This blog is not only sap-tastic and poignant, it’s also snot-on-your-keyboard funny. No one is safe. PB mocks without discrimination. Targets include but are not limited to:
Baby on Board Sticker Slappers:
Baby on Board stickers. Let’s talk about Baby on Board stickers. They don’t work. If anything, they cause my mind to lazily flutter over a scenario in which I test those 47-point impact safety airbags in that giant automobile in which you’re toting around your spawn.
Here’s the thing. Your decision to procreate has no bearing whatsoever on my decision to engage in, or refrain from, driving like an asshole. I assure you, not a single soul is going to see that little decal proclaiming your infinite fertility, tilt their head sideways, and think “Ya know, I was going to weave in and out of traffic and cut off this Mazda MPV driving 43 in a 45 where I’m trying to clock 50, but they’ve got a baby in the car, so I think I’ll just slow it down and make way.”
Oh, let’s be clear, some will take note and present the illusion that they are being extra super duper careful not to maime you or your over-active ovaries, but these will be people like you, who are coasting alongside you at three infuriating miles below the already conservative speed limit and who posed zero threat to your precious cargo in the first place. The people you’re attempting to protect your germ disseminator from are of a similar mind as I, thus rendering your feeble adhesive warning completely impotent.
Furthermore, I marvel at the arrogance of the suggestion that your brand new (and odds are, under-achieving and ordinary) addition to this already-crowded planet harbors more value than, say, the 47 year-old father of two, the unassuming accountant in the Camry and bad tie, the punk-ass teenager blasting hip hop from blown factory speakers, or even heartless heels who tell it like it is, like me.
*When my minivan is graffitied with Baby on Board stickers and I am sporting a large, lighted roof sign shouting of my own ovarian fruits, you may all feel free to mock.
Non-Note Leaving Car Hitters:
To the drunk shit stain who smashed into my car last night as it was parked on the swale hiding from the flood – If I find you, I will delight in running you over with the car you maimed, then spit on your carcass as small, woodland creatures assemble to nibble your genitals.
Facebook App Users:
I know when I see “Do you think PB has ever bitten off a turtle’s left leg while dancing to the Mexican hat dance? Click to unlock Bob’s answer!” on my wall, I have to fight the urge to click that link. I mean, I REALLY want to know if Bob feels that I have likely engaged in such an activity. But, guys, I am RESISTING! And you can, too! Come on! We’ll do it together! Will power circle! Must. Not. Click. Link…
Pink Sportin’ Cancer Awareness Raisers:
Lately I have been seeing a lot of pink. Pink shoes on football players, pink bottle caps, pink tongue scrapers…Hmmm… Wait. What’s this? I am suddenly feeling awash in breast cancer awareness! I can’t fight the urge to go donate! I am drawn as if by the moon to cancer.org. Shucks, who knew? Painting the world in Pepto Bismol will save the breasts! Save all the breasts! Here’s an idea. It’s crazy but hear me out. You ready? Instead of Tony Romo wearing a pink jock strap, how about redirecting the collective funds currently supporting pink man panties, and, I don’t know, donating them to the people who are actually trying to do something to affect a cure? Consider clicking HERE. You know. If you actually want to do something to help. Besides dying your pubes fuchsia.
Spooning spiced tofu into a box, I hear behind me, “God loves you, even though you’re a sinner. I was lost, too, until I had a deeply personal experience with Him in my kitchen ten years ago.” After getting over my shock, I replied, “I’m sorry, but I’m late for class, after which I hope to have a deeply personal experience with my boyfriend in my kitchen.” Take THAT, Whole Foods Evangelist.
Facebook Chain Letter Child Abuse Fighters:
I was about to go home and smack my kids around, maybe inflict some contusions and osseous fractures, then lock them in their room and promise them next time would be worse if they go and tell anyone. However, I just logged into Facebook and saw all of these cartoons in place of profile pictures, and I’ve decided to amend my abusive ways. My children send their gratitude. Way to go! Let’s keep on fighting the things we don’t like by playing picture games. Makin’ moves, you badasses, you.
Annoying Restaurant Patrons:
Dear Couple Sitting With Your Wedding Planner at 48,
You’ve been here for four hours. Perhaps you could take your little binder with your picture on it, your seating chart and your color swatches somewhere else so I can make some money off that table. Don’t look so happy, sweetie, he’s probably already fantasizing about fucking your sister. But cheer up, buttercup, that dress is fierce.
The last shout out of the evening goes to Mr. Euro Trash with his whore, who sat at 71, ordered drinks from me, then proceeded to mosey on out the door, leaving me to pay for his house cabernets. Way to impress your girl, Rico Suave, ’cause everyone knows the man with the biggest cock slides on his tab.
This has been a small smattering of The Funny. Those with a time surplus or a laughter deficit – or who just need an excuse to send me hate mail – may peruse all of The Funny HERE.