Stop- parental time!

I guess that right about the time you start going out in public with your child is when random fucking strangers can come up to you and start talking to you about how fucking awesome it is to be a parent. Yeah dude, you're right. I finally know how totally awesome it is to accidentally touch feces on a daily basis. And there's nothing better in life than holding your baby girl, looking right in her eyes and seeing that beautiful smile, and then watching her totally vomit everything she's eaten 20mins previous all over your goddamned lap.

I tell you what, I didn't feel whole until my child started using me as her personal toilet. I didn't feel the urge to go up to random dudes and start talking to them like we're super old friends and go on and on about how fucking sweet kids are. I hate the fact that my having a child is the equivalent of a sign that says, "TALK TO ME ABOUT YOUR FUCKING CHILD". And I especially hate it when they're all, "You know what I'm talking about, you have a daughter, too." And I'm all, "No dude, I don't know what you're talking about. Your child is black and mine is white, which puts them at radically different socio-economic ends of the ladder. Your child is probably going to be on some sort of welfare, and have about six or seven different kids...most likely with different dudes. My child is probably going to some borderline lesbian liberal arts school, where she'll kiss a few girls, maybe let one fingerbang her, and then decide that she likes dudes, anyway. She'll marry some bonehead that I hate and will have to pretend to like every holiday, even though he's probably going to like Budweiser and think that Dane Cook is the apex of comedy.
Or she'll end up in a trailer park somewhere. Who knows? As long as she doesn't end up on the pole, I could give a fuck. But the point of this whole story is she'll have options.

Awright, all racism aside, I want to tell you all about a little movie that I picked up the other day for like, .99. Yeah. So you know it's fucking good, right? It's called Hard Rock Zombies. Okay, now you know it's fucking awesome. Don't believe me? Check out the fucking cover, I can wait. Yeah, you see that? Did you check that fuckers' moustache? And his lion's mane of hair? Okay, the movie is seriously half as awesome as that cover.
And dig this: the movie is about a really shitty, and I use this term very, very loosely, metal band, that goes to this town despite being told by some random chick that they'll die. Cos apparently, when you need to rock, there are no warnings that will keep you away. Ask Ronnie Van Zant, Stevie Ray Vaughn, and Randy Rhodes. Don't ask Buddy Holly or the Big Bopper, though. They don't know fucking anything.
Anyway, they go to this town to rock, and after a really, really gay dance sort of video thing, they get killed. Like the chick told them they would. And it turns out that the dude that's behind all of this, this whole evil plot of taking over some shitty little town somewhere with a bunch of weirdo freaks IS NONE OTHER THAN FUCKING ADOLPH FUCKING HITLER.
I am not making this up. It's actually Hitler behind all of this. And I'm talking some dude saying he's Hitler, I'm talking full Nazi uniform with the Seig Heil's and fucking everything. Hell, the whole reason I bought the fucking thing is I saw Hitler on the back. And I couldn't believe that someone out there had the balls to make a movie that didn't take place in World War II would have Hitler be the primary antagonist.
I wish I could tell you more about the movie, but it's around this time that I became really drunk...or maybe it just kicked in, and I really don't remember anymore about it. Other than the "metal" band was pretty much only buried under 3 inches of dirt. The kind of dirt that you put in a potted plant.
So yeah, three out of 900 stars. Good stuff. If you're really, really high and there is absolutely nothing else on television.

Band I've been listening to a lot of this week: Fucked Up. No, that's the name of the band. And they are awesome.

Keep it black, kids.