid is the former dictator of a small country in Africa. Convicted of 7,252 separate counts of various war crimes including genocide, rape, and public masturbation, Cupid’s checkered past kept him from getting a job for many years after he was forcibly removed from his position in a military coup. Again, Santa’s mental manipulation brought Cupid into the fold, and he earned his position pulling the sled in a death match with his predecessor, Olive the reindeer. Cupid is easily the most feared reindeer, known for his love of knives and blood. Cupid is a douche, and he had better watch his back, because Donner and Blitzen are fed up with his $#!t.

Donner (or Donder-who effing cares) and Blitzen are two twins who were a huge inspiration for the Menendez brothers. They killed their mother during childbirth by gnawing through her spine on their way out, and their father joined her in death soon after. These sociopathic caribou have no respect for modern laws or societal norms, and have a running feud with Cupid. Donner and Blitzen are wanted for murder in 43 states and have escaped from 12 separate prisons because these effers can fly.

As for “the most Famous Reindeer of All”, Rudolf, he has been known to creepily watch your children while they sleep, and lick their ears. Although he hasn’t progressed to full-on sickness, last year he had to be forcibly restrained by Buddy the Elf from the bad touch. I hate Rudolf the soon-to-be child molester. Santa’s reindeer, you really piss me off.

They don’t even exist, you disgusting piece of crap. Next time, try getting away, you worthless little freak.

I’m still not sure if the wart I got on my thumb way back in third grade was caused by your STUPID pee all over my hand, but you’re guilty until proven innocent in my book, you bumpy little turd. Yeah I’ve also heard that’s an urban legend, but I saw your perverted little grin when you sprayed your gay wart fluid onto my fingers.

Sally checked “No” in the box when I asked if she liked me. When I asked why, she wrote “Because you hae lumps all over yor hand.” Sure, I probably dodged a bullet with that chick, but she could be hot and rich right now. I’ll never know. I hate you. You probably don’t have any natural predators because eating you would make the other animals DUMBER!

What can you do?! Do you have any special skills?! No? You’re the Paris Hilton of animals. You’re only recognizable because you’re stupid. She’s pretty hot, though, and had her own sex tape, so I guess she’s probably kinda famous from that. Okay, she was a bad example.

You’re more like Cher. You’ve outlived everyone’s interest in you.

I watch Discovery Channel. You’re never on there. Know why? BECAUSE YOU’RE NOT INTERESTING! I hope you all get run over by a big truck on a city street and crows peck your stupid, flat eyes out. You really piss me off.

If you’ve got anything that pisses you off, send it to me. If it’s funny and also pisses me off, I might write about it. My new form of therapy is calming for me, and with any luck will provide some laughter for you. Another reason it’s good to be Pinkie management.