Fuck You: Year-end (or World-end) edition

If you’re reading this, the world hasn’t ended…yet.  The Mayans didn’t say what time the end would come, or in what time zone, but let’s assume we have at least a few more hours.  If the world does explode today, I want to say farewell with a Fuck You medley.

Fuck you, gun nuts.  Fuck you and your arguments about how owning assault weapons protects us from tyranny.  The United States has the biggest arsenal on the planet.  If the government wanted to subdue the masses, do you honestly think a semi-automatic rifle would help you?  You could have a Howitzer in your front yard and it wouldn’t matter.  And you morons truly believe that arming everyone would prevent horrific shootings like the one in Newtown??  Rot in hell, you twisted, deranged scumbags.

Fuck you, cottage cheese.  I despise you.  I truly do.  If I were stranded somewhere and you were the only thing available to eat, I’d starve to death.  You’re disgusting.  You have icky curds and a funky aroma, and I still have PTSD from the one time I tried you.  People say you’re a good, healthy snack.  I disagree.  You’re nasty, and I hope you become someone’s prison bitch.

Fuck you, cancer.  You miserable fucking mutants.  You’ve killed millions of people.  You’ve tried to take out members of my family.  What is your fucking problem?  As long as I’m alive, I vow to fight you.  I will make sure everyone I know is vigilant about keeping you away and getting rid of you as fast as possible.  Drop dead.

Fuck you, Tom Cruise.  I hate you.  You’re a shitty actor and you’re insane.  And your voice annoys the shit out of me.  By the way, you’re about as suited to play Jack Reacher as I am.  Fuck you.  For the love of Xenu, go to the Scientology compound and stay there.  Permanently.  Do not speak or show yourself in public ever again.  You suck.

Fuck you, CEOs.  You’re greedy, evil motherfuckers.  You’ve destroyed so many lives with your callous disregard for your employees and your customers.  You’re soulless vultures who would sell your families for a few extra bucks.  I want to be there when the Universe doles out your karmic retribution.  I would mock you, laugh heartily, and eat popcorn while you suffered the slings and arrows of your outrageous fortune, as it were.  Blow me.

Fuck you, man sitting behind me on the plane.  You couldn’t gently put your tray back up—no, you had to slam it into the back of my seat.  Were you trying to give me whiplash or was that just a bonus?  And then you grabbed my seat back to hoist yourself up every time you changed positions.  Asswipe.  I reclined my seat in hopes of pissing you off but you didn’t seem to mind.  That just pissed me off more.  If I ever see you again, I will cut you into teeny tiny pieces.

Fuck you, dickwad standing behind me on line at the ATM.  Do you always stand that close to people you don’t know?  What the fuck is wrong with you?  You should have at least bought me a drink or asked for my name before you crawled up my ass.  I have three words for you: Personal space, motherfucker.

(Also, I really will be blogging about my party with Darla, Calahan, and Joe—as soon as the dust settles from Armageddon.)