Apparently some crazy lunaticbitch thinks all of her children’s toys are saying “Islam is the light,” including a copy of Baby Pals on the Nintendo. Dear concerned parent: please take your shizophrenia meds and call me in the morning.
Call the fucking Marines.
#2 – “Islam is the Light.”
Posted in Uncategorized on February 4, 2009 by runtothetrenches#1 – “Hey There Delilah”
Posted in Posts with tags loathing, music on March 21, 2008 by runtothetrenchesHere’s a scenario for you to ponder:
You’re sitting on a park bench. It’s a bright sunny day. Perhaps you’re enjoying a hot dog from the smiling vendor who recently refilled his Levitra prescription. Spread out on the lawn before you are a group of kids playing pick-on-the-fat-one while the cantankerous old hag from two blocks down who you think may be a member of a white supremacist movement walks her Rottweiler, smiling for once.
All in all, it’s a pretty good day. Sure, the world is going to shit but you’ve got a hot dog and you can’t wait until that Rottweiler runs into those children. Life could be worse.
Suddenly, an old acquaintance comes bounding up. He/She looks particularly excited about something. Normally this is a cause for alarm, but it’s such a great day that nothing could ruin it. “Who knows,” you think to yourself. “Maybe Jay/Jane got that new herpes cream and wants to do things to me that would make Paris Hilton blush.”
“Guess what!?” says Jay/Jane, in an strangely enthusiastic voice that seemed to imply you weren’t getting laid.
“What??” you ask, feigning interest and hoping that they’ll either be on you or out of your sight momentarily.
“You know how you always say I have horrible taste in music?” He/She asks.
“Yes.”
“Well I listen to good music now! I found a band even you can’t help but love!” He/She says. Your spirits sink. This is going to end poorly.
“You finally picked up Era Vulgaris?” You ask hopefully, trying your best to salvage the situation.
“Oh god no, I can’t listen to that noise. There’s this band called the Plain White T’s, and they have this song “Hey There Delilah!” OMIGOD They’re soo good, like the next Beatles…”
She keeps talking but you aren’t listening. The kids have stopped making fun of the one who has no control over their body image. They’ve started hugging and telling each other they’ll never fight again. They begin playing fetch with the Rottweiler. Somewhere, off in the distance, you can hear the distinct sound of a hippie getting a hard-on. You try to reach for your friend’s throat in a desperate attempt to strangle him/her before the inevitable comes, but it is too late. Hot dog man’s shitty JVC boombox begins blasting the unmistakable sound of Tom Higgenson’s high-frequency queef of a voice blurting out “Hey there Delilah, what’s it like in New York City…” As you struggle to remain conscious, holding your head in your hands and shouting Lovecraftian curses into the air, you realize that blood is gushing out of your ears, and the last thing you feel are a billion tiny, bodybuilding transvestites named Delilah raping the inside of your head with fisticuffs.
Somewhere in the former U.S.S.R., a man in a shadowy bunker watches this on a video screen, and looks at his equally shadowy peers for a moment before nodding silently and pushing a big red button. The resulting thermonuclear explosion instantly incinerates millions. ”We almost had another outbreak,” he says to nobody in particular, and the other men in the room know that he is addressing his conscience. “We did what we had to do.”
…And that’s what happens in my head every time you play that goddamned song.
