Friday, July 01, 2005


...for instance, you get a cucurbit vegetable stuck in any one of your three to four various orifices, stays in Veg-ass.

Unless you get killed, and buried in the desert. Then you stay there, too.

I hate Las Vegas. It is the tackiest nasty armpit-smelling, foul hole; the very Paris Hiltoniest of cities. It is also the only place I might be going this summer. Filthy fuckhole. Or as my father says, "you can put sequins on dog shit, but it's still dog shit."

Just saw a billboard that said, "I did _______ in Vegas", and thinking of the many things I could insert in that blank (cheap whores, sheep, cheap sheep whores), I decided to visit their Alibi Generator.

Unfortunately, it's for shit. It doesn't even have any good excuses in it, such as "that white, crusty stain came from CAESAR'S PALACE...salad" or, "that red, oozing sore came from GOLF." So I had to make my own. Fart and screw.

If I were a cheating rat bastid, I'd just tell her I was getting a haircut. You guys are always getting your hair cut. (My father's excuse? "I was playing raquetball." Not so smooth, Pops.) And speaking of affairs...

I've been watching A Current Affair lately just because it was moved into the time slot formerly occupied by The Simpsons and now I can't stay awake to watch Married, With Children. Damn you, Tim Green...!

I don't know why I don't just change the channel. It is a horrid, 1980's-looking (the font, the graphics, the music, the mullet) tabloid show that even the host looks embarrassed to be on.

Anyway, they were covering the Runaway "Squirrel Eyes" Bride story, and apparently one of the dealer, whatchocallit, guys who worked in a nasty-ass casino, spotted and reported Squirrely. When asked how he recognized her, "it was the eyes," the eyes...!, he said. Well, they fired him for this, even citing the horrid slogan, What Happens in Vegas, Stays in Vegas.

Uh, this woman was AWOL, people thought she was kidnapped, you sick fucks.

What next, someone kidnaps 13 underage illegal aliens, dresses them up as poultry sex on legs, then uses them for human ashtrays in the casino and we aren't supposed to say anything about that, either...?

Thank you, Tim Green "News Mullet", for drawing our attention to this land of gross negligence. Now go back to reporting Hooter's Girl boobie contests while insisting, on air, to your wife that it was not your idea, and hopefully she throttles you as the end credits roll, showing a parade of fake-baked asses parading by which are oddly, eerily, despite differences in race or complexion, the exact same shade of Hooter's Regulation Skank-Tan. In Vegas.

Nasty, smelly, inferior-baked potato, gross disease-spreading blight-on-the-face-of-the-Earth city. It's like a big mall with herpes.

__________ you, Vegas.

See you in August.


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