TC the Terrible

Pardon me for a moment while I go on a rant here.

I’m tired of all the bullshit artists and social engineering agenda freakls pushing assholes trying to deprive me of my God given right to fuck up my own lungs. I’m a grown ass man with a mind of my own and if I choose to smoke cigars that’s my damn business. Nobody forces me to spend the equivalent of a car payment every month on my dirty, vile little habit. I do it because I want to.

And because you fuckers won’t let me drive when I’ve been drinking.

Smoking a cigar relaxes me. With a house full of estrogen and a job that directly impacts whether American heroes live or die my stress level is off the fucking charts.

Every day is some type of crisis in my world. I need a way to unwind that doesn’t involve shooting the people that cause me problems. Two things help in that regard; booze and cigars.

Sounds primitive I know. Some things in life aren’t all nice and pretty. Hell, when you peel back the layers there’s not a lot in life that is nice and pretty. Most things in the world are as nasty and disgusting as a coal miner’s lungs. That’s why we place such a premium on physical beauty. And why we always say that shit is only skin deep.

The truth is life is ugly and the weaklings among us keep trying to clean it up by creating rules for the bold and brave to follow. Americans today are scared of taking risks. It’s one of the reasons our politicians run like bleating sheep to provide “universal health care” for a nation whose majority didn’t want it. It’s also why we tie up our police departments with seat belt check points that keep them from putting a dent into gang related crime.

Our nation was built by guys willing to risk their lives for this strange concept of a government that was responsive to and held accountable by its people. When did we lose our collective set of balls? God knows that our forefathers wouldn’t have stood for half the shit we think of as normal today.

So, if my cigar smoke bothers you – go fuck yourself. I’ve got bigger problems than your whiny ass. I’m an American with a set of brass balls the size of grapefruits. I’ve got a life to live and you’re getting in my way Fuckwad.

Yes,  it is worth going to Hell for touching yourself.  Because some days only you can give you the pleasure you deserve.  And besides, what else are you going to do after you go blind?  Watch TV?

I gotta admit it.  Rachel Ray really grinds my gears, and not at all in a good way.  That whiny little girl voice and perky energy while pretending to cook 18 course meals in 30 minutes with out fucking up her kitchen.  It’s too much to deal with.  And just once can’t she cook something that I might accidentally have all the ingredients  for, without having to scour every foodie dive in DC to find?

But it looks like Karma is starting to catch up to her ass.  Literally.  A quick gander to the right and you can see the proof for yourself.  Her backside is getting it’s own zip code in the next census.

Which is all good and fine cause there are plenty of guys out there that are into bimbos with a trunk full of junk.  Or a mini-van with the back seats thrown down for the extra weight.  Your call.

Still, she can’t be totally evil. After all, chickie seems to really be into peeling back the banana skin.  And you know she’s gotta be all gung ho over the real thing if a banana can make her drop her jaw like that.  I’m just saying.