Goddammit, I should’ve put the fly-banging picture in last, because I can’t get it off of my screen while I’m writing this. CAN YOU BELIEVE THAT SOME HIPSTER DILDO THINKS THAT PICTURE IS ART? Fucking gross. I hope it haunts your dreams and scars your brain like it does mine. Anyways, I hate flies. They’re disgusting, annoying, dirty and contribute nothing good to the world – they’re basically the Kardashian family of the Animal Kingdom.
A long time ago, my family and I took a trip to New Mexico to visit some people. I don’t remember how I’m supposed to know these people, but whatever, we were there and they owned a farm. And it was pretty cool, I had never stayed on a real farm before. I also got to see the Jetsons’ animated movie while I was there, which was obviously fuckin sweet. The bad part about staying on a farm in New Mexico is the flies. Jesus Christ, flies are like the official bird of that balls/grundle combopack of a state. And it’s even worse on a farm. A farm in New Mexico is basically where flies go to get drunk and film their amateur orgies. Gross. Anyways, the farmers had a cow, and the cow just had a baby, and I was explicitly told to NOT go into the cow pen to see the baby cow, because I would probably get trampled and gored. So the next day, I jumped into the cow pen and was immediately chased out by the pissed off mother cow. As I leapt back over the wooden fence like a fuckin gazelle, I swallowed a fly. I didn’t realize what had happened at first, because I was still powered by adrenaline and badass survival instinct, but as blood slowly started seeping back into my brain, it occured to me that something flew into my mouth and hit the back of my throat, and as I looked around, all I could see was flies. I was rightfully grossed out, and all of the “Rock-a-Dile Red” Kool-Aid in the world couldn’t fix me.
There are so many things that are terrible about flies. First off, some of them bite you. Horse flies can bite you hard enough that you bleed. They’re the size of that flying, gold anal bead that Harry Potter chases in those movies, except with teeth. Also, they eat shit. OK, yeah. There ya go. They literally eat shit. They love the stuff, they can’t get enough of it. And when they’re done eating shit, they land on your food or face or some cherished item, and then puke all over it. That’s what they do. You think they’re just resting? Fuck no, they are literally vomiting shit onto you. That little stupid hand rubbing motion isn’t for cleanliness, it’s because they’re hatching maniacal plans between fits of barf. And dear sweet baby Jesus in a leopard-print boy thong, they are annoying. I once read somewhere that flies fly in some kind of retarded pattern that only makes sense to flies, and if you fuck up their flight path, they will leave you alone because they find a different pattern to fly in, I don’t know. I do know that if you hit them really fucking hard with a fly swatter, pillow, brick, newspaper, phone book, or angry fist, they’ll leave you alone.
If all this isn’t enough to make you hate flies, then there is clearly something wrong with you. Maybe your parents fed you paint chips and cat food for dessert or something, I dunno. But like a porn star, I’ll finish strong: Missy Elliot dressed up in some trash bags and rapped some terrible rap about being a fly in the mid 90’s. Hannah Mon-goddamn-tana sang some hillbilly/pop bullshit about being a fly on the wall. And one of the worst human beings to ever let live past the age of 11, Jeff Goldblum, was in a terrible movie about becoming a fly-man. Jeff Goldblum: The flyest Jew around.
Fuck you, nature.
Every summer when I was a kid, my family and I would go camping. Generally we wouldn’t stay anywhere in particular for very long, just 1 stop per night kinda thing for a week or so. I don’t remember where this particular incident happened, I’m thinking somewhere in New Mexico, which might be why I have such disdain for it, I dunno. It doesn’t really matter. New Mexico sucks, bears or not. Don’t go there unless you like hayseeds and sodomy. Anyways, one day, I get out of the tent and sit on the bench to eat some delicious Rice Krispies. I was really groggy, but I remember my mom saying something to me about getting in the car. I wasn’t paying attention – the only thing I was focused on at the moment was devouring my cereal before it got soggy. Rice Krispies are notorious for going soggy really fast, and I’m not about to try and eat some flacid goddamn cereal. I NEED THAT CRUNCH, SON!. Yeah. Out of the corner of my eye, I see my mom grab my sister or brother or both and scamper up the hill to the car. I’m thinking, “Oh that crazy mom and her crazy foot races.” She’s yelling at me, and I’m drinking hot chocolate like the smug 8-year old asshole that I was. Finally, after like 3 minutes of getting yelled at from the car, I turned around and what do I see? A bear standing behind me. A motherfucking bear. I’d like to think that I did something awesome, like kick the bear in his stupid, bare bear (heh) nutsack and then jump on his back while he’s doubled over and gouge his eyes out with my thumbs, but really, I think I probably just shit and peed on myself. I ran up to the car like a fucking Kenyan olympic athlete, and looked down only to see that giant, hairy dildo eating my rice krispies and drinking my hot chocolate! WHAT THE FUCK NATURE. You send your caveman looking associate to scare the puberty out of a kid, and then make him watch while he has his meal eaten RIGHT IN FRONT OF HIS FACE? Just thinking about it makes me want to go burn down a forest or Build-A-Bear store in the mall or something.
Bears are big and strong and ferocious and blah blah whatever, I’m not going to spew anymore redeeming qualities for bears. I’m just trying to explain why humans feel the need to honor them with cartoon characters and cereal mascots and shit. Well, here is a list of stupid bear characters and why they’re stupid. 1- Yogi and Boo-Boo. In a parallel dimension, I would probably like Yogi a lot, because I’m all for the stealing of peoples lunches. But a bear stole my fucking breakfast, and I just can’t look past the similarities. So fuck Yogi. And Boo-Boo was worse, always naysaying and being a little dickface. 2- Winnie the Pooh. Winnie the Pooh was mentally retarded. And I have no problems with the handicapped, I really don’t. I DO, however, have a problem with the fact that Winnie the Pooh always made his friends help him out of the most ridiculous predicaments EVERY SINGLE DAY. All for honey. How many times does a retard get stuck in something before you put a leash and a bell on it? I’d say twice, but whatever. I’m not a doctor. 3- Baloo. Baloo was ok when he was singing “The Bear Necessities” with that little mud-dwelling hobo Mogli, but then he got a Disney spinoff, “Tale Spin”. The only time it’s acceptable for a bear to be flying is if he’s shot out of a cannon. 4- That motherfucking “Snuggle” laundry detergent bear. WHAT ARE YOU, MALE OR FEMALE? I don’t need some tranny telling me to wash my clothes. 5- Kuma, from the Tekken video games. You’re a goddamn bear, stop doing kung-fu and fucking eat somebody, you 2000 lb dancing bag of dingleberries.
There are so many more bear icons that I hate, like the demon-possessed doll Teddy Ruxpin or the fucking Coca-Cola bears, but…I feel like I should mention the only bear on this list that is a fucking badass – BEAR TAINTPUNCHING GRYLLS. Bear Grylls is the goddamn man. He can basically overcome any obstacle AND HE BATTLES NATURE EVEN THOUGH HE WAS NAMED AFTER IT. That’s like the ultimate slap in the face right there. Bear Grylls will eat a raw monkey eyeball, scrub his scrotum with a sponge he made out of a pinecone and some mermaid hair, sleep on a bed of poisonous honey badgers, make a weapon out of the bones out of some wild animal he conquered, and then defy gravity and jump off of a cliff to safety. How many bears could Bear Grylls grill if Bear Grylls could grill bears? AS MANY AS HE FUCKING WANTS TO.
Fuck yeah Mr. Grylls. And fuck you, nature.
There are so many things about the wind that I hate that I actually had to make a list so I wouldn’t forget that I hated them. The wind…*puts on sunglasses, slowly*…blows. *Cue CSI theme music*. It’s never there when you need it, which is why everyone in America owns at least 1 fan, and it’s always there when it’s not wanted. See every tornado, hurricane, tsunami, or sandstorm in the history of time. Growing up in Tucson, there is probably 5 months out of every year that the wind isn’t terrible, and even then it’s still not pleasant. It starts getting hot in Tucson in late February and continues being hot until the end of September. Hot wind blowing in your face is basically the equivalent of staring directly into the toaster while it’s on. Your eyes start to shrivel like sun-dried tomatoes and you immediately get thirstier than one of those camel riding fuckers in the Sahara. Also, bad things always happened to me when the wind was blowing hard in Tucson. When I was younger I had some pretty majestic hair. It was all Jonathan Taylor Thomas minus the highlights. THE LADIES SWOONED FOR IT. But seriously, it was some good hair. The problem with having the majestic locks of a Bronze Lion-God JTT in Tucson is that my head always got really fucking hot, and when the wind blew, for some goddamn terrible reason, bees would get thrown off of their flight path and get tangled in my it. Bees. Apparently bees think that they need to sting something when they’re stuck in hair, which is bullshit because I wasn’t happy about them being there in the first place. Stupid assholes. So I’m blaming the wind for bee stings, too. In Tucson dust devils are also frequent. If you don’t know what a dust devil is, it’s basically a 2-foot tall tornado that lasts all of 13 seconds, and they seem really awesome until they pelt your car with gravel, or fling a broken piece of cactus into the back of your leg like a fucking blowdart.
Wind is also the reason why some pretty shitty forms of math exist. There is a different equation to figure out wind speed, wind chill, wind energy power, wind vector, wind drag, thermal wind, wind speed rating for fucking tents, etc. I could go on, but just thinking about all the possible ways for me to fail numerically pisses me off.
Yeah, that’s real. I don’t even have any idea what that shit means or who the stupid asshole that came up with that is, but it just looks terrible. As a matter of fact, I don’t think I can even pronounce half of the characters in that equation. Vermont equals something multiplied by some fucked up pyramid and a couple Downs Syndrome looking zeros. It pisses me off to think that our badass troops in the American military have to figure out equations to battle the wind while they’re shooting Al-Qaedas and shit, but they always get the job done, that bitch Nature can’t stop them.
Finally, when I was a kid, I used to play a video game called “Final Fantasy 3”. That shit was badass, except for 2 things: 1) Some of your enemies were only weak against wind, which is bullshit because what the fuck does that even mean, and 2) The only fucking wind-spell that I have is fucking “Tornado”, which kills my own guys! Fuck. Whatever, at least I have Sabin, that motherfucker MAKES WIND HAPPEN WITH HIS KILL-FISTS OF AWESOMENESS.
Fuck you, nature.
Gravity is a real bitch. And not just because it teamed up with my one-time friend Alan in the whole “make-me-fall-out-of-a-tree-and-break-my-shit” debacle. (See https://brahvsnature.wordpress.com/2011/07/18/today-in-f-you-nature-tree-sap/ for that ridiculous story.) Gravity is a little something that I like to call an “invisibully” – you can’t see it, but it’s constantly fucking humans up left and right. Anytime you trip and make a fool of yourself in front of some hot piece of ladybutt, thank gravity. Anytime a bird shits on you, a plane crashes, a baby falls down an elevator shaft, a mortar hits your house, Jesus reaches down and punches you in the forehead, you drop your keys down some fucking hole that happens to be the exact shape of your keys and nothing else in the world, thank gravity. Do you know why you can’t fly? Gravity. There are so many reasons to hate gravity, but let me tell you the worst thing gravity has ever done to humanity – Saggy boobs. I would rather have fallen out of that tree 1000 times than ever known the world of saggy boobs.
I’m not a scientist, but I’m pretty sure I know how this works: Girls sprout their glory-lumps like awesome Chia pets at about 13 years old, and then immediately go into a struggle with gravity. For years and years women fight a losing battle, using weapons manufactured by Victoria’s Secret (weapons that also make them wonderbra wearing liars – a fact that I’ve come to terms with, because it’s worth it to know that they’re fighting nature daily) only to eventually succumb to saggy boobness. And women can’t be blamed for it, gravity never lets up on its iron grip. The bigger the rack, the more gravity yanks on it, and the more likely the chick is to 2-step all over her nipples. Giant, beautiful orbs made out of happiness and full of magical, rainbow-colored unicorn fur are transformed into something that looks like a pair of oversized twinkies filled with that slime that Nickelodeon shows used to make you look like an asshole if you failed a physical challenge back in the ’90’s. I think it was called “Gak”, I can’t remember. Either way, it sucks.
According to mathematicians and physicists and those kind of geniuses, Isaac Newton and Albert Einstein, blah blah, gravity is actually something keeping humanity alive by not allowing Earth to go spiraling into the sun and burning to a crisp. But that’s just a clever ruse. I’m not sure why Isaac Newton is siding with gravity after he was hit in the face by an apple, sounds like a little bitch move to me, but whatever. I’d much rather live in a world where women floated around frantically with perfect boobies, even only for a few minutes of gravity-less glory before skidding into the sun like a junebug into a bug-zapper, than in a world with banana shaped dangle tits, swinging around like fucking chest-scrotums. Whatever, I’ll always love all boobs, and always hate all gravity. And women, you all deserve medals for your constant struggle with nature.
Fuck you, Nature.
When I was in my senior year of high school I moved into my best friend Nathan’s house, because my stepdad and I didn’t get along. By “didn’t get along” I mean, he was a twat constantly, and I got to the point where I was seriously contemplating garroting that motherfucker with my shoelace. I decided that it was better for his health and my relationship with my mom if I just moved out. It was probably also better for my anal virginity, as my ass would’ve no doubt been used as the target for some 400lb inmates bent, freckled flesh battering ram. Anyways, I saved my butthole, but ruined my liver, because after moving in with Nathan, I had a lot more opportunities to drink heavily, which I did. One drunken night, Nathan invited an insane, anorexic bitch named Kayce to our place. I still don’t know why, but she was obsessed with me. Not the cute, shy, yearn-for-you-from-afar kind of obsessed. The kind where she tried to run my sister over with her moms fucking minivan because she thought my sister was my girlfriend or something horrifying like that. (My sister and I were walking down the street near our house, and she and I look nothing alike) So naturally, I drunkenly figured that, in order to avoid being raped and then sacrificed to some fucking emo girls weeping god -which is probably actually just the lead singer of the shithead band, Silverchair- I would lock myself in the bathroom.
My plan worked, because I woke up laying facedown on the floor like a champ with no signs of rape or stab wounds. I crawled from the bathroom to my bed and passed out again. I woke up a few hours later with the worst hangover I ever had – or so I thought. The room was spinning, my mouth was as dry as Courtney Love’s used up, rotten vagina, my head was pounding…the only thing in this world I wanted was water, but I couldn’t move to get it. I looked up, and saw that there was a God and He loved me – the day before I had been drinking tap water out of an empty apple juice bottle. (Not because I was drunk and stupid, but because I was broke and thirsty) I grabbed the bottle and started chugging the water, happier than a homo on Penis Day. I realized that the water tasted funny, but didn’t give a shit at the time, because I was so thirsty. I looked at the bottle and saw a bunch of black squiggly lines all over it. Still didn’t care, kept drinking. Suddenly, Nathan yells from the other room, “Dude, don’t drink the water next to your bed, I peed in there.” God. Dammit. I look closer at the lines on the bottle and realize that they were the scrawlings of a drunk man, and they weren’t random lines – the bottle said “pee” all over it. That was when my hangover was magnified by about 2000%. I puked EVERYWHERE. For hours. Jesus Christ, just writing about this horrible occurance in my life makes me want to puke. And punch Nathan in the taint for leaving that goddamn water bottle next to my bed. And punch apples and apple juice and apple juice manufacturers for existing. Fuck.
Drinking piss aside, hangovers suck in general. And I understand they’re completely preventable by not drinking alcohol, but what fun is that? Humans slapped nature in her balls by creating something amazing out of rotten food -alcohol- and nature had to tamper with it by making our bodies unable to effectively process it. WHY MAKE BEER SO DELICIOUS IF I CAN’T DRINK IT WITHOUT BAD THINGS HAPPENING TO ME? I don’t care about the brain cells I may or may not be losing, or the dude-rape that might happen at that frat party I crash, but I do care that in 8 hours when I wake up after drinking way too much, I can’t see out of my right eye, my head is pounding, I can’t feel my dick, I’m crying blood and I’m vomiting profusely. But, as any badass human does, I drink anyways just to spite that whore Nature. Basically, a hangover is the combination of being dehydrated, alcohol eating through your stomach lining, and your liver acting like a little bitch and not being able to produce enough liver-junk, which causes your glucose levels to diminish. Your brain runs on glucose, and without it you’re dizzy and stupid. Something like that. My friend Lindsay explained it to me once, and she is a nurse and a genius, so I’m inclined to believe everything she tells me about everything ever.
The only hangover worth a damn is the first “Hangover” movie. I haven’t seen the second one, so I can’t comment on it, but I heard mixed things about it. But the first…That shit was hilarious. Especially when baby Carlos was jackin’ his little wenis. And other stuff. Tigers. Goddamn, I need a beer.
Fuck you, nature.
When I was a kid, there was a big-ass tree next to my house, and it was the perfect climbing tree. It was a rarity for Arizonan neighborhood trees, because it didn’t have massive thorns jutting out of it like the pubes on some demons scrotum, like most of the trees in Tucson do. (Yes, trees. Not the cacti. The trees also have huge thorns on them. Look it up if you don’t believe me, dick) It had just the amount of large branches for me to use to hoist myself up onto the thick top branches about 15 feet up, where I would sit for hours and enjoy the shade from the hot Tucson sun. I used that tree as a refuge from everything that sucked when I was a kid, and I loved it. Until one fateful day, my neighbor Alan came by and told me something badass was happening – probably that he got to the last level of “Kung Fu” on his NES. That black-clad ninja was a real bitch. Anyways, for some reason that I don’t recall, I was stoked, and began my descent of the tree. And then I touched the tree sap. At first I was disturbed because I thought I put my hand in some terribly sticky bird diarrhea, and it was grossing me out. Like a bird with Crohn’s disease or something. After I got a better look though, I realized it was coming out of the tree. I guess my investigation was taking too long, because around that time, Alan threw a rock at me and knocked me out of the tree. I remember falling for what seemed like a long time, and then I landed awkwardly on my arm and broke it. Yes, Alan is a giant vagina, but I still blame the tree sap for my broken arm.
Tree sap doesn’t seem like much of a big deal, it’s not an active threat of nature. It’s more like Mother Nature’s passive “fuck you”, and I hate it with a burning passion felt deep within my soul. And loins. And my right arm when it’s raining out. Have you ever gotten tree sap on your car? It’s like Winnie the Pooh with a bloody dick jizzed on the hood of your car with his honey jizz. You can’t get that shit off, unless you have about $200 to spare. Then you can take your car to some douche-faced local Italian car detailer that wears dirty wife beaters and sweats something that smells like a mixture of pepperoni and baby tears, and have him overcharge you to get it off. And don’t even think that you can just move your car out from under the tree that’s dripping its shit all over your car – the fucking wind can blow sap onto your car too. Yeah, enjoy yourself. Have you ever gotten tree sap on your hands? It doesn’t matter how much you wash that shit, nothing created by man is strong enough to get it off of your skin. You basically have to deal with dead bugs and hair being stuck on your hands until your skin exfoliates itself enough that the sap is gone. And then you’re still haunted by nightmares of your hand being stuck to your face when you wake up in the morning. And pray to God that it’s not your masturbating hand that’s all sapped up, you don’t even want to get me started on that.
It’s true that one of the 3 wise men that was bringing Jesus frankincense back in the day, which I guess makes tree sap holy or something to some people. But really, that’s a dick gift. No one, especially a baby, needs fucking tree sap in a box. Jesus would’ve been royally (haha) pissed had he been old enough and smart enough to know what that jerk was bringing him. Also, if it wasn’t for tree sap, that KFC “Colonel” looking dingleberry wouldn’t have been able to create Jurassic Park. We all know what a bunch of bullshit that ended up being.
Fuck you, nature. (PS- Thanks for the great idea, Amy!)
When I first moved to Pittsburgh, I was really stoked about living in a place with rivers and hills and great scenery. The weather is usually decent, and I enjoy living in a place that has 4-seasons. There didn’t seem to be too much of a bug problem, or at least that’s what I thought. Enter: the stinkbug. When I first saw a stinkbug, I had no idea what it was. I just noticed a gaggle of stupid, turd-looking bugs burning in my grill and didn’t really think anything of it, except that they had better not be exploding on whatever delicious animal I was planning on eating. One of my dildo neighbors told me that they were baby praying mantis’. Now, I’m not an entomologist, but I know what a fucking praying mantis looks like. They’re green and they kinda dance and they have giant dick slappers. Stinkbugs, on the other hand, look like flying hobos. Whatever, the point is, nobody could tell me what the fuck they were. I just knew that no matter what I did, I couldn’t keep them out of my house.
I tried just about everything that made sense as far as making sure unwanted things didn’t encroach my bubble of solitude goes, from keeping my doors and windows closed, to bug spray, to gorilla swiping these fuckfaces out of the air, and then throwing them in the toilet and laughing maniacally as the whirlpool of eternal glory and pee took them to a watery grave. And STILL I’d wake up to about 100 of the fuckers crawling around my windows everyday. Finally I started hearing tales about some Chinese people bringing stinkbugs to America or some Communist bullshit like that. I’m pretty sure that story is made up, but whatever. I’ll spread this rumor for the simple fact that I don’t really give a shit where they came from. I’m almost positive that they crawled out of Mother Nature’s giant granny-panties anyways.
Stinkbugs are basically the Dustin Diamond’s of the Animal Kingdom (Dustin Diamond played “Screech” on “Saved by the Bell”, if you’re uninitiated in the awesomeness of ’90’s TV) They started off as nuisances, but flicking them across the room during the theme song to “The Fresh Prince of Bel-Air” was mildly amusing. Then eventually they got out of control. I’ve heard horror stories about people having to actually move out of their fucking houses because of the infestations. Ridiculous. I wouldn’t have moved out. If a horde of Dustin Diamond’s starting bustin through my doors and windows, I would’ve burned the fucker down. That’ll learn’em.
Anyways, to my knowledge, stinkbugs don’t bite and aren’t poisonous, and I don’t really even know why they’re called stinkbugs, because I’ve smashed probably hundreds, and I’ve never smelled anything gross. But the simple fact that they’re like illegal immigrants, hiding until night to bust into your house and shit on your carpet and then hanging out in your bathroom vents while you’re taking a shower, makes me hate them with a burning passion. Fucking perverts have to buy tickets for this showerfest just like the rest of the members of www.nakedianintheshowerisawesome.com. THIS SHOW ISN’T FREE, SON.
Fuck you, nature.