Frosty The Asshole

There is nothing more abhorrent than a Christmas song. Sleigh bells are not an instrument. Regular bells are barely an instrument. How many dead crooners do I need to hear coaxing reluctant girls into having sex with them because it’s a little cold out before I throw up my nog? There is one Christmas song in particular that is especially awful for its overbearing optimism, saccharine major chord tonality, and casual references to bringing the inanimate to life, which is something only zombies and witch doctors do. I’m talking about Frosty the Snowman. Here is a breakdown:

“With a corncob pipe and a button nose and two eyes made out of coal”
Frosty is by far the most selfish of all the fictional Christmas monsters. He took the pipe of an old man whose tobacco was his only source of happiness, and who became bitter and cranky all season without it, ultimately resorting to sniffing glue and paint thinner and verbally abusing his wife. The button he stole from a housewife whose blouse popped open at a party because of it, resulting in embarrassment and unwanted advances from the neighborhood men. And the coal was taken from a pair of vagrants who, without a fire to keep them warm, froze to death Christmas Eve in the alley behind Stuckey’s.

“There must have been some magic in that old silk hat they found, for when they placed it on his head he began to dance around”
The witch doctor who made the hat forgot to tell the children that the hat would not only bring nonliving things to life, but would also kill any living thing that tried to wear it. You can probably guess what happened to the children after they got bored with Frosty and started playing dress-up.

“Frosty the Snowman knew the sun was hot that day so he said let’s run and we’ll have some fun now before I melt away”
I’m widely regarded as being a self-centered prick, but Frosty takes the cake. His laissez-faire attitude toward his own impending demise and his desire to run and play with the children during his last hours suggest a level of egotism that we’ve only seen in Hitler himself. Instead of doing something worthwhile with his last remaining moments on earth, or even trying to locate a large refrigerated facility that would keep him alive and well for months, Frosty frittered away the day loitering in the streets with children and annoying traffic cops.

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Fucking Foreigners.

There is a children’s program on public television called Maria Tortilla and the Melting Pot Bunch. I only know of this show because I meant to tivo the Ken Burns documentary on Victorian-era pornography, but instead I accidentally recorded Maria Tortilla. And I know what you’re thinking, but you’re wrong: the show is not about children being melted together in a witch’s giant melting pot. It is about foreigners coming together to run around town and annoy adults into buying them candy and surprises. The show chronicles the adventures of an obnoxious little bilingual girl and her obnoxious multi-ethnic friends. In addition to Maria, there is a little girl from Hong Kong named Suki, a little boy from Berlin named Hans, a little girl from Kenya named Amali, and a little French boy named André. And I know what you’re thinking again, and you’re correct this time: they all speak their obnoxious native languages intermixed with English in that very sneaky way that bilinguals do when they’re trying to encroach on my rights as a true American. And when I say “true American,” I don’t mean some fat soccer mom from Michigan who volunteers at the hospital and goes to church every Sunday. I mean someone who makes their own clothing out of home-grown caterpillar silk, drinks milk straight from the cat’s teat, drives a hand-made hovercraft in excess of 120 miles per hour on the highway, worships Crambin, the god of getting laid at a wedding reception, and speaks only English because the language he created himself, which is called Frumplish, is not yet recognized as the national language. I’m talking about ME. And when I see a handful of foreign minors gallivanting around town speaking in ridiculous foreign languages, I feel like climbing to the top of Mt. Rushmore and screaming, “Go back from whence you came, you freeloading mutants!” which is why Mt. Rushmore was built in the first place, as a giant soapbox for true Americans to shout their beliefs from. And it is my belief that public television should only be used to showcase pornumentaries and swimsuit calendar auditions because that’s what my tax dollars are paying to see. Not some prepubescent candy-wanting pseudo-Americans and their talking pet horse.

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How I Solved The Country’s Traffic Problem

A root canal performed with a chainsaw. A Sriracha sauce enema. A handjob from Edward Scissorhands. What do these three things have in common? They are all events that I would sooner endure than a ride on a city bus.

Since the dawn of time, man has had to suffer the intolerable savagery of public transportation. From the 12-seater mammoth of cave man times, to the common city bus of modern times, to the flying golden seahorse chariot of future times, getting around without a personal vehicle has always and will always be a major ass pain.

Please, tell me what’s worse than riding in a subway car with five screaming children, three filthy hobos, a handful of stinking bearded hipsters, and a pregnant 16-year-old. You can’t? I didn’t think so.

What is the solution? I’m glad you asked. First, we take the money being used to fund various unnecessary organizations, such as the National Endowment for the Arts and the Environmental Protection Agency, and use it to widen our nation’s network of roads and highways by five lanes or so. Then, we get rid of those painted lines that separate a road’s lanes. Then, we manufacture a really fancy car, I mean like a Bentley and an Alfa Romeo put together, then we build like ten of them, then we give me the Bentley Romeos and I sit in one and tie the other nine together and ride them like Santa’s sleigh all over the gigantic new roads until I burn up all the fuel in the world. Oh, and nobody else is allowed to drive on the roads.

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I Hate You.

I inadvertently read a news article today while surfing the internet for Russian schoolgirl porn that said that Rush Limbaugh is losing sponsors left and right because his show’s ratings have dropped significantly. To this I say, “Huzzah and hooray.” I say this because Rush Limbaugh is one of the most wishy-washy, fence-sitting, pseudo-bullies I have ever seen. Sure, he says he hates democrats, liberals, women, gays, lesbians, blacks, Jews, the leftist media elite, cripples, children, crippled children, baby deer, oil-covered ducklings, the elderly, Santa Claus, Jesus, Gandhi, Buddha, Martin Luther King, Jr., the Beatles, Picasso paintings, the 13th amendment, the 19th amendment, Citizen Kane, and Star Wars, but does he really mean it? Sometimes I wonder! Because if he were a truly rotten asshole, such as yours truly, he wouldn’t limit his hatred to such a small and obvious slice of the population. See, in order to achieve the level of greatness that say, someone like myself has obtained, you have to be willing to hate everybody and everything, not just a few select groups. For instance, when I go to Wal-Mart to buy Russian schoolgirl porn, I hate the old man who greets me because of his age, I hate the other customers around me because most of them are morbidly obese, I hate the janitor cleaning up the vomit because he’s poor, I hate the kid who threw up all over the floor because some of it got on my shoe, I hate the sweatshop workers who made my shoes because they don’t speak English, I hate the girl at the checkout counter because she’s ugly, and I hate Sam Walton because he’s got more money than I do. I’m an equal opportunity hater. I don’t see race, color, creed, nationality or sexual orientation, I only see stupid morons that are only good for one thing: being tricked into voting for me.

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Why To Vote For Me

Hello, voting public. You’ve reached the blog of the candidate for and future office-holder of an important elected office near you. I’m talking about me, Iftheodorerooseveltwerearabbit.

But now let’s talk about you. Are you tired of party politics? Good. I have literally and figuratively no idea what that term means. So, score one for both of us I guess.

Are you tired of big government? That’s great. I only need one room to work in, and probably a room for my hot assistant. (Now hiring an assistant. Must be hot.)

Are you tired of small government? Fantastic. I have a huge copy of the Constitution, it’s like, super giant. I got it at the novelty store. It’s plastic. It probably wouldn’t even fit in the room I mentioned earlier, but I can lean it on the side of the building, or prop it up on the top of two hot sports cars in the parking lot next to the office.

Are you tired of candidates that lie, cheat, and steal? Guess what. I’ve never done those things.*

Are you tired, period? Well today’s your lucky day. I’ve got this mattress I really need to sell. (It’s up on craigslist. Just search “bleach” and “knife fight.”)

Ok, voter, that does it for now. Tune in often for campaign trail news, insights, punditry, lists of great things I’ve done/am capable of doing, and more crap I need to sell.

Oh, and if anybody’s reading this, PLEASE be on the lookout for my lost grey cat. She ran away last week. Her name is Blanche, she has an adorable round face, and she needs her medication. I am offering a $200 reward!!

*I’ve done those things.

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