Where's yours? We know for a fact you didn't accidentally type "AnalCookieWeinerMilk" into your search bar.
Ahhh, the old typewriter.
It got to a point where we couldn't take it anymore. In fact, we still can't take it. You people have no idea what it's like! The kind of pressure we're under! Every day is filled with torment and agony in the form of fake news stories about monsters and bullshit that you probably don't even read or care about! You all sit at home in your nice warm wombs and laugh at our plight! Well we're tired of being unappreciated. We're calling it quits. Consider this the last sentence that Strange Times will ever write: NO! We're not even going to give you the satisfaction of writing a final sentence. We're just going to end it really abruptly and awkwardly and leave you feeling really uncomfortable and unsure if---
Gotcha! Oh man, we pranked you! We prunked you! ...wait...woah, what do you have there? A gun? Easy, buddy. Don't do anything you might regret. You won't regret killing yourself in a world without Strange Times? Well we are flattered! You know what? That's just the kind of thing we needed to hear. Consider Strange Times reopened for business!
We're glad we worked through that. Now, just send us three gallons of bushbaby blood and we'll be all square.
Last week, Ron Flon went horseback riding. A seemingly enjoyable activity, you might think. You might also think that 2+2=5 and that Megan Fox is a talentless actress, when in reality she is a talentless pile of pond scum. What we're saying is, quit trying to run this show.
Seriously, just fucking DIE.
Ron had received a voucher for one free riding lesson at a nearby ranch for his birthday. The gift giver? Ron's wife, Darcey. Darcey claims Ron had often expressed interest in taking up horesback riding. She said that they had driven by the ranch many times and that Ron had stared longingly out the window at the majestic horses. Ron denied these allegations, saying "She said that? Bitch is crazy. I wasn't looking at the horses. There's a titty bar right behind it."
Shown: A lapdance, but it smells like manure, there's flies everywhere, and not to mention the scrotal trauma...actually, that sounds a lot like a normal lapdance.
Ron, afraid of hurting his wife's feelings, decided to use the gift and give horseback riding a whirl. "I thought to myself, "Maybe this will be my new hobby. My new love. My new passion." Pffft. Yeah fucking right. What the hell is a horse anyway? Like a kind of tent or something?"
Right off the bat, Ron's attitude was a problem. While getting dressed, his wife stressed that he wear a bolo tie and cowboy boots to fit in. Ron searched for his grandfather's bullhorn bolo and snakeskin boots, but couldn't locate them. He resorted to wearing his son's cub scout neckerchief clip, but it pinched his neckskin, so he took it off and pouted about his lack of Western wear.
He should've asked this guy.
They arrived just in time for his 3:30pm appointment with one of the ranch hands, Leslie Beard. Leslie is a man, despite his name. And a very manly man indeed. He once rustled an entire herd of buffalo by himself, then proceeded to wrestle each and every one of them into submission, just to prove that he could. His last name wasn't given at birth, but at age 6 when a tremendous layer of fur burst forth from his face.
Shown: 2 Kewl 4 Skewl
Leslie picked out a horse for Ron. It was a large brown steed named Buttfor. Ron, already disgruntled, asked "What's a Buttfor?" and when Leslie responded with a booming "For shitting you dummy!", Ron's face got as red as a disemboweled baboon covered in cherry cough syrup.
That's how that saying goes. We're sure of it.
As Leslie was helping Ron onto the horse, his palm accidentally swiped across Ron's buttcheek. Ron stared into Leslie's eyes with unmatched ferocity. Ron began trotting like a natural equine-aholic. That was until a gopher fired out of its nesting place, startling the horse. The horse broke into a full on gallop and Ron took the brunt of the bouncing directly to the vas deferens.
Oof.
Ron made the decision to abandon horse and attempted to fall backwards off of the horse. This plan may have worked had his feet not been strapped into the stirrups. Leslie watched in disbelief and complete silence as Ron's head was dragged across the rocky terrain covered in not only poopoo, but caca as well.
That's right. A shit chart. It wouldn't be America without one.
The horse eventually grew tired and slowed to a crawl. Ron, bloodied and half-dead, wiggled free of the horse and plopped face first into a rattlesnake den. Several fangs punctured his face and injected lethal amounts of poison into his bloodstream. Within sixty seconds, Ron was dead. Leslie held him close in his final moments...maybe a little bit too close, but that's beside the point. "Ron clearly regretted coming out to the ranch that day," said Leslie. "You could just tell that he didn't have a good time. I attempted to suck the poison out of his lips, but he didn't seem to like that, so I stopped. His last words were something like..."I don't like horseback riding" or "Get off of me you lunatic". By that time I had already ingested a lot of cocaine, so my memory is a little fuzzy."
Cowboys '10
No comments:
Post a Comment