4 articles Tag Brendle

Just. Fucking. Classic.

Well, if it isn’t another amazing post by Barnacle Jim, the world’s favorite special-ed drop out. What’s amazing isn’t that your posts are so terrible, which they are, on the scale of one to total shit you’d be lucky to score less than World’s Biggest Faggot, an award previously held by your father who managed to squeeze his needle penis into your Prize Pig Mother’s rancid snatch between making visits to the truck stop and watching gay porn videos in the rec room, while you cried yourself to sleep in your unicorn sheets because mommy smelled like the weird drink again and looked like a raccoon after another visit to Uncle Ed, or should I say Mr. Ed, since there is certainly some equine blood in your veins, though not of noble stock I should think, since the only race you’ve ever won is the Who Can Be The Most Unfunny Poster For The Longest Time contest, in which you took the blue ribbon, something most of your girlfriends could do at the county fair, which is also where you must have received your education because you are stupider than a burlap sack full of cow dung, also known as your best friend throughout childhood, probably because the smell reminds you of the womb and Lord knows you’re short enough to crawl into a burlap sack and recreate the experience, though you probably couldn’t maintain a single thought long enough to accomplish anything as you’ve effectively destroyed what few and poor functioning brain cells you may have had with enough Marijuana to choke a hippo (and I should know, I’ve seen your girlfriend eat) so maybe it’s best if you leave the complex thought to those of us who still have the basic human faculties left to dress ourselves correctly, shower regularly, and not play frisbee golf like some kind of retarded child, too inept to play on the Real Playground and forced into some alterna-sport due to sheer natural selection, the same natural selection that decided you would never produce offspring, not only because your entire person smells like the inside of a New Age Apothecary toilet, but because your penis is small enough to pick the pubes out of your teeth once you get done fellating the rest of your closeted homosexual bike riding friends, who you surely pal around with out of spirited comradery and not because you enjoy watching a small band of the world’s detritus sweat and giggle in skin tight fagsuits, their tiny packages bulging out at you from their sweat-soaked bike seats, it’s that you have been making them for so long, mate.

Speaking of long, we haven’t even talked about your Birth Defect Poster Child Face. Honestly, mate, did your mother survive labor? If so, how could you tell? The only thing that separated her from a corpse in the first place is that she could still open her legs whenever something with a phallus-like object walked by. Seriously though, have you considered donating your head to science? If the doctors ever tired of staring at your freakish visage, they could cut the top of your skull off and store their prescription pads in the empty hollow within, oh sorry, didn’t mean to mention empty hollows, I know you are fond of your mother, just like most Johns out for a quick night of shudder-worthy release. But congratulations, you Gigantic Piece of Shit, for continuing to stick around this forum and contribute your Hilarious posts about What Beer You Drank Instead Of Dinner and How You Programmed a SQL Database. Classic material, Jim. Just. Fucking. Classic.

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my Crate and Barrel experience

Crate and Barrel Portland
Customer Comment Card

My customer experience today was VERy poor!!! My husband and I were approached by a sweaty disheveled man claiming to be a sales associate. He guided us into the chair section even though we told him we were looking for a table cloth. He kept apologizing that the oxblood leather chairs were discontinued though we made no mention of any such chair. Whenever we expressed interest in a chair he would suggest that we “make a deal” and then continually raise the price until it was no longer affordable to us. When my husband tried to sit in a chair the salesman pushed him out of the way and sat in it first; when I tried out a chair he waited for me to sit down then sat on my lap. This was uncomfortable as he was a LARGE and hairy man, and at times appeared sexually aroused. He seemed to care less about selling us a chair than about telling us stories of the two chairs he has at home. Overall I would give my Crate and Barrel experience a 7/10

– A concerned mom

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Ddogbook by bredle

16 of 18 people found the following review helpful:
1.0 out of 5 stars Ddogbook, February 2, 2011
By Doug M. Mcneill (Seattle, Washington USA) – See all my reviews
This so-called “Ddogbook” [sic] by “bredle” is probably the worst literary work of any kind I have ever had the misfortune of reading. First of all, I received it as a gift from someone I hate. Second, there is only one page. Seriously, it’s one page, and it doesn’t even have a cover, it’s just a piece of printer paper covered with childish pictures of dogs drawn with scented markers. Amazon apparently just threw the paper in the box so it came crumpled. When I opened the box the concentrated markerscents overwhelmed me and I lost consciousness for somewhere between 2 and 5 hours. After I woke up and put my soiled clothes in the laundry I sat down and tried, without success, to make sense of bredle’s illegible scrawlings through my pounding headache. I hated this book so much I actually hurled it into the toilet and shit my lunch (shrimp) onto it before flushing it into permanent watery oblivion. Anyway, if you are still reading this I strongly advise you not to buy this “book” by a clearly illiterate and retarded author. 1.0 out of 5 stars Help other customers find the most helpful reviews
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The hard blue nights of Akron, Ohio

The hard blue nights of Akron, Ohio creep up on you like a slow disease, permeating you, enveloping you before you even know it is there. The monolithic silhouette of the grain silo juts from the ground like a thumb in rigor mortis and beyond it the wheat fields spread in all directions, endlessly. I throw a rock out, into the darkness, and it shatters a window. Dust kicks up in little swirls along the concrete, and I drain the last backwash of my PBR before releasing the kickstand on my bike and riding home for dinner. I’m 9.

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