I Am Going To Give My Neighbor A Bailout From His Life
There has been a lot of talk lately about bailouts, or as I like to call them, SHITOUTS.
No, this column isn't becoming a financial advice DISH-O-RAMA, even though I have tried to ask CNBC for my own stock tips show before, called "Fucking Money", where I would tell people, "THIS IS SHIT, THIS IS GOOD, BUY IT YOU ASSHOLES." They would listen, too, because I have a voice that's loud, but sweet like FUCKING HONEY MADE FROM MATING BEES IN SPRING.
Anyway, let me explain what happens in a shitout:
- Someone loses money because they GAVE AWAY FUCKING CREDIT TO HOBOS AND WHORES.
- They tell the government that they're sad, even though lots of us are sad all the time, but we never show it on the outside, not even for a second, because it would MAKE OUR SHIT-ASS FAMILIES SAD TOO.
- The government gives them EIGHT KERJILLION FUCKING DOLLARS OF MY TAX MONEY
- OH MY GOD, YOU FUCKING FUCKS
The point is that these days, everyone seems to be getting a bailshit. BOA (Bank Of ASSHOLES). AIG (ASSHOLES IN... GROSS). And so on, until eventually, we'll just write a BIG OL' FANCY FUCKING CHECK to anyone who isn't named PETER "WORKS ALL THE DAMN DAY UNTIL HIS HUMP IS FUCKING BROKEN" DUNSON.
That's right. So far, I have not been bailed out from SHIT. Not from my job at that PISSING PLANT where I don't even know what I do anymore, because I'm so PISSED OFF ALL THE FUCKING TIME, so I just STAND THERE AND BREAK GLASSES THAT I BROUGHT FROM HOME. Not from my family, whom I LOVE DEARLY BUT HOLY SHIT, I MEAN JESUS. Not from anything. It's enough to make even a HAPPY-GO-FUCKY guy like me want to RIP OUT MY BRAINS.
But none of that can compare, ladies and SHITS, to the PRIMORDIAL FUCKING NINJA TURTLES rage that I felt when I saw that my neighbor, JOHN FUCKING I NEVER BOTHERED TO LEARN HIS SHITTY LAST NAME, got a NEW CHRISTING CAR.
"Weeeell, that sure is one new happy little fucking car!" I exclaimed when I saw it, trying to be happy for my fucking MISTER RODGERS but still feeling some FUCKING SHIT GNAWING AWAY AT MY GUT. "How'd you manage to afford that, START SELLING DRUGS?"
"Oh, hey there, Pete," he said, looking a little uncomfortable because he PROBABLY HAD NINE HUNDRED DOLLARS CONCEALED IN HIS ASSHOLE. "The old jalopy finally bit the bucket, so I had to get something new. I hope this lasts me for a long time."
Now let's get one thing straight, you fuckers: NOBODY ON THIS FUCKING PLANET CAN AFFORD A NEW CAR. It's impossible. If you want to tell me your little PLAN-EROO for using your paycheck to buy a new car after YOUR WIFE WHO LOOKS LIKE A MOLE AND PROBABLY LOVES MOLES MORE THAN YOU, your KIDS WHO ARE PLANNING TO KILL YOU AND EAT YOU SOMEDAY, and the GUBMENT all take a piece of it, WELL GO RIGHT AHEAD IN YOUR FUCKING CANDY LAND FANTASY, WITH A FUCKING GUMDROP SLIDE AND ICE CREAM SUNDAE TOILETS.
Sound hard? THAT'S BECAUSE IT SON OF A BITCH IS. So the only way that anyone could ever buy a new car is if OLD UNCLE SAM GAVE THEM SOME MONEY AFTER HE MOLESTED ME. That's right: MISTER JOHN MY NEIGHBOR GOT A FUCKING SHITOUT.
"WON'T YOU BE MY NEIGHBOR?" I asked him rhetorically while I RIPPED A SIDE MIRROR OFF HIS CAR WITH MY TEETH AND STARTING HITTING HIS KIDNEYS WITH IT.
"What the hell?" he shouted, but I couldn't answer him on account of the MIRROR IN MY MOUTH. "What are you doing?"
"MMMRMMMRM KRRM," I explained, and then I spat out the mirror, because I thought he might understand my SHIT OF VIEW better if I started to sing a song about my FUCKING PLIGHT. "I WORK HAAAAARD FOR THE MONEY, SO HAAAARD FOR MY SHIT, I WORK HAAAAARD YOU FUCKER SO GET RID OF YOUR FUCKING CAAAAARRR."
Mr. SHITTERS ran back into his house, and that's where he is right now, probably calling the police or his PRECIOUS CAR DEALER FRIEND AND LOVER. But guess what? THE POLICE ARE PAID WITH MY FUCKING TAXES, and I'm not giving them a SHITOUT, so looks like they're out of work. Then I will be free to GIVE MY FRIENDLY FUCKING NEIGHBOR A FINANCIAL PACKAGE WITH MY TIRE IRON.
