It is by now clear that, broadly speaking, all of human experience can be divided into one of two categories: broke-dick bullshit, and fucktard horseshit. This conclusion is as inescapable as it is irrefutable.
On the surface of it, broke-dick fullshit and fucktard horseshit might seem to you so similar as to be essentially interchangeable. Maybe. If you’re a short bus popcorn fart who doesn’t know dick about dick.
If you can’t tell the difference between broke-dick bullshit, which is what I’m doing right now, and fucktard horseshit, then you my friend are so deep inside a vat of fucktard horseshit that you need a fucking snorkel to breathe. You are like the fish that cannot describe water, so deep inside the rank-smelling pit of fucktard horseshit are you. People like me, who traffic in the lowest form of broke-dick bullshit, frankly find fucktards like you pretty sickening. But since we’ve all gotta figure some way to get along in this world, I will explain things to you ONE MORE TIME.
If you make fun of vegetarians, you’re into fucktard horseshit.
But if you are a smug and preachy vegan, you’re all about broke-dick bullshit.
If you eat at Chili’s or Fudrucker’s when you have other options, that is fucktard horseshit.
If you eat at Chili’s or Fudrucker’s for their kitsch value, that it some broke-dick bullshit.
Fox News is fucktard horseshit; Huffington Post is broke-dick bullshit.
If you are wearing headphones and scream-singing along to Maroon fucking Five, you zip it right now, cause nobody needs your fucktard horseshit. Even if you had the voice of an angel, which, believe me, you do not, your song could only be improved by about a thousand per cent more shut the fuck up. And your dancing does not improve matters, either. What you bring mostly is weak-ass weakness.
However, if you never, ever sing or dance, that’s some broke-dick bullshit right there. You are a coward. You run from experience and demean other people because you are a scaredy little candy ass dick hole.
If you bring the six foot inflatable penis to the bachelorette party, that’s fucktard horseshit. Anything over four feet is gratuitous. Show a little class.
If you live tweet from the bachelorette party, that’s broke-dick bullshit. Your commentary adds nothing to experience. Watch the stripper. He’s a hard-working guy who has really thrown himself into the role of the naughty cop, here. Respect the craft.
If you are wearing flipflops and a backwards ball cap, you embody fucktard horseshit. If you make this worse by giving fist bumps all the time when there’s nothing worth celebrating within a mile of you, and you insist on calling dudes “Bra” even when you don’t know them that well, you are not only a meathead with fucktard horseshit running through your veins, most of us want to Taze you till you shit yourself.
But if you are wearing a Scooby Doo t-shirt and a fucking faux-hawk, and over-designed nerd glasses you don’t really need, and the first thing out of your mouth is [EYE ROLL] “Pfft”, and you use air quotes all the fucking time, then you are steeped in broke-dick bullshit. Anybody with eyes can spot you as an inauthentic little piss ant and we want to slap your fucking face till our hands are calloused.
If you honestly believe cutting taxes for the rich in the U.S. creates a single fucking job for anybody this side of Bangalore, that is some CLASSIC fucktard horseshit. If you think for a second that the rich give a rat’s ass about working people, then it is a wonder that a single human skull is able to contain that much stupid.
But if you DISBELIEVE this, and think that you can change a goddamn thing by clicking on the slacktivist petition from Think Progress, or forwarding the email from MoveOn-dot-fucking-org to all your goddamn friends who believe as you do, then that there is some broke-dick bullshit.
Ben Affleck is fucktard horseshit; Matt Damon is broke-dick bullshit.
Fucktard horseshit is the James Franco of Pineapple Express and Your Highness; broke-dick bullshit is the James Franco of General Hospital, and Eat Pray Love, and Howl, and that fucking short story collection of his, cause all of a sudden he’s a fucking WRITER, now, and hosting the fucking Oscars.
Sidebar for James fucking Franco: being a movie star is a really good fucking job that you are lucky to fucking have. From now on: more Rise of the Planet of the Apes, less irritating Renaissance man provocateur prankster shit, OK? Our minds are unblown and likely to remain so, so you can fuck right off. It’s worth noting the tenuousness of your position, Mr. Franco, because the CGI chimpanzee acted circles around you, so you should be very, very grateful, you millioinaire piece of shit.
You are in the thrall of fucktard horseshit if at any point you put a bumper sticker on your car that assures other motorists that “These Colors Don’t Run”. Your mind is a reductive coil of turd that takes the complexity of the worlds shocking events, puts it in a wood chipper, and makes a bland mulch to nourish the dill-weed garden of your preconceptions. Which is unnecessary since your preconceptions are as indestructible as if a diamond and a cockroach somehow had a baby together. Your urge to cut and paste whatever unimaginative idea that crosses your desk degrades the already piss-poor quality of the life or our minds to the point where we can only dimly remember a time when we had the capacity for novel thought. We would hate you, but the stupor juice into which you have helped to lower us is so, so restful.
But you’re slinging broke-dick bullshit when you take note of how sun-bleached and rain-faded that bumper sticker has become. “These Colors May Not Run, But They Sure Have Faded,” you say to yourself as you dislocate your shoulder patting yourself on the back. Your snide chortles, fueled as they are by your pride in the towering intellectual achievement at having rooted out this dizzying irony, reveal more than anything your cowardly tendency to shy away from the often grisly realities of this world, and to seek the gutless refuge of your own epic vanity. If the brainpower you devote to self-congratulation were put to some good purpose, what might the world look like? You are a drain and leech, and we might hate you were it not for the fact that you are too translucent and stingy for us to bother with, you faint-hearted little queef. There is no greatness in you, your enthusiasms are tepid and wan, you believe in nothing, and your conception of the world amounts to little better than a teetering stack of received ideas you barely understand that are cobbled together from Colbert, blog posts you’ve skimmed, and whatever’s trending on Twitter.
In conclusion: we are bustas, of one sort or another. We all of us land somewhere on the spectrum between fucktard horseshit and broke-dick bullshit. The good news is that we can huddle together in our ignorance and fear, our bafflement and hatred. The bad news is that we are stuck in this foxhole with a bunch of no-count, punk bitch-ass posers so busy fronting that they fold up like a fucking card table whenever shit gets real.
We are a dream team of frauds and morons, charlatans and nimrods. We are bound by the half-witted lies tell, the craven comforts we’re hooked on, the transparent and feeble deception we present to each other, and the gullible eagerness with which we gobble up the patently implausible shit people feed us. Thus we allow this rickety experiment we call civilization to hobble toward its fiery demise.