Comment Corner

Folks, fuck. There are a few things on this green earth that really get my piss steaming to a boil. I mean, so hot that I scald my dick when I take a big leak right out the window. One time, I pissed flaming hot piss that was so scorching, the stream caught flame and exploded. I hit 88 miles per hour, flew back in time and won World War II with the stealth fighter I invented. Take that Philadelphia Experiment II!

Honest to Christ, there are some things out there than can instantly ruin a good mood with their powerful bullshit. I don't mean some asshole firing legless dogs out of a cannon at children swimming, nor do I mean drop kicking grandma in her box. I mean motherfucking Clubber Lang rage.

GETTING MONEY BACK AT THE TIM HORTON'S DRIVE THRU

It'll suffice to say that I've got money. And that money often times takes the form of a $20 bill or so. I understand that people who work Tim Horton's drive-thrus are slightly less retarded than assholes who brag about having an MP3 player in their goddamn car. Woo. Don't bother showing me, I'll just catch the clips of your city-wide ticker-tape parade celebrating you. So, keeping in mind the well-meaning but idiotic mess I'm about to encounter when I pick up my coffee, I try hard to have change ready. But sometimes, all I've got is a $20 and all I'm buying is a large. This means I'm getting change back. Bills and coins.

All the fucking time the person hands me my bills first, so I now have two choices. I can either try and put the bills down somewhere in my car, at which point the stupid bitch who's not paying attention to what she's doing can drop the coin portion all over that greasy no-man's land in between my car and the window without me having a chance, OR I can try and somehow awkwardly cup the bills to form this pocket to cradle the coins back to my car, which doesn't work because they're bills, not a goddamn cup, and they spill all over that same fucking no-man's land. Either tit-fucking way, I'm not getting out of my car to rummage on the ground like a Newfoundlander to scrounge up what's rightfully mine but yet so inconveniently thrown to the ground. So, I have to smile as I lose my change because the vacant stare from the window-cow tells me she's wondering why I haven't yet moved. God fucking help me if they're low on bills and they give me two fives and a buttload of toonies and loonies.



Here's the quick tip: Give me the bloody fucking change FIRST, so I can throw it to my opposite hand, wait patiently for 1.1 seconds while I do this, and THEN hand me the bills. I know your life in the window is worthless and you're three seconds away from stabbing yourself in the eye with a stir-stick shiv, but fuck, I'm sick of throwing away $4298 each year on lost goddamn change.

Fuck.

FLOPPING MILK BAG SYNDROME

In Canada, the only way to buy milk in bulk is to buy it in those plasticy bags that come in the 1.3 litre size, three to a flimsier bag that's only good for reuse as a space-man helmet for gullible kids. So, you buy the bags, the plastic jug, put the fucking bag in the jug (like this is rocket science), cut the end off the goddamn bag and pour your fucking milk.

But, a hideous design flaw in the bags not found in the cartons is that sometimes, the bag can be too far out of the jug and when you start to pour, the milk collects near the spout, gets too heavy for the plastic to support it, kinks and you spill milk all whatever the hell you were trying to milk up. Your Froot-Loops, for instance, are fucked.



How 'bout making some bigger fucking cartons, huh assholes at Neilsen?

Normally, I do three things because people psychologically expect it, but right now I'm frothing at the crotch over these two things.