Mas Fun with Etc.

I'm too excited by the prospect of the upcoming debut of "Life on a Stick" to think straight. Therefore, the following search query thing:

What's up with retarded old people, with their elderly pubic hair and their Harry Truman boxer shorts? And what's the deal with all these vitiligo millionaires parading around like they're the 11 to 12 year old kid who was eaten whole by a shark? There was one in particular, a guy who lived on my block, who was especially horrible. Ugh, I can just picture him now--with that stupid mustache he looked like Burt Reynolds or something, and always talking on and on like some kind of shit geyser, spewing out nonsense like, "I want to fuck Scott Peterson" and "I feel like a boy with parents downstairs seeking free porn and blowjobs." Fucking drama queen, thinking he's all big like some sort of Pygmy sex symbol.

Meanwhile, the papers are all abuzz with such headlines as "Sweden Veterinarians See Rise In Anal" and "Sweaty Austrian Bodybuilder Elected Governor." Is it any wonder that our streets are overrun with pet perverts and paralyzed cuckolds? With so much to worry about, how am I supposed to find the time to fuck my hungry wife, she of the world's longest pussy (though, frankly, I think big labias are gross)? Hell, I barely have the time to whack it to the big Popeye cock photo I have hanging up in my cubicle or the picture of Kerry being butt fucked I keep in my wallet. In this rush-rush-rush age of crazy fiber optic shit and Oliver Cromwell desktop themes and Japanese porn vomit spa baths, how are we supposed to find time for the ones we love? How can civilization maintain when one can't read the classified ads without seeing things like "Italian gay dog seeking male trainer"?

Ah, hell. It's exhausting to think about it. At least there's one thing we can always rely on: Everybody Loves Appalachia.