She’s walking on sunshine!!! Seriously, this may be the most hilarious (and horrifying) mash up ever. I just saw it this morning and I think I woke my neighbors from laughing so hard. Homegirl crossed the line from sympathy into internet all star of drug abuse a while ago and we here at Ogronitude celebrate all things ogurt and getting loaded is one of many ways to achieve outer-worldly ogrismo. And this chick is out to lunch… Wow.
Get ready for the most ogurt 47 seconds of your life.
On the day of my wedding I will ask my bride to skip tradition and braid my wart hair then spit beer into my mouth…
I now pronounce you man and wife!
See, I got these wart hairs sprouting out of a mole on my back. Been there my whole life. I love ‘em. They’re mutants. My mutant love advisers. I ask ‘em about stuff and they tell me yay or nay when the woon dang gets for real. If a girl don’t cut the mustard I will hear my wart hairs argue yes or no or disperse advice like good wart hairs are prone to do. In essence, when my mind fails (as it often does), they get the job done.
When the braid is completed the message is clear:
An ogurt queen has been crowned and my wart hair will finally shut the fuck up!
Sometimes those hairs piss me off and I cut ‘em down or pluck ‘em out and in a matter of minutes it seems they grow back as if to say, “Is that all you got?! We ain’t goin’ nowhere!”
Schizo-mind controlling wart hairs, beer spitting brides, gum snapping white trash girls shearing eyelids off of drugged beagle puppies in a cold, moldy root cellar… Whoa!
What’s the big deal? I watch these shows on the Travel Channel where they go around and show nothing but steaks and barbeque. My friend asked me how long I have been watching these shows and I’ll say, “All day.” They sometimes run in six hour blocks.
What’s the big deal? She tells me that I am treating it like porn which got me thinking… Yeah, so? Actually I like it better than porn. I’ve seen all manner of porno. The close ups that look like an alien giving birth to a scalded sea cucumber, boobs that look like they are stretched then smothered in freckle colored trash bags, midgets with enough butt hair to knit a sweater, Ron Jeremy…
I think I’m gonna be sick…
With awesome!
No really… if you were to turn on these meat shows I will be transfixed and watch them like a drugged child watching cartoons. I get so hungry that I want something that used to have a face and moo thrown into a fire, then slammed down onto a plate (or into a trough) immediately next to my gaping maw and then I want naked flesh and greasy make outs to follow. Ok, so sex and meat are big awesomes to me right now. I can’t stop thinking about them.
How about I shock your testicles? I don’t care if this guy was commanded by God to bag groceries or if he thinks Jesus gave him his taste in older women. I watched him hype up his team with the oldest and arguably the worst sports cliche of all time:
Shock the world!
For fuck’s sake. Now, I think I hate him.
I hope the Steelers make this guy play the football equivalent of “grab your ankles” for 60 minutes during the Super Bowl.
Sports.
I hope Troy Walloomalloo (whatever his name is) drives Warner’s head into the dirt so many times he stands up drooling and cross eyed and begins to praise Beelzebub and starts dating bulldogs.
Sports.
I hope that after they lose 87-3 that Arizona Cardinals owner, Bill Bidwell, trades in his bow tie for an S & M mask and moves the team to an orgy camp in Thailand to be sex slaves for vacationing Chinese communist dwarves.
Sports.
I hope that former head coach Bill Cowher’s ever present bad breath and lumberjack log jaw takes the form of some kind of sports ghost, juts out across the field, and sacks Warner for a 30 yard loss.
Sports.
I hope Warner endures so much head trauma that he believes it is now his calling in life to renounce God and focus every waking moment of the rest of his life to convincing Sir Mix A-Lot to do a My Hooptie remix.
Sports.
I hope the Steelers maul Larry Fitzgerald to the point where he gives up football and becomes the pitchman for a Schlitz Malt Liquor bull revival advertisement campaign where he rides the bull like a reggae-Hey Mon! bull rider through a barn wall with Daddy Yankee thumping in the background as prostitutes bussed in from Atlanta pelt him with baloney and cigarette butts.
SPORTS!
Get what I’m saying here, people? Quit worshiping stupid sport dorks who cannot speak in anything but tired, awful cliches, watch football, eat meat, root for the Steelers in the Super Bowl, and beware of angry, former coaches whose jaw line is so inhuman that it will come back as a poltergeist and knock you over.
My cousin and I used to use this countdown before we would slap our food. Yes, we would punch fried chicken at the dinner table. We didn’t use a wiffle ball bat but if we could have gotten away with it we would have.
We knew we were special. Special, not in that “he’s going to be president one day!” special but special like these children should be wearing foam helmets and riding the short bus (the half twinkie) kind of special. We weren’t retards but we tried our best to act like it.
It was days before when we were outside in my backyard throwing hammers that I changed. We were out there as usual, throwing hammers, discussing the Rock and Roll Express, when I surprised my cousin, “Catch!” and threw a hammer at him.
He caught it. With his face.
Amidst the screams, blood, and subsequent beatings at the hands of my aunt and my father, I began to re-evaluate my young life. This is the moment I gave up hammer throwing for punching fried chicken.
You know I was speaking to an attractive female last night and I mentioned how I like sports and meat. She was disgusted with me which of course turned me on. Meat, sports, sports, meat… Yeah, so what?
But I also love Australian accents and during a dream I thought of how someday I could go down there, interrupt one of them from barbecuing shrimp, take someone hostage at boomerang point and force them to make some Tex-mex meets grilled freaky Aussie outback meat sandwiches, talk sports, and then disrobe atop said charred freaky animal meat.
Makin’ love on a mountain of meat holdin’ a boomerang!
I’ll eat almost anything. Clams, apples, beagle toe knuckle meat empanadas, a FlowBee… That’s right. I’ll eat a vacuum style barber replacement tool. A little salt, some garlic… And I’m chowing down on a buffet of mechanized follicle choppers, dreaming of drunken Australian voices, naked on a pile of meat getting a bad haircut…
