I know what you want (what you really, really want). You have always wondered just what the hell goes on at Thai dinner parties, which candy the U.S. government doesn’t want you to see, and above all why people can’t enunciate when expressing their opinions on something “not good.” Welcome to nagood.com you curious bastard; you’re in good company. You are reading the product of a multi-national collaboration: represented are the countries of Thailand, America, Spain, and New Jersey. I, El Cid, am writing this article because I am dominant and have conquered Valencia–you may know me as the hero from the popular Spanish epic bearing my namesake; if so, don’t blame me for that literary feces I didn’t write it, it’s only about me. I apologize for my digression; allow me to continue. Nagood.com, my fellow slow-tounged friends is all about irreverence and disgust. You might say that we would like to write irreverently about things that disgust us, then again, that’s enough talking out of you, you callow motherfucker. What I know is that there are a lot of things I hate out there and a few things that I like, and according to a collective divinely inspired vision amongst the writers of this site (divinely inspired meaning gummi worm induced) we must record our opinions for the people to read. So write we will and read you shall and tell your friends about us, unless of course you’d like to share the fate of Gregor Samsa, the main character in Franz Kafka’s immortal novella The Metamorphosis, who abandons normalcy for a life of crawling around on the floor naked in his parents house pretending he’s a bug.
The following is a bunch of stuff that has entered my head over the course of the past week. It is in no sort of order and by no means a complete list, but one might call these the high points of my thought processes. Pity me.
As I’m climbing into my car I notice a smattering of bird droppings oddly scattered on the surface of my side-view mirror and the panel lying immediately under the mirror. “Whatever,” you probably say “motherfucker has birdshit on his car, what makes this noteworthy?” I’m so glad you asked you surly bitch because either the birdshit was placed by some bastard poop-throwing vandal or birds have evolved to where they now have the capacity to wipe their asses all over things. The logistics of this defacing by defecation are mind-boggling: the shit is spread from mirror surface, to window, to side panel–a total of around two square feet. Humanity had better hope that this hurculean albeit improbable pooping effort was the work of a person and not anything avian because the consequences of such bird advancements could be horrifying and devastating for people throughout the world. Assuming that my car would be the first victim of what I like to refer to as “The Bird Ass-wiping Revolution,” we may only be seeing small scale results of “genius poopers.” When word spreads to the bird masses, we’ll be in deep shit. Stop laughing you asshole. Picture flocks of swallows descending on cities, like harbingers of crap-bearing death, smearing property, children, and livestock alike. The familiar honking of an approaching group of Canadian geese will no longer prompt people to look up in awe–that is unless they want a face full of poop. I just thank god that there are no ostriches around here. I offer no suggestions; I simply hope that my fears will never come true.
Bras are expensive today; especially those designer Victoria’s Secret models. So if the women’s movement were happening today, would those demonstrators buy cheap bras to burn at public protests and keep their expensive bras in the drawer at home. And if they did this, would I think less of their statement. I don’t know.
Sitting in a room with my graduating class makes me realize how much excess noise I hear every day. It also makes me realize that I hate people far more than I previously thought. If I have to hear the inane screams of the ox-like males in my class for much longer, I may explode. And if I am going to explode, I hope that some shrapnel from my body somehow severes the larynxes of all the aforementioned people, rendering them unable to speak and thus unable to spread their idiocy to an already terminally stupid world.
I’m sitting here staring at a packet of duck sauce. One of us has to make a move. And…and…it’s the duck sauce– onto my lap in a sort of orange gooey-amoeboid mass. You wonder why they call it duck sauce? Well it’s duck extract. Right. They take a duck and gently squeeze it until they can harvest the sweet and sour “sauce” from the duck sauce glands located behind the ears of the duck. This inanimate duck byproduct may look docile and unthreatening but it retains all the wiles of an actual duck. Be careful with duck sauce; it can overwhelm you and ruin your pants.