l a s e r s t e a k

JoJo is like Naruto, except with real men with chests like buffalo and biceps like Everest. They punch each other so hard in their (literal) souls they die from it. The current villains are named Cars, AC/DC, and Wham! That’s all you need to know.

*My dad and I were watching Inglorious Basterds. He was sitting quietly up until a Nazi finally got his scalp removed. Turning to me with a confused look on his face he says, “I thought this was supposed to be a comedy.”

THE JIG IS UP TARANTINO! INGLORIOUS BASTERDS AIN’T NO COMEDY!

*My mom was telling my dad about all the nice presents she had gotten over Christmas; explaining to him that my sister had given her some really great artisan coffee. The, “good stuff,” she said. My dad immediately follows up with, “Ah, so she got you them Foldger’s.”

…what?

After hearing that, I imagine my dad would probably make the worst pawnbroker of all time. “Oh, is that an authentic Gap Kids sneaker? For that kind of quality I’ll pay $200 dollars, give or take.”

*My dad also got food poisoning a bit back from bologna. He doesn’t like going to the grocery very much, so he usually gets a stockpile of whatever it is he wants at the time. On this occasion it was bologna. 

For some reason he didn’t think bologna needed to be refrigerated. While Twinkies are usually pretty solid unattended, bologna isn’t quite as powerful. He got food poisoning, though I’m sure he learned a valuable lesson after living nearly a century (no joke). Meats do not sit well for weeks on your kitchen counter.

I legitimately think he left them out because he was too lazy to walk the extra 4 feet to the refrigerator when he wanted them. Sadly, remote control bologna is not yet a modern convenience. Science, get your shit together.

The lyrics to Chris Brown’s, “Wet the Bed.”

(http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Q_ljNRC8qqM)

So this cat here writes a full song about how spectacular he is at making women squirt, and just as masterfully demonstrates why no one bothered to write one before.

The moment he starts singing, he’s already skipped all the foreplay; he’s alluded to the imminent danger that he may drown in your bodily fluids. Presuming, that in the presence of his talents, you’re going to let him “deep up in your ocean.”

Let’s observe that euphemism. The “ocean”? Did Chris Brown just tell you, your pussy is comparable to the ocean? That’s one big ass vagina Chris, let’s try harder to sound flattering.

Under the assumption he went for the obvious, and meant that you’re going to be wet like the ocean, who is gonna relate to this? Nobody wants to own up to an ocean wet pussy. That just sounds like a symptom to a dangerously messy condition. You wouldn’t even see that subtitle on Jerry Springer, “MY PUSSY SO WET, MY BOYFRIEND CHOKED ON IT (HE’S A LIFEGUARD).”

After some time, the chorus finally delivers, “Yeah, girl, you heard what I said. I’m gonna make you wet the bed.” For those of you who bought their mattress full price from Sears, my bets are on, “no.” Also, why recall the only relevant imagery of “wetting the bed,” pissing the sheets, when talking about sex? This is like some reverse R. Kelly shit.

Some filler lyrics pass, so bad they’d make Hot Pockets sick; Ludacris then jumps in to posit that someone has “sprung a leak,” and needs “the plumber,” as if plumbing has ever been remotely appealing. He should’ve put in the extra work and wrote a verse about clogging your disposal.

Eventually he gets confused after rapping too fast and mixes his metaphors, “Women call me the Super Soaker, and I’mma soak your bed to death.” I’m sure he meant well, and just wanted to go public with his professional “plumbing” services, but he said the “Super Soaker.”

The Super Soaker has and always will be a device that you grip at the shaft and manually spray fluid from the tip, kinda like a penis. So, this man here is gonna personally, “soak your bed to death.” Sure.

I’m going to advise you not invite this guy over if you take pride in your carpet; you’ll regret it.

The song then continues to drone on until it reaches a superfluous 4 minutes and 28 seconds. I ask myself, if songs are typically a microcosm of an event or life, how long has this been going on for to reach 4 fuckin’ minutes and 28 seconds song time of you getting wet/squirting?

Convert this song to dog years, this has probably been going on for 12 hours; and if Chris Brown is half as good as he claims to be, you better hope you stayed away from the hardwood floors, ‘cuz that shit is ruined.