What the fuck is up with some shit, ya know? I got some shit here that’ll really make all you bitches and hoes think about the REAL truth. You know, I’m not talking about like the kind of truth you talk about when you just cheated on your wife like 17 times, and she’s all like “I know the truth motherfucker.” Or that time when you get really drunk and you woke up in the morning and you tasted urine in your mouth. I’m talking like philosophical, metaphysical, beyond-the-realms-of-the-fifth dimension kind of truth. The kind of shit that makes you spit that shitty Dunkin Donuts Iced Latte all over your already unattractive and slightly overweight blind date. So check this shit out, negroes.
Since when did they start giving you ice cubes in your drink without you even asking for it? This shit is rude, man. Today, I was at Subway, and besides being out of their Parmesan Oregano bread (I had the Herbs and Cheese instead), when I asked the lady for a small cherry coke, she filled that goddamn cup up so far with ice that I could have started my own Polar Bear ranch. Okay, this is an extreme example, but here’s the TRUTH folks.
Ice cubes are an invention by the oligarchy of soft-drink companies (Pepsi, Coca-Cola, and their bastard, tax-evading child Royal Crown) to cut costs and screw the faithful consumer out of receiving their fare share of beverage. Think about it. I took an ice cube today and I measured it. It was exactly 1.8 centimeters on each side. Using my advanced knowledge of calculus analysis, discrete mathematics, and the help of my university’s astrological physics computing center, I was able to calculate that this ice cube contained a cubic volume of 5.832 ml. With just a mere 10 ice cubes in your drink, this would come out to 58.32 ml of wasted space in that drink you sold your body for. As if earning your living off of having strange things stuck up your ass wasn’t bad enough, considering your average small drink is around 350 ml or so, you are losing approximately 16.67% of the contents of your bevarage to water. Last time I checked that shit came out of the faucet for free (except in poor countries where they piss in the rivers). Are you getting a discount for that wasted space? Do they offer a “with ice” and “without ice” price? Did Kobe Bryant rape that bitch? No, no, and no (white girl was askin’ for it).
So what can you do about it as just one human being? Politely ask the kinda cute but oily skinned boy who serves you at Burger Giant to exclude ice from your beverage? Stop drinking cola because it just makes you fatter and burns a hole in your stomach the size of a walnut? I’m not here to prescribe miracle, superhero solutions to your problems. In this modern, work-a-day world, you deserve a solution that both avoids self-responsibility and contact with other germ-infested, disease-carrying human mean shields. I have no such answer. So fuck off you bubble tea drinking hipster fag.
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What’s the deal with !@)&#*% anyway? Last time someone got caught talking about that was during the Truman Hairy Horse-Cock scandal of '49. Ah '49. That was the year I lost my virginity to Ms. Cole. She was the prison warden at the local lock-em-up. She used to tie me to the sewage drain and make me scream “Raisins like 'em hot!” while organizing the various mouse and rat feces into inverse haikus of neglible lyrical ubstance.
I once tried to toast an already toasted piece of bread. It caught fire and burned my house down.
'49 was quite a year. We used to sit around and discuss the values of post-modernism in a pre-apocolytpic, cold-war environment. Post-modernism didn’t exist in '49. Neither did modernism, really. But that’s what was so fucking post-modern about it.
A girl once whispered in my ear “Don’t look at the setting sun in a boat in the Hudson Bay.” Needless to say, it’s been my lifelong goal ever since to look at the setting sun in a boat in the Hudson Bay. But I don’t have a boat. Or a Hudson Bay. I own a t-shirt. It says “I Know Why The Caged Bird Sings.” It’s black. It’s sort of faded from repeated washing though. Film noir was popular in the 50’s. And a couple of days in 1992. Regular testicular cancer screenings are the backbone of a healthy lifestyle.
If I were to telL ,you that. the world would end, tomorrow, wou,ld you belie;ve it! Am I the penguin? God tastes like a banana.