Do. Not. F-ck. Me. On. This.

It appears that nearly everyone in my life is getting married/already married. It inspired me to write this.

*-*-*

by Jeff Larson

Guys, tonight, some stuff’s going to happen.

Weird stuff.

No guff, you’re going to see some shit, and unless you’re a filthy fucking degenerate like Williams over there, it’s going to challenge you. It will shake your spiritual and your entire emotional development to the core.

Gentlemen, this is why we go to Vegas. To challenge ourselves, to grow spiritually, and to remind ourselves what a 19-year-old single mom’s vagina looks like.

There's a lot of mistakes happening in this picture, both past and present.

Awesome. It looks awesome.

Before we embark on this spiritual journey let’s get a few things straight:

Rule number 1: Be Cool. I cannot stress the importance of this one enough. Shit’s going to get raunchy. And actual raunchy, not American Pie, Can’t Hardly Wait, or whatever you faggots jerked off to in high school. First night in Vegas, I’m going to meet with a friend. She’s going to beat me up and then off. I’m going to wear a gas mask filled with ether and she’s going to hook my sack up to some stuff. At one point, I will support my entire body with just my prostate for upwards of 75 seconds.

*joke about pollution*

Do. Not. Freak. Out. If you walk in, which is possible because I have all the vouchers, which will be kept in my room at all times, you have two choices. Quietly leave, or stay, but do not make eye contact with me at any point.

Did you notice how I said “freak the fuck out?” Oh wait, I didn’t. Be cool, god damn it.

Rule number 2: No Snitching. None. What happens in Vegas stays in Vegas. You know who coined that term? Me.

Just as many smelly whores as France, but they speak a real language.

I yelled it from the top of the fake Eiffel Tower as me and Mickey Rourke held off Vegas PD with a shotgun and molotov cocktails. Actually, there’s an excellent chance we were just passing a canister of gasoline back and forth.

Oh yeah, full disclosure, we’re meeting up with Mickey this weekend. I vouched for everyone here, even that cocksucker, Simmons, so Mickey’s going to want you all to join his gang. But you have to be jumped in, so wear something you can be beaten in.

This is the last thing a lot of people see.

Back to the snitching. There will be none. You are not telling your co-workers, or your brother-in-law, or the old ladies you play bridge with, and especially not my twat of a wife. She is not cool with any of my exploits, which is a clear violation of rule number one on her part, but whatever. She’s the mother of my children and she does not need to hear about how I climbed a ladder and face planted on a woman with giant fake titties’ labia.

He was struck down for his hubris. Like Icarus, he flew too close to the sun.

I’m serious. Do not fuck me on this. Simmons, you love to gossip, but I’m warning you, stick to rimming bellhops, if you use your tongue for anything else, I will fuck start your face with Mickey’s sawed off.

Rule number 3: Sun’s out, Guns’ out. Except at dinner, and classy parlors of chance, we will be sleeveless, ideally shirtless, but that’s up to you.

Classy AND functional.

I will be shirtless. I go to the gym six times a week and I do every dip. All of them. And all those sick-ass sluts in Las V are going to soak their socks when they see my sweet, sweet tri’s.

Some of you have little bitch arms. No worries, on the party bus ride out there, I will give you arms like Schwarzenegger in Predator with a combination of super-sets and shouting.

Rule number 3, sub-clause 1: Curls for the girls, boyos. Curls for the girls.

Rule number 4: Shut the Fuck Up. I’m leading you queerbates into battle and all good soldier know when to follow orders. Some of my orders will be fun, like, “lube up, and get back into that orgy,” or “do a rail so we know that you’re not a cop.”

However, some of my orders will not be fun.

Now, total disclosure, if this trip goes anything like my last three excursions to Vegas, some of you may have to execute a pimp.

You've done it again, Internet.

A-no-bullshit-tied-to-a-chair-his-ears-cut-off-begging-for-his-life-put-the-gun-to-his-head-let-him-finish-the-Lord’s-prayer-and-put-a-fucking-bullet-into-another-human-being execution.

I assure you, it’s all for the greater good, just shut the fuck up, and do what I say.
Furthermore, when I’m in the zone, be it throwing dice or plowing waitresses, just shut the fuck up. I don’t need your help, or your insight, and I don’t share pussy, so there’s nothing for you to do anywhere near me, so shut the fuck up.

Rule number 5: Have Fun.

I have literally no desire to ever go here.

Guys, we’re going to Sin City for a very special reason, O’Grady’s getting married. Now, chances are his marriage will end in divorce like most of the country’s, especially when you factor in his drinking problem and the fact that she’s sucked off nearly everyone in this room.

On the offhand that this violent drunk and his whore bride do beat the odds, we have to send him off in style, like a goddamn Viking, so let’s drink, laugh, and make memories that will follow us to our fucking graves.

*-*-*
I got problems.
Matt

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About Nonstop Karate

Created by Chad Quandt and Matt Loman Lonely. Online. Angry due to being online and lonely.

Posted on June 15, 2010, in Character, Matt Loman and tagged , , , , , , , , , , , . Bookmark the permalink. 1 Comment.

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