Top Ten Reasons Why I'm So Healthy

10) Unprotected sex with cheap whores is great cardio.

9) Never calling your loved ones on their birthdays is an antioxident.

8) Wine is still good for your circulation even if you fill it with meth, butter, and porn.

7) Flintstones vitamins and Q rings, 3 meals a day.

6) Laughter is the best medicine and a spoonful of sugar helps the medicine go down, so all ailments are promptly treated with Laffy Taffy injections.

5) Cigarettes are a vegetable.

4) Centuries of medical research extol the benefits of blood-letting and therefore My Chemical Romance, and I think Black Parade is the greatest album of our generation.

3) Yellow snow gots mad Vitamin A.

2) I once doinked this classy broad.

1) I am a genie.

(Uh-oh, I feel a sneeze coming on. Go get me my Bubble Tape tourniquet.)

FAQ: Religion

(I wanna faq you like an animal.)

Q:
If one can pray to Jesus to confess one's sins, what is the role of confession in the Church?

A:
Jesus is just Vishnu for noobs. Vishnu created the universe, but Jesus couldn't do likewise and had to get his Dad to build one for him like some last minute science fair. The dude was a freaking carpenter, for Chrissakes! Get some plywood, some thumbtacks, and some goddamned elbow grease and make your own fucking Creation.

Also, double the hands means twice the jugglin.

Q:
Why would God allow His own Creations to rebel against Him?

A:
Some people say Jesus was black. Others insist he was white. Vishnu, on the other hand, is dark blue. Or shapeless, when he feels like it. Vishnu 1, Jesus 0. White and black suck.
Vishnu's appearance should dictate the new norm for newborns: little boys get their rooms painted dark blue, girls are thrown into the void. Welcome to sci-fi China. Vishnu rules.

Q:
Can you recommend something in a chrome "What Would Jesus Do?" drinking straw?

A:
No, but I'll tell you what Vishnu would do: he'd grab twice as much stuff. All his friends call him up when they need help moving, and he has lots of friends because he is dark freaking blue. Have you ever seen the Blue Man Group? Those guys bathe in admiration; they can't hitch up their pants without making a friend for life.

Diseasy Like Sunday Mornin'

My cousin suffers from social anxiety disorder, a condition where you bust my lip open because you don't know any better. Ever since that day when I was five years old and she supposedly called dibs on the jungle gym on the ride over but I really don't think it counts if I didn't hear you say it, Tammy - since that day, I've known the true terror of disorders, diseases, syndromes, conditions, and their myriad, nigh-synonymous brethren.

And yet here we are, in the twenty-something^th century, and we still turn the other cheek while all these carcinojerks keep sicking it up like it's plague night at the Renaissance Faire! Don't get me wrong; I'm not saying that the sick are bad people per se, I'm just saying that cancer's probably contagious if you fall asleep with your hand on it.

Everything's a disease. You don't have stankmouth, you have halitosis; yep, your halito is inflamed, or something. Halito being the hole out of which your tongue farts, I guess. I'm not sure how it happens, I just know I was a lot happier before I knew that my toothpaste was medicine.

You got sick, huh? Whaddaya gonna do about it? Go to the hospital? Oh, sorry; didn't you hear? There's hospital disease now. Staph infection, they call it. Staph infection is basically like if the ceilings in dentists' offices periodically rained mouth-sized bowling balls. And sorry, buddy, but the "ph" at the end doesn't make it sound any less like vd.

For your consideration: flesh eating virus. Holy shit. The only illness that will kill you the same way as a bear. I guess on the seventh day of creation, God's mom wouldn't let him rest and was all like "You've gotta spruce up your diorama!" so he's like "I know; I'll make bears that are too small to shoot." Holy shit.

And let's stop it with the illness euphemisms, huh? "I have a cold." No you don't. Cold is an adjective, and you are not a lolcat. If a slight ailment is a cold, Stephen Hawking should go around telling people he's got a fuckin' freezing.

One time an ill-advised ladyfriend tried to turn me on by singing "You Give me Fever"; everything went hazy, and I woke up about an hour later on the sidewalk with half of her brain in my pocket.

Commercial Break: This Thing, This Sandwich

I just mention the food, and you feel the juices in your mouth. It's that good. One bite of this thing, this sandwich, and your life will never be the same. You'll finish it up and immediately run out for a brand new haircut. You'll be driving a Harley by the end of the month. That's how good this sandwich is. You will wake up with piercings.

It starts with the lettuce, and right off the bat, I know what you're thinking. There's nothing hardcore about lettuce, and maybe that was true before the invention of the fryalator, but nowadays, hold on to your socks, Brock. This lettuce is going to blow your mind. Your surgeon will find salad in your arteries. That's the kind of lettuce we're dealing with, and hell no, it doesn't stop there. Then there's the bacon, and now I know what you're thinking, but you know me, so shut up with your doubts. It's good bacon.

Then, the cold cuts. Oh, the cold cuts. Have you ever had ham? Of course you have. Have you ever had ham deep fried in boiling whipped cream? Didn't think so. No one has, no one but me, but you will has too once you eat this. It's fantastic. I really can't recommend it enough. And do you seriously think I'd leave you hanging with only one cold cut? No. No, you do not. There are types of cheese that I've never even heard of outside the context of this sandwich, in this sandwich. And don't be stupid; you know they're fried too. I'm not even sure what they're fried in; there's this vat of unidentifiable shit that I found under the sink one time, it's pinkish green, and it smells like nothing you've ever smelled in your life, but goddamn if it don't do something to this cheese that makes it a wet dream for your salivary gland. Or glands, I'm no doctor. Anyway, lots of cheese. And then more meats. Obviously; I take care of you. The first meat that appears below this mountain of congealed bovine secretions is salami, and I know what you're thinking, but you know what I'm thinking too so you know that's the best damned salami that anyone's ever tasted. I cover it in ham, and I know that there's already ham, but never before have you eaten a salami-pouch made of ham. It's fantastic. Then I killed my landlord, and he's under the salami. He too is deep fried, though that one was really out of necessity. I bet you've never had crunchy landlord before. I have. I have been to the top of crunchy landlord mountain, and I proclaim unto ye all that it is tasty. Tasty like pastry. Except fattier.

Where was I?

Oh yeah, prison.

Psych.

Under the landlord is corn. This isn't any ordinary corn, though. It's beefed corn. You've had corned beef, who hasn't, but you've never even seen beefed corn. It will pass through your stomach into your bloodstream, and you will have all these tiny pieces of corn stuck in your occipital lobe. You will see corn when you dream, it's that freaking good. You think I'm shitting you here? Fuck yourself. My sandwich could kick your sandwich's ass with half it's salami tied behind its landlord.

Then there's bologna, but you don't care, you already want this sandwich. I say it, you taste it. You pay me money, I take that money, make more sandwiches. It's a symbiotic relationship. Me, you, and sandwiches. The way God intended.

The Sad

I went to a restaurant
And ordered the sad.
It was the best sad
That I've ever had.

The salad had toppings
Of wife-left-me croutons,
And tranny-I-accident-
ly put the moves on.

The lettuce was weepy,
The dressing sucked ass,
Like really deep sadness
That may never pass.

The main course was splendid
Juicy but well-done,
A big slab of baseball
Coach groping my son,

The seasoning perfect,
A sprinkling of dill,
A sweet side of sobbing
And therapy bill.

It sits in the stomach,
But can't reach the ass,
Some real heavy sadness
You know just won't pass.

Though already bloated,
Dessert I did get:
A big fart that sounded,
Uh-oh! too wet.

Delicious, of course,
But I don't feel quite right.
This kind of whipped cream
Keeps you shitting all night.