The Grumpus Turns Away in Shame
And, lo, the Grumpus Societal Id contemplates the hottie/douche cohabit as Rashi once studied the butterfly. And then, after due consideration, the Grumpus turns away. In sadness and in shame. She is leaving. She is leaving. But the salacious crud still remains.
Whence our collective gaze doth consider, true enlightenment may or may not follow. It is certainly not assured.
But we must remember that enlightenment is not the goal when poochy cup slap betwixt greasy poo choad and suckle taught lilac takes place.
The process is the enumeration. Or so sayeth the wise ones that once twitched like prime Jerry Lewis in spasmodic temples of yore. One must look. And then one must turn away. To consider. To meditate. To ruminate. To regurgitate. And to watch DVR’d episodes of Deadliest Catch while eating Funyuns and scratching inappropriately.
So do not judge as Grumpus refuses to gaze like carnivorous gazelle. For without averting her eyes, the stench of laundry detergent and semi-employment at the Casino buffet on the midnight to six AM shift would forever remain un-comprehended. And theretofore, unknown.
As storm clouds gather and ill winds blow the tops of distressed Vegas palms, cluless, self-serving Amërïkän youth drift and bob aimlessly in a semi-chlorinated cesspool of illiteracy and apathy on rafts of inflatable, vinyl Walmart. This depiction is more than simple metaphor. This is a grievous portrayal of the post-industrial, multi-generational degradation of a once-proud and virtuous nation.
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Unashamed and defiant, the two subjects proudly display their meaningless passion. Possessing no discernible skills or societal value, acting out their bestial urges in public is the only way they can feign relevance in a confusing world of rapid-fire digital preening and “look-at-me” self-absorption.
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If our promiscuous female subject would look over the sweaty and tattooed shoulder of her latest semen-squirter, she would witness her destiny, an excellent example of a previous generation washed in wanton excess and self-centered gluttony. Aunt Gladys, loose-jowled and corpulent, rolls through life Insulated in a thick layer of blissful ignorance and cellulite, searching in vain for life’s meaning and lost insulin.
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After all, history repeats itself.
As the storm clouds
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XXI
^10 to 1 odds she can’t pick up those flip flops.
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24
Joseph Merrick had a much less well-known twin sister. Her nickname was “Boner Killer.”
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15, with no boner
If a fat Grumpess takes a digger, does it make a squishy, splorpy sound?
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nein+nein=nine
Mrs. Kroeger does not appreciate having her photo taken while she steals footwear.
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11/11/11
It’s quite helpful to have a Wet Floor caution cone next to a fuk’n swimming pool, assuming the idiots can read.
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Where’s the damn calculator?
To add a bit to Hermit’s screed:
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And this will be the generation that follows
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http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=m1EsDXSgVjA
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Ignorance will reign. A new language solely based on pointing and grunting will be “taught” in schools so little Johnny will not feel overwhelmed and no longer have to be with the reset of the “special” kids so his feelings aren’t hurt. We will be continue down the path of our black-box world so that everyone is a winner and the word loser will be grunted no more. Winter is not coming, it, it is tomorrow.
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“I hate fuccen math” as I’m always told by my students.
Looks like the Grumpus left a couple of surprises on her way up the ramp.
That reminds me, is there anything tastier than the lumps in a bowl of cream of wheat?
Speaking of adult diapers…Go forth in March 25th 2005 and caption this…
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http://hotchickswithdouchebags.com/blog/2005/03/caption-this-7/
March 26th…GET SWOLE!!!!
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YO!!!!
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http://hotchickswithdouchebags.com/blog/2005/03/fraiku-swole-edition/
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W00t!!!!
Speaking of caption this…
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http://hotchickswithdouchebags.com/blog/2011/01/caption-this-pic-72/
^ Ah yes, the one where Jacques coined the term , “Titty cankles”.
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LULZZZeriffic
I would trudge through snow laden fields, highways and interstates just to sit at the knee of the most awesome Hermit just to listen to him speak the truth such as the gem he uncorked above. I will add this to my Hermit scrapbook and revisit it from time to time to when I feel like I’m losing my mind. I used to weep for society now I’m I just don’t give a fuk. I mind my own business, drink a few beers and earn an honest living avoiding as much as possible the idiocy, narcissism and Big Pharma fueled masses that haven’t a clue. Tis a shame and damn shame!
Grumpus pays the price for a life of suppressed flatulence. Son.
It puts the butter
In its mouth. or it gets the
Harkonnen hose. Son.
The Grumpus’s attempt at jogging is rewarded with the mocking sounds reminiscent of Oprah taking on a well-oiled Kardashian in a ham-bat fight.
The Grumpus farts on Monday; hears bassoon-like report on Friday. House plants wilt.
The Grumpus must wipe with lumberjack log-saw action and a soon-crusty beach towel that smells of Bangladesh.
The Grumpus fails to
Change orientation since
Gyroscope Hole-Plant.
Grumps turds orbit
Her after each thunderous
Butthole ejection.
Grumpus wonders if you sullen cum-dumps even back-track to glory in the wonder of each Fraiku winner’s pear-ish Easter Egg?
The Grumpus’s blood type is bacon.
Logan’s Run. 25 and out. Still the only dignified way to go.