More proof that Fatass needs to be castrated

The Do-It-Yourself cutoff sleeve shirt,
Fatass's garment of choice.

First off, let me begin this post by reminding everyone of what this blog isn't, so even though I am an American, I do not feel the need to discuss the death of any well-known terrorist, unless it's Fatass. The only thing I ask as a result of the day's news is for my dear Cousin the Fed to call for an end to full-cavity searches.

Anyway, back to the task at hand, which is why you read this blog - Fatass continually doing things to cement his place as a candidate for death via rectal trauma.

After work today, I decided to drive across the street from the store to the mall, because I needed some shorts. I had a relatively good time, despite the fact that it was clothes shopping. I browsed the stores at my own pace, gave the guy at Lids a history lesson about the Brooklyn Dodgers baseball cap (thanks Uni Watch!), and browsed for some video games.

However, my day was immediately ruined when I was walking out of the store. Fatass and Bess were walking in the opposite direction. Bess spotted me and thrusted her nose in the air like the self-righteous twat she is, but Fatass does his bullshit of staring at me until I acknowledge him. It's awkward. It's creepy. It's going to get him punched in his fat mouth if he does it to the wrong person. So I wave and quickly motor out of the mall.

The rest of the day goes by, and I figure it's going to be a Fatass free day, and it was for the most part, but as I walk to get some food, I'm talking on the phone to K-Star and pass through one of the lines. I give them the uninterested nod that shows I'm on the phone while they both awkwardly stare at me as I pass. As I walk by, I hear Fatass remark loudly, "Wowwwwww."

Listen, bitch. Not only am I not obliged to respond to any god damn utterance you make as if I'm hanging on to every syllable with rapt attention, but I am not obliged to show you any common courtesy. Lord knows you haven't shown ME any. And as for that, I WAS ON THE PHONE. I know cell phones are too much of a new fangled technology for you to comprehend, but when I'm talking into the magicy box against my ear, it means that I am talking to someone else. The someone else I was talking to you is more important to me than you will ever be to anyone else in the entire god damn world, so get down off your high horse and eat some shit and die.

I've told K-Star that I'm going to start farting on Fatass's pillow whenever he's not here. After tonight, I'm thinking that's the perfect revenge for not only his constant smell of ass, but his asshole behavior. I figure if ass is what comes out of him, ass can go into him as well. You get what you give, douche.

You think you're a tough guy?

Fatass thinks he rules. He shall
suffer the same fate as O'Doyle here.

So on top of being the world's biggest incestuous douchebag, Fatass is a pretty big bully, especially to those who are smaller than him. There have been plenty of stories from sources other than me on the campus of Big State University about how Fatass has pushed them around, threatened them, and threatened their friends and family. Now, the reason why he hasn't done this to me is because I just don't give a fuck. He could say "well hello there" in his creepy assed way, or he could say "I'm going to kill you" in his creepy assed way, and all I'll hear is just a droning noise because I have my headphones on. You see? I'd be more apathetic if I weren't so lethargic.

But he doesn't think he'll ever get in trouble for anything forever, because he's Boris Grishenko. He's een-veen-cee-bull.

But there's one thing that scares the fuck out of Fatass. And no, it's not just soap. Every other night or so, Fatass will spend at least 20 minutes staring out at the parking lot to make sure nobody comes out. He constantly asks me, "Hey, do you see a red truck out there?" Again, I don't hear a thing because my headphones are fucking on, so he looks himself, and then sits back down on his bed like he's about to wet himself.

My guess is that he tried his Grishenko shit to the wrong redneck and he thinks they'd form an angry mob that's going to come track him down. Unfortunately, he still suffers from delusions of grandeur, so the mob is all in his head. Besides, if they haven't showed up and he's been waiting since August, shouldn't you get the hint? Or are they the mafia or something? Either way, nope, I still don't care.

So Fatass, you have to decide. Are you gonna be a bully or are you gonna be a pussy? Oh, wait. THEY'RE ONE IN THE FUCKING SAME. Go back to the sewer you came from, you fat fuck.

Revenge, best served funky

So I decided to get a little bit of payback tonight because of Fatass's heightened douchebaggery over the past 24 hours. Apparently, in his world, it's 11pm bedtime, and anyone that stays up later than that should be shunned.

So after this gay assed chick flick that I didn't pay attention to, no matter how much they wanted me to, they decided that the time was right to sleep. Normally, I'd shut my light off, but not tonight. K-Star and Funkmaster were having their own little party in K-Star's room, and since I'm a few hours away and I have to work in the morning, I figured I'd join too. So I used the wonders of video chat and we decided to have our own party. I bought a 2 liter of Diet Mountain Dew (nectar of Gods), and we played power hour. For those of you who don't know what that is, it's 60 shots of beer in 60 minutes. The particular power hour we played was synched to punk pop hits from the late 90s and early 00s. Awesome time.

So I turn off the main light and turn on my desk light, and start jamming away. Fatass, very irritated, looks at me jamming out and goes, "Uh, are you okay?"

Shut the fuck up, you son of a bitch. For once, I'm having a good time while you're in the room, mainly because I'm ignoring you. By you opening your fat cakehole, you're ruining my fun. So he wants to know about what I'm doing and I just tell him that it's power hour. Like I assumed, he had no fucking clue as to what I was talking about, so eat shit.

Bess is apparently another early-to-bedder, but seriously. 11pm on a Friday night. I'm not going to concede my entire god damn night just because you two want to do your own thing and go to bed early. You know what they have for that? HOTEL ROOMS. I know a Travelodge a few hours away that's just as skeevy as the two of you.

So anyway, they should just consider themselves god damn lucky that I had my headphones in the whole time. I would have made it MUCH worse than fucking Spongebob. But yeah, fuck them all. Just glad that for a night, Mr. Pissy was in the driver's seat. Fuck Fatass. Fatass sucks.