Was I dropped here by aliens?

I'll start off-topic.

Way to go Ted Haggard, way to fuck mens asses while preaching your homophobic agenda to your legion of sanctimonious douchebags. This is why the right is shaking. This is why they are so afraid to lose the House for another forty years. They are afraid because thay allow themselves to be hoodwinked by hippocritical closet cases like this: Haggard goes down

Ok, now...

For din-din tonight, the brood headed over to Star II for the thin crust (which fucking rocks by the way), and the little lady shuttles home a copy of the latest issue of Envy magazine. For those who are unfamiliar, Envy is a very well produced, super glossy, circle-jerk of a magazine for the uber fucked up yup-monster set. Upon page after page is the documentation of the Red Bull fueled dementia of today's vapid doltish jock/sleaze hybrids, and their saline sacked, platinum blonde, camel toed, halfwit trophy whores. It's a litany of Houston's unsavory underbelly spread open like the legs of Tera Patrick on your round velvet bed (that you bought at Cantoni with your coke money).

It's as though Dallas packed up and moved here, tired of the weeks long 110 degree summer spells, and blustery, bone chilling occasional winter storms. It's as though every date raping, meth snorting, Beamer driving, teeth whitening, creatine eating, salon tanning mook dropped their Pumpkin Spice Lattes and busted south on I-45 just as fast as their Lexus Convertibles with spermicidal leather seating could go. And then the fuckers took one look at the bum infested streets of our fair city and said to themselves, "I can see it, like a fuckin' field of dreams. Shitty-ass clubs, as far as the eye can see, lining both sides of main street like a gauntlet of spiritual decay. A veritable temple row of heretical, deviant palaces, erected like a Viagra laden, semi-flaccid member, post pump-implant, wrapped in neon to attract - baboon-assed like - the attention of anus bleached creatures whose cheap perfume chokes the air like a Baytown refinery in August. Fuck it, I'm jerking off right here."

God fucking dammit, I hate that magazine and what it represents for Houston. There is an actual bar in Houston called Kobain. I am crappin' you negative. Named after my generation's terminally lost casualty, Nirvana's Curt Cobain, whose corpse is no doubt trying in vain to revive itself so that it can once more rid the world of itself once and for all.

Can you imagine the ball-less groins these shaved, greasy, walking zombies must hoist about on their jaunts to the devil's many lairs? Can you imagine the hairless, pre-pubescent, crotches that unnaturally decorate the nether regions of the lobotomized Frankenstein monsters trolling the strip for another hollow husk of a bar, so that they can pickle their lizard brains just enough to take one of these eunuchs back to their Tyvek townhomes to rut with soulless abandon? Wow, it's so fucking depressing. And the police are all blocks away, in the Heights, tazering children, and harassing vegans for reasons other than being vegans.

So motherfuck you Ted Haggard, the apocalypse is now, thanks to devious cowards like you, whose every duplicitous breath is another waft of oxygen that could have gone to someone who really needed it.

Once upon a time, my city had balls, but now it's unholy avatars run the streets downtown. And plague the city with awful decay, of which we may never be set free.

Sometimes it makes me sick. Fuck you Envy. I don't envy you at all. Thank god there are real people out there, and thank god I make an effort to associate myself with them, because god knows how I would function here with an entire city of you unflappable zombies.