P.S. FUCK YOU

#94

Thu, 21 Mar 2013 01:03:12 -0700

I just spent a 1950’s dowry on a couple of decolletage-friendly napkins and dayglow vagina sheaths from American Apparel.

This money could’ve been used to save a rainforest, to jumpstart the libido of a prudish panda, or to rebuild a sand castle in Newport. But alas, I made it rain on a collection of greedy hipsters who wear tube socks as pants. I am literally the worst person ever.

Taking a cue from my own contrition, I’ve reconciled a list of better ways to manhandle my money.

1. Add cash-money to my liver reparation fund. Unfortunately, this will undermine my liver destruction fund, but there are ways to circumvent such a catastrophe. Cheap alternatives to cocktail devouring include: strapping 40s to my thigh, drinking cough syrup and distilling nail polish remover for casual consumption.

2. Add money to my savings account. The financial institutions in the US are corrupt, so I’m currently negotiating terms with a Nigerian Prince who has promised to sit on a pile of my money until I am mentally competent enough to saunter through a mall, financially unscathed.

3. Repurpose my slut clothing and sell items to middle schoolers looking for “that edge”. Transitioning to high school is tough, but not when you look like a walking STD with braces. This project would combine a few of my favorite things: mentorship, puberty, capitalism and crotchless pantaloons.

4. The stock market is more volatile than my BAC, but I believe in making well-researched investments and patiently waiting for them to come to fruition. I just mailed out 35 envelopes with $1 amounts to poker players around the nation. I also mailed out contracts with the envelopes explaining that the players owed me my investment back plus retro-active interest totaling 1k per person. A laundry list of blackmail items was stapled to the back of these contracts with a post-it saying “do the right thing”. Business balls, I has them.

#93

Tue, 19 Mar 2013 21:39:00 -0700

It’s official, I’m anthrophobic. After years of being treated like the underside of a shoe, the thought of human interaction leaves me with an aggressive case of shingles. Not sure when my ability to internalize shut down, but on most days I seek solitude to avoid being taken advantage of. If there’s a whisper of a chance that someone is deceitful, I bubble boy myself to avoid social distortion. It’s a schizophrenic-level of paranoia; conspiracy theory to the maximus.

So it goes…

But here’s a letter for everyone that has treated me poorly without just cause:

You win.

I formerly renounce my title as Queen Bitch of the World.

I will immerse myself in select comforts, possibly including black cloaks, midday naps, Nancy Drew mysteries, telepathy, indoor cigar-smoking and trolling reality tv forums.

Sustenance will come in the form of Amazon subscriptions to fruit roll-up, Vitamin Water and chia seeds. And once a month, I’ve scheduled a visit from the UPS man to sock me in the ovaries to keep them stimulated. I’m a crafty hermit.

I will no longer tell passersby to “suck my dick” or engage them in a light-hearted game of rohypnol roulette. Nightclubs will miss the vicious wrath of my fist-pump, the glorious symmetry of my helicopter swing and the graceful repentance of my liver to porcelain.

Anti-social is the new black, and I like my social norms like I like my coffee…

#imstillhotthough

#92

Tue, 05 Feb 2013 23:38:00 -0800

Hallmark tells me a certain heart-shaped holiday is around the corner. Some call it ‘Valentine’s Day’ I call it ‘National Eat a Dick Sandwich Day’ —I believe that’s the Latin name for it. My love life, as of late, has been like a Hollywood fairytale. More specifically, like the movie Zero Dark Thirty. I haven’t actually seen it, but from what I understand the protagonist hides alone in a cave trying to cultivate a winter beard, while men relentlessly try to hunt said protagonist down.

Sounds about right…

But since I sucked big fat bootcamp donkey dick tonight, my endorphin-high has me feeling pretty optimistic about the prospect of finding love or indigestion-like stomach butterflies. So here’s a list of all the qualities I’m looking for a mate because let’s face it, Valentine’s Day is all about me.

1. Alive. In the literal sense, also in spirit and attitude. I want someone with life behind their eyes, and an espresso-like robustness to their words and actions.

2. Accepting. I’ve become frightfully weird in my old age. For example, I do brain teasers before bed to prevent early onset dementia. And I sleep with my running shoes on in case I’m attacked in the middle of the night or wake up with the sudden urge to exercise. Preparedness, I has it.

3. Transparent. I’d like to date someone without ‘charade’ or ‘masquerade’ or any kind of ‘AIDS’ for that matter. Just a decent bag of skin that doesn’t try to insult my superior intellect with an amateur love game. Of course some things should continue to remain a mystery including any and all digestive gesticulations, and detailed chronicles of how they’ve come to be.

4. Humorous. I enjoy my playmates, well-endowed, in a comical and possibly literal sense. Making me laugh is easiest route to crossing the moat unscathed, and entering the castle. That is an analogy for intercourse, for those not paying attention. Laughter will also cause the tiny shards of shrapnel, ketones, and mint collection of swiss army knives that protect my heart, to melt.

5. Be Ryan Gosling.

The End.

#91

Wed, 12 Dec 2012 23:42:00 -0800

PSFU Love

Welcome to my Taylor Swift anthem… “like totally throw your phalanges in the air Single Bitches!”

This is a highly requested topic that I’ve been hesitant to address because I didn’t want to face the cold, harsh, bitch slap of two EPT lines reality. But sadly, whatever little gum droplet of hope resided in my chest cavity has been silenced from years of Bobbi beat-down-Brown abuse and a colorful addiction to trans fats.

Disney lied. Hollywood lied. And now we must take our dildos to the streets in protest…or something. This isn’t news to some people. The cat lady in the basement-level studio had the right idea all along. We’re all better off drinking malt liquor in the comfort of our own seclusion while watching reruns of Law and Order: SVU (a brilliant TV show that is an accurate portrait of lust and love in the real world).

Emancipate yourselves from the illusion. Just go the route of a brave, beautiful amoeba. Alternately, you may also go the route of perpetual bachelor George Clooney, and have sex with running shoes on and a duffel bag methodically placed near the door.

This is not my sad girl swan song, but instead, a carefully researched anthropological dissertation on a human ritual with a cult-like following, whose believers are marching into a pit of misfortunate delusion. #TaylorSwiftforPresident2016

#90

Sun, 18 Nov 2012 20:46:00 -0800

Guess who’s back?

I’m feeling very spirited tonight in a no holds barred, “I’m going to fuck the world in the face” kind of fashion. I’ve been a hollow shell of a carbon sliver, as of late. I could offer a variety of excuses ranging from anorexia-induced-by-poverty to a sinus infection, but no doldrums a dash of narrow spec antibiotics and a medium-sized penis can’t cure. But I digress…

I’m in the process of a life makeover. I thought I would share the steps in this intricate procedure to inspire your transcendence into bleeding awesome from every synapse in your misshapen torso.

Step 1-Trim the Fat

This is a blanket term applicable to all sorts of game plans from diets, to managing a company, to circumcision… Regardless, it is necessary in this transformation. I like to call this “anthropological lipolysis”—cut out people that have yet to contribute anything positive to your life, cut out any feelings of inadequacy, cut out relationship baggage, cut out any Facebook friend that induces an eye roll. All the unreasonably negative influences will endure an “ethic” cleansing—and you will emerge waif-like and glowing, like an absinthe fairy or the ghost of Michael Jackson.

Step 2- Educate Yourself

Inspired by the recent elections and election-based clamor, I was confronted with a cold, harsh reality… there is a surplus of stupid on this planet and proliferation of said stupid is inevitable. Irregardless of political preference and personal agenda… bitches be makin’ no sense. And since my power to influence is about as potent as a Smirnoff Ice, I decided to at least invest in my own education. Thankfully this routine pairs ardently well with my ADD: 20 minutes spent catching up on current events (no I do not mean TMZ), 1 hour spent with TED talks, Sagan segments or an NPR stream, 1 article comprised of tech-psychobabble (a la Techcrunch or HuffPost), and I Google anything I don’t understand (reality TV synopsis included).

Step 3 - Believe In Yourself

I like to call this section “How to Get Your Dick Sucked by the Universe”. Insecurities are like viruses that compromise your ability to figuratively “get it up” in any productive or reproductive situation. In a world of Victoria’s Secret supermodels and Pulitzer Prize winners, it’s tough to truly believe that you are someone of value. But once you start doing so, everyone will follow suit. Self-fulfilling prophecy, damnit. Get some.

#89

Mon, 01 Oct 2012 12:46:00 -0700

It’s officially, official… I am old.

So I thought it appropriate to impart some wisdom on you trick-ass zygotes because Mama loves you.

1. As you grudgingly enter your mid-twenties, you may casually throw around words like ‘cougar’ and ‘botox’ as a joke, but let’s be real. You’re just trying to cushion the blow for when comedy, reality and gravity converge.

2. That dead-end, low-paying job will slowly start to grate at the corners of your soul. How you deal with this is key…
DO: use the motivation to move on up in the world.
DON’T: find solace in the loving arms of a brick red sunburn and a litter of cats.

3. Your body will slowly start to lose things you’ve relied on, like the ability to cure a hangover in less than 36 hours. Thankfully there are helpful solutions: 100 mg ibuprofen, a Bloody Mary and a scoop of under eye concealer.

4. You’ll start to have go-to’s, habits and a “schtick”. These are good things, unless they consist of: PMS thunderstorms, wearing a size 0 when you’re really a size 6, and using Facebook as your therapist.

5. Sunscreen, night creams, sex and water are your friends. Trust me, I still look more like a pedophile’s dream than a California raisin.

6. Learn to let things go—as your brain slowly degrades into silly putty, you should really focus on what’s important. Rid your memory bank of your ex-boyfriends, all frenemies, the 2000 election results and other upsets.

7. Be nice. As your face starts to look like Wuthering Heights, it might be second nature to invoke your right to be unnecessarily cynical. Just be nice, Bitch.

8. Ignore the advice of sensationalist media. Fashion mags and tabloids, god love them, have no place in your decision-making process. At this point, you should really be able to discern a good decision from a bad one. You’re old enough to know better and too young to blame senility.

9. In your mid-twenties, your body will start to reject certain “histamines” like: bullshit, fake friends and the ability to ‘not’ cry during commercials with puppies/babies/shoe sales. Just invest in a ShamWow for your tears… you sad sack.

10. Live every day like you’re Chuck Motherfucking Norris on bath salts and life is a flimsy sheet of Balsa wood.

#88

Thu, 21 Jun 2012 01:11:00 -0700

PSFU REQUEST: How to be good in bed

I’m not an expert by any means, this is mostly advice I’ve gathered from Dr. Phil, National Geographic photo documentaries, and old episodes of 90210. I apologize in advance for the vulgarities and such, but we’re talking about plow town not hometown buffet..

Alright hombres, before you expel your meaty man-turret make sure the orifice attached to the girl you are dick grabbing at, actually wants you. Yep, consent first my friends…the #1 misstep in rape.

Step 2—try to temporarily erase every slow-streaming internet porn you’ve ever watched from your memory. Be yourself, but more awesome.

Step 3—a little foreplay, tequila and a condom never hurt anybody. So come prepared. Bonus points if you pre-game with a small protein based meal, a thimble of gatorade (for electrolytes) and a grain or two of viagra. It’ll keep the stomach and ammo fully loaded throughout the fireworks display.

Step 4—cute/nervous/shy are all fine adjectives to embody until the pants come off. Once you have a (consenting) female in your bed/backseat/inside a clear glass elevator, literally animorph into a fucking velociraptor. Get all Jurassic Park on that shit. You don’t have to kiss every misshapen freckle on our bodies and tongue fuck a constellation across our backs. Not necessary my friend. If you want it, let it show. Pound away like you’re literally trying to forge a shelter between her legs to avoid being eaten by a herd of famished zombies.

Step 5—try to avoid being a jack-hammer, when I say bone like you’re trying seek sanctuary inside of her chapel, I mean fuck with gusto and passion. Sex her down like you’ve been stranded on a desert island for 6 days and she’s a bucket of ice cold salvation.

We’ll leave the technique overview and demo for another post. You’re welcome everyone!

As for females, get naked and try not to fall asleep. This is literally the bare minimum of sexual adequacy. To really spice things up bust out some Macarena dance moves on him, but at a slowed 45 frames per second.

#87

Fri, 18 May 2012 00:03:00 -0700

Dear Bureau of Automotive Repair,

I’d like to report an injustice of sorts, a fuckupance on the part of a shoddy auto center that has yet to know the depths of my first world wrath. My car decided to take up smoking, on what I can only describe as a Snoop Dogg-like level, a few fortnights ago. I swiftly took my car in for the automotive equivalent of a prostate exam to make sure the pipes were pumping liquids through magnificently. After throwing down more money than my organs are worth in Mexico, they sent me off a brand new radiator, 4 new tires, a tank of canola oil and some D’s on that bitch.

The next day, my car came down with another wicked case of the Cheech and Chong and left me stranded on a busy highway. The incompetents at Sears couldn’t even manage to summon a tow truck, or an apology, or even a morsel of compassion for their misstep. AAA finally arrived to handhold my baby back to the Cunt Nuggets at Sears, only to have them install another brand new radiator. Without a hint of remorse, they sent me off yet again with a brand new radiator that they artfully reminded me “cost more than the previous”—and a “you’re welcome” for the thanks I did not give for the craftsmanship I did not received.

And yet again, el carro decided to flare up on the freeway and spit a dangerous amount of motor ejaculate, as I contemplated just driving that motherfucker off a cliff. Unrepentant still, Sears couldn’t roadside assist, and AAA had to again come to my rescue in the middle of fuck-this-wilderness highway.

Today, my car is still in the shop (after 2 weeks of services, 0 follow-up calls and 4 separate visits) being “really fixed this time”, even though my car’s insides have corroded into metallic ground beef. I still haven’t received even a half-hearted apology for my time and money wasted, or a solution/plan for my little pavement fucker.

I now realize there are literally thousands of cheaper solutions for my vehicle that would be better or equivalent to the service provided at Sears. Solutions like: set the car on fire, submerge the vehicle in a large body of water (preferably an ocean), travel with explosives and a chain smoker, play exhaust pipe roulette with a variety of random objects, trade-in the engine for a macaroni collage, indulge in a light-hearted game of bumper car with a big rig, play ‘Chicken’ with the center divider..

I’m not sure how you go about reprimanding auto centers, but I demand justice, along with a refund, a Range Rover, a beer cozy and maybe a pine-scented air freshener.

Sincerely,

PSFU

#86

Tue, 08 May 2012 01:42:00 -0700

Oftentimes, my dear friends come to me for advice on topics that I have no fucking insight on whatsoever. It’s like asking Charlie Sheen about sobriety or Charlie Brown about unadulterated optimism… no dice my friend, no dice.

Psfu request: I asked this girl out, now what?

If a female already said ‘yes’ to your formulaic attempts at being charming, you’re more than likely on the right pathway to laying the wood real thick…

Step two- the perfect date. From what I learned back in my dating years before the misanthropy and paranoia set in, you want to dip into her interests and also offer a date with the following elements: adventure, conversation, an opportunity for you to showcase a life talent, and alcohol to cushion the general awkwardness of the situation. I advise that the talent be thumbwrestling (non-sexual) and the libation be tequila (sexual).

Potential fantastic date ideas (if you ask me) include: belly dancing lessons, aggressive playground jump roping, a cocktail scavenger hunt, erotic pie/cake eating contest, underwater boxing, cross-state hitchhiking, extreme couples plastic surgery…

Yes, I know, I’m a beacon of hope in the flaccid waters of celibacy. You’re welcome.

Step three- don’t be a fucking weirdo. There really isn’t a more eloquent way to say it. Mind your boners and manners. Keep things hygienic ie: shower, brush, floss, deodorize, manscape. I’m serious about the manscapage, if we can’t see it, we assume it’s not there…

Step four- be the non-fucking weirdo version of yourself, and you’ll be fine. There is literally nothing worse than someone who is disingenuous, besides a wonky boob job or a side-hug. Be your darling little self you sperm repository, you got this.

#85

Sat, 31 Mar 2012 16:42:00 -0700

Today is a momentous day for your favorite little twisted trollop. This post is devoid of humility, and is designed to inspire jealousy, rage, and aggressive high-fives…

I am OFFICIALLY done riding Sallie Mae’s fiscal gang bang train of student loan debt horror.

I’d like to take this opportunity to thank Top Ramen for padding my checking account and small intestine. I will miss the sodium induced sleep nightmares and water-retained boob weight.

As a result of so much ass-up-face-down time due to relentless financial pummeling, I have a spinal tick that inspires several interesting dance moves. So, thank you for that.

Thank you Costco for providing multi-pack products catered to the ambitious yet impoverished, this may or may not include your offering of 100-count boxes of toaster strudels, toilet paper, condoms and hunger-satiating packets of splenda. A girl can never be too prepared.

Thank you Forever 21, for providing top notch hooker swag for cheap. In this economy, dressing like a street-walker for street-vendor prices has its benefits.

And finally thank you Master Sallie for keeping me relatively featherweight over the years. Despite my off-brand oreo, spam and ethanol based diet, I’ve still managed to maintain a molecule-like size because I simply can’t afford to be a fat fat.

Zero fucks shall be given today, as I unabashedly give myself a verbal ass pat. I worked hard to get to this convergence in time where working 3 jobs while maintaining a perfect party attendance record has finally paid off.

YOUSE MAH BITCH NOW, SALLIE.

#84

Fri, 23 Mar 2012 00:39:00 -0700

I truly believe that everyone needs a verbal fist pump every now and then. Sometimes life, the economy, that episode of the real housewives, or whiskey dick, may get you down, but I am a firm believer in high-fiving yourself on a regular basis. So I dare you to write a list of all the things that make you the coolest human being on the planet, and let the haters hate, because having a boner for yourself is nothing short of brilliant. Take a cue from me, and take a self-esteem viagra…

Why I am awesome:

-Sometimes I let my breasts decide what I’m going to wear, regardless of an impending tornado, hurricane or dress code. They know best.

-I always assume I have the biggest hypothetical dick in the room and treat everyone accordingly.

-I walk in to and out of work meetings like there is a big rig truck exploding behind me.

-I am classically trained in sarcasm and have an incurable case of cynicism which I like to label as intellect.

-I am devoid of any social grace, compassion and ability to emote, and yet I’m still a better person than you will ever be.

-I have the diction of a demagogue and will inadvertently circle jerk that fact all over your unassuming face.

-I eat like I’m preparing for hibernation and dress like someone paid me to pop out of a birthday cake.

-Without makeup on I look like a deflated Margaret Cho, but I will still pull more guys than you.. because I am unwaveringly charming and I own a pair of glasses that shroud my entire face.

-Underneath all this hostility, glitter and stripper pageantry I’m actually a nice person… possibly.

#83

Thu, 08 Mar 2012 00:15:23 -0800

It’s been far too long since I’ve stood on my soapbox and preached about something frighteningly unimportant. So here we go…

As a life update, I’ve been called in to audition for an adventure-based game show a la Amazing Race and the likes. So here is what I plan on telling the producers so they select yours truly for the chance to win a 50k cash prize.

- I have the highly evolved survival skills of a honeybadger and the bro-like aggression of an Africanized honeybee.

-I have attended and survived two Nordstom Rack Shoe Sales without being stiletto-impaled by an overzealous anorexic or trampled to death by a militant group of affluent middle schoolers.

-I always have an exit strategy or plan B—whether I’m escaping the crippling grip of a stage-5 clinger or stifling a raging apartment fire that may or may not have been caused by a combination of child-like curiosity, intoxication and easy access to chemistry kits on eBay….

- My adult onset ADHD paired with my sugar-based diet will result in pure TV gold.

- I’ve always had a knack for finding creative ways to enter or exit a room, as evidenced by my birth. I have camcorder proof that I shawshanked my way out of my mother’s womb using only a chicken bone fashioned into a shiv and a smoke bomb.

- I have the adventurous heart and spirit of Columbus minus the whole aggressive syphilis and hatred for Native Americans.

#82

Mon, 13 Feb 2012 23:02:00 -0800

Like clockwork, every year, requests come streaming in about Saint Valentine. And much like a $20-an-hour hooker, I aim to please…

I also please to aim your seductive nether regions to their desired genital pockets, so here’s a lovely list of awesome (albeit unique) Valentine’s Day ‘do’s’ and ‘don’ts’.

-Don’t wear a t-shirt that says “Boner Patrol” or “Gynecologist”. It is not appropriate to be awkward, misleading, and gross on Valentine’s Day.

-Do collect roses from your neighbor’s flowerbed. As the economy continues to “drop down and get its eagle on”, it is important to cut corners and save money when and where an opportunity presents itself.

-Don’t cry into a pint of Ben & Jerry’s ice cream. After much market research and at-home academic testing, I’ve concluded that Dreyer’s ice cream gallons provide a better haven for your salty pool of little bitch tears.

-Do find creative ways to spell out ‘I love you’. We’ve all seen the foggy window, post-it, sand-bar, yellow snow and jet-plane scrawlings from past and present Romeos and Juliets. Find a new medium, people. I suggest posting a quirky craigslist ad and paying people $5 to love-text the shit out of your significant other. Nothing says ‘I love you’ quite like exultations from convicted felons— can you imagine all the brilliant love poems they will generate?!

-Don’t spend the night with your trusty vibrator/sock/KY dispenser and a bottle of vino. You deserve a brand-new treat. Visit your local sex shop/target/CVS and go to town, then go to town…

-Do spike your coffee with Jameson this Valetine’s Day. It’s not a desperate gesture by any means, but instead a subtle, sexy and sweet ‘I love you’ for your hard-working liver and mid-sectional organs.

Hope this helps, my little acrimonious lumps of joy. Wishing you all the best on your poon-hunting this year.

#81

Tue, 17 Jan 2012 00:42:43 -0800

PSFU request: Uncomplicated sex

After many years of riding the Fucktown Express Train liberally, I’ve come to the conclusion that there is no such thing as ‘uncomplicated sex’. Sex is loaded with implications, politics and semantics that reach far beyond the act of fist pumping genitals. Each step in the unraveling process carries with it at least two dozen mind-boggling puzzles that leave us in a platoon of pornographic perplexity.

Should I leave the lights on? Do you really want me to punch you in the face? No, that doesn’t really feel good… Should I text? Should I call? Will you think that I want to wear your mug as a mardi gras mask if I ask for a glass of water, instead of high-tailing it home within 2 minutes of seminal expulsion?

There are so many do’s and don’ts. How did such a simple human act become such a shitstorm of complication, shame, regret, and awkward perfunctory sexual advances.

If you’re too casual people assume you are a soulless conglomerate of promiscuity. If you’re too responsive, le genitals retract out of fear of your Bounce fabric-like clinginess. Lose, lose.

I have no wise words to guide your sexual tidbits to perpetual bliss. This may be the most depressing post to-date, but as a self-proclaimed psychologist and a self-learned physiologist, I have done the leg-work, the research and the A-B multi-variant testing (nerd joke), and have no brilliant conclusion to splatter all over your hopeful faces. I suppose it’s asexuality until a proper solution reveals itself.

Good luck out there, champs.

#80

Thu, 22 Dec 2011 00:28:00 -0800

Dear Mrs. Claus,

After many years of unrequited present receiving, I am finally aware of my misdoing. My fealty resided in the wrong Claus beneficiary, and I can only offer my irrevocable condolences for such a misstep. I know who wears the big red pajama jeans up in the North Pole, it’s you, it’s always been you..

So I’m sending you this lovely letter to unburden my wish list for this Whoreliday Season. After a year earmarked with saintly deeds, alcohol induced revelations, and high-fiving hobos that look like Jesus, I truly believe I deserve a sizable endowment in return.

Besides the usual request for a yacht-ful of cash, as well as my own yacht aptly named ‘The H20 Commander’ or ‘Water, You My Bitch Now’, I have a few other prezzies in mind…The cold winter nights have left me chaffed and chapped, and instead of using a heater or wearing a onesie, I prefer a more creative heat source like a friendly Bengal tiger to cuddle with or a comely NFL player whose sole purpose is to embrace me as I succumb to melatonia.

I would also like to be awarded with my very own Party Rock crew, much like the eccentric pop sensation LMFAO. It is very important that my gang of degenerates retain a constant blood alcohol level of .2, have matching tribal face tattoos, and be entrenched in glitter from every conceivable angle.

Finally, I want you to hide a walkie-talkie in Broncos’ quarterback Tim Tebow’s bedroom, so that I can pose as Jesus and prank call him at all hours of the night. I will of course conduct my pranks with integrity, because I dare not mock the devout…

I’m already waiting patiently under the boughs of a synthetic Christmas tree for my gifts. I’ve also fedex-ed a Yule Log-shaped dildo to the North Pole as a token of my appreciation for all the gifts I fully expect to receive.

Mistletoe gropings and kisses,

PSFU

#79

Tue, 20 Dec 2011 17:33:28 -0800

It’s that time of year again, where snow abounds, at least in Charlie Sheen’s orifices, and we warm our extremities near the fireplace to avoid a devastatingly cold 60 degree night in Southern California.

The time of year when tiny tots put their full faith in a white-haired man who will break into the homes of middle class suburbia and stuff stockings to the brim, and no I’m not talking about Santa.. this special psfu is for Mr. Jerry Sandusky.

Albeit this is not the most current twitter trend, but if there’s anything that Chris Hansen has taught me, it’s that there’s no bad time to chastise the creepy. He has also taught me that Mike’s Hard Lemonade is the rapist’s drink of choice…

With Sandusky’s new defense in tow, well, he’s just asking to be verbally castrated, by yours truly. Hygiene.. really? Is that what you were teaching the half-naked kiddie poos? You know what is better than teaching hygiene? — not rape.

In fact a frothy dick milk bubble bath sounds like the direct opposite of hygienic… But I’m no CDC rep.

I’m no children’s advocate by any means either, if anything I think children are creepy and infinitely more intelligent than adults (those brilliant little motherfuckers). But tales of pedophilia and sexual depravity irk me to the core. Only the true anal warts of the world would dare prey on little lambs. I can only wish 40 counts of terrifying jail-time sexual redemption towards the cripplingly gross Mr. Peen State.

It’s only fair, tis the season!

#78

Fri, 18 Nov 2011 01:01:00 -0800

The road to being liked is a rocky one—ice cream pun unintended. I’ve dealt with the heavy hand of blatant animosity for no apparent reason for days and years and such. Granted I’ve also dealt with aversion as a result of doling out casual rejections here and there. There are many a blue ball caused by my esteemed reproach, to which I offer my sincere condolences. #sorrybro.

But usually, I have the fun-tastic task of charming those that despise me right off the bat - especially with you foxy female folk. I can only assume I have the kind of face or disposition only a mother could love. It’s a daunting task, but me loves a challenge.

Dear Insecure Anal Fissure-ious Maximus,

I get it, I walk funny right? It’s the only thing I can assume, since I spent all but 30 seconds walking up to you and introducing myself, before your face became inflamed with rage, and is subsequently causing your makeup-hidden-blemish to resurface.

Is it the hairspray? One squirts too many? I get it, the stiffness of my hair is throwing you off your game, and you must remedy your delusion with a scowl and a snooty comment to dick-pump down my cochlea. I’ll try gel instead next time, okay? — so you can leave the below-the-breath whispers about my assumed sexual promiscuity or my imagined need for sclerotheraphy, at home. Tuck it away under your spanx and save it for a rainy day when I decide exact my bitchitude and shit on your life.

I have no coveted prize for you as a result of your non-dickbaggery, but wouldn’t you feel better about finding a real reason to hate me instead?

Here are a few legitimate reasons I will allow you to dislike me for:

-I can drink you under the table, and will dirty sanchez that fact all over your face.

-I wear an inordinate amount of glitter and will leave sparkly droppings in your car, on your cat, or across the keyboard of your brand new macbook. And I will do so unapologetically…

-I am incapable of staying in one place or nailing a routine down due to the excessive amounts of caffeine I drink and a mildly serious case of attention deficit disorder.

-I can eat like a Beluga whale and still comfortably fit into a bandage dress or a medium-sized ziploc bag.

-You can try your darndest to plant your shitcloud of negativity right over me, and I will still remain awesome and seemingly unaffected… yet another symptom of my ADD.

If you need more ammunition, please email me and I will record a full day-in-the-life video for you to watch, and you should be able to pick up at least 600 new legitimate reasons to dislike me. Got it?

#77

Fri, 14 Oct 2011 13:19:00 -0700

PSFU- underestimations

Sometimes no matter how many online dictionaries or discovery channel segments you masturbate to.. people just don’t believe you are intelligent. You could finish the Times crossword puzzle and spell out a dissertation on how to solve the obesity crisis in America in one solitary bowl of alphabet soup… and still people will think your brain is the size of grape nut. It’s truly unfortunate.. What powersuit and glasses combo does a brother have to sport to get a little recognition here?

How does one flex their intellectual junk in a way that is genuine, but not arrogant?

Dear sir/madam,

I did indeed code that website by my lonesome while shoving fistfuls of acai berries into my mouth as a caffeine substitute. Where’s my motherfucking pat on the back? Maybe it’s not the most impressive thing I could’ve done, but I have a Humanities BA, bitch… and you don’t learn that shit in courses that focus on the rise of the celebrity in modern society. I would appreciate a salute to my mediocrity. I’m not your average nerd that spends 12 hours a day trolling online forums about Ruby on Rails.. I have strippers and cocaine to tend to. Just because a substantial portion of my life is spent in and out of consciousness, thanks to my penchant for champagne showers, DOES NOT MEAN you have the right to underestimate my prodigiousness!

Even that talking bobblehead, ceiling-eyes Bachmann gets called ‘misguidedly intelligent’ every now and again and she believes that the occurrence of pandemics like swine flu are directly related to the political party of the reigning chief executive officer… COME ON PEOPLE!

Big-ups to all the smart people that are pegged as ‘intellectually inept’ by their peers… the second we find a cure for cancer we are not sharing the formula… maybe.

<3
psfu

#76

Wed, 12 Oct 2011 14:20:00 -0700

I’m back losers!

Like a bear (of the homosexual variety and not the ursus genus), I needed a brief period of hibernation.

My proclivity for trouble has been off the charts recently. I’m not sure if it’s a symptom of trying to fastidiously cling to my fleeting youth.. or if it’s because my cosmo ‘how to live your life rectal thermometer’ had the naughty box checked off…

Request time motherfuckers!

Listen up,

I know we’re kinda facebook friends.. or maybe we shared a cup of Hi-C and tequila at a party freshman year… or perhaps I fell onto your crotch at some point when the promptings of my PMS, a bucket of red wine and the threat of impending spinsterhood were far too much to bear…

What I’m trying to say is that there is indubitably some context to our connection.. But you need to back off, sir/ma’am/future state senator. I’m just not that into you. If you couldn’t tell by my utter lack of acknowledgement to your ‘pokes’, ‘texts’, ‘smoke signals’, ‘helicopter dance moves’ or ‘mortality’.. I’m really not interested.

When you multi-bang my phone, email and status updates all day, not only do I become increasingly disinterested, I am also forced to assume that you want to cut my face off and wear it to your next birthday party or ship my head to Brad Pitt in a box…

Get what I’m saying?

Let me break it down arithmetically in case you are a) Asian, or b) able to borrow one for a minute…

The sum of ‘you liking me’ is incongruent to the sum of ‘me liking you’. In fact the sum of ‘you liking me’ is exponentially larger than the product of ‘me liking you’ AND ‘me giving a flying fuck-nut that you are even alive’. Please take the derivative of the new inputs given, catch my tangent, and kindly fuck off.

#75

Thu, 15 Sep 2011 07:17:00 -0700

It’s that time of year again…

Leaves commit themselves to littering the gutter, my cup of coffee is 2 parts liquor and father time salutes me with a crisp bitchslap across the face….

Happy birthday to me!

What I’ve learned in life thus far:

1. As you welcome old age with passive agressive approbation, you will come to learn that the most gratifying form of sex is probably the good ol’ hate fuck.

2. Alcoholism is the best way to cope with most ailments, including but not limited to: unemployment, mondays, medical bills, bachelordom, traffic, a misshapen torso, identity theft and tuesdays.

3. No amount of cats, kittens or feline-shaped dust balls will ever make you happy. Try alcohol instead (see above).

4. Botox advertisements will start to entice and beckon. You will not.

5. There will always be someone who will more closely resemble a moldy prune than you do, misdirect all your negativity towards them.

6. The pool of adjectives to describe you will dampen, as you regress from labels like ‘cute’ and ‘energetic’. People will present you with lackluster options like ‘classy’, ‘worldly’ and ‘charming’.

7. You will find any opportunity/excuse to well up with tears ie: puppy birthdays, hallmark commercials, half yearly sales, American Idol and tea sandwiches.

8. Hangovers will shit on your life exponentially as you fossilize. It will take you up to a week to recover from a Girl’s night out or a thimble of whiskey.

9. You start to learn about subjects once foreign to you like: potpourri, epsom salt, palm pilots, wheatgrass and jazz music.

10. Sleeping with someone who is younger than you will not thwart the aging process, but it doesn’t incite it either.

In all seriousness, I’ve still ‘got it’, so I welcome my downward spiral into antiquity. My health is intact, my friend base is rich, and I don’t look like a soggy bowl of cheerios quite yet. In fact, Myspace pedophiles still beseech my online friendship at least twice a day.