Official Vent It thread image
Posted on 06/24/2014 4:55:38 PM PDT by Indy Pendance
Elijah Cummings mourns for what could have been for my socks.
BUMP & ping.
I hate people holding their little yapper dogs on their laps while they’re driving.....there,I said it...
It could be contaminated gas. Keep samples.
Isn’t that true. We’re all gonna die.
You left out vampires and werewolves.
I’m sick and tired of being sick and tired.
I received a letter stating I was being audited by the IRS. I said I lost most of my receipts on my hard drive from 2012 - 2014. They said I need to find them. I said the rest of them were in my gun case but that was stolen and the ATF believes it’s in Mexico. They said I need to find them. I said What difference does it make? They said I could go to jail. I said they’d have to catch me so I figured I’d get arrested so I headed to San Diego but made a wrong turn and I ended up in Mexico. I was thrown in prison but was released because I said I was looking for my illegitimate son to take back to the US. I thought ICE agents would arrest me because I grabbed a kid on my way back in. ICE turned me over to DHS and I received shelter, food and gave me money for a free transgender operation for the kid. I didn’t let the kid get the operation but kept the money. I gave the kid to another kid who had an uncle in the White House. DHS flew me to Virginia and I now have a new Identity and the IRS says I don’t have to pay my taxes because I’m undocumented so they gave me a job. I was hired as an IT specialist but stole IRS secrets and ran away to become a Jihadist and sold my secrets to Russia. I learned how to speak Pashtun and blended in well but wanted to come back to America. I called my Mom and Dad and they called some guy that lives in a white house and they traded me for some friends of mine in Gitmo which I believe ius an all inclusive club. I got to fly back to the states for big reception in my new home town.
Life is good I have nothing to vent about.
I’m so sick of our nation being crippled because of the softness and weak will of others to do what’s right and necessary!
No one else is playing under such restrictive rules...they’re all playing for keepsies, but we’re busily checking off the rules and being destroyed in the process. Virtuously destroyed? Meh.
It’s so frustrating we can’t fight back every bit as mean and dirty as everyone taking us apart bit by bit.
They do get long winded, citing scripture and such.
Get Twinkletoes Grahamnesty off the camera. Linda is as big a camera whore as McDemocRat.
When Republicans gain power they should take a hatchet to all federal agencies and immeadiately fire 10% of the federal workforce for the crime of forgetting that our elected representatives are the boss. Let the bureaucrats know that acting like a snot during congressional testimony will not be tolerated. I would call the law “Restoring Voter Control Over Federal Bureaucrats and Accountability Act.”
People who bring their iPad into the toilet to “work” while they poop.
LOL. Thank you!
And what ever happened to “The Comedian”?
How about “I See My Hands”?
Just gets in my craw that I’ll never know.
Why can’t we all agree on Mary-anne vs. Ginger?
It’s teotwawni.
What’s the point of going abroad if you’re just another tourist carted around in buses surrounded by sweaty mindless oafs from Kettering and Coventry in their cloth caps and their cardigans and their transistor radios and their Sunday Mirrors, complaining about the tea - “Oh they don’t make it properly here, do they, not like at home” - and stopping at Majorcan bodegas selling fish and chips and Watney’s Red Barrel and calamares and two veg and sitting in their cotton frocks squirting Timothy White’s suncream all over their puffy raw swollen purulent flesh ‘cos they “overdid it on the first day.” And being herded into endless Hotel Miramars and Bellvueses and Continentales with their modern international luxury roomettes and draught Red Barrel and swimming pools full of fat German businessmen pretending they’re acrobats forming pyramids and frightening the children and barging into queues and if you’re not at your table spot on seven you miss the bowl of Campbell’s Cream of Mushroom soup, the first item on the menu of International Cuisine, and every Thursday night the hotel has a bloody cabaret in the bar, featuring a tiny emaciated dago with nine-inch hips and some bloated fat tart with her hair brylcreemed down and a big arse presenting Flamenco for Foreigners. And adenoidal typists from Birmingham with flabby white legs and diarrhoea trying to pick up hairy bandy-legged wop waiters called Manuel and once a week there’s an excursion to the local Roman Remains to buy cherryade and melted ice cream and bleeding Watney’s Red Barrel and one evening you visit the so called typical restaurant with local colour and atmosphere and you sit next to a party from Rhyl who keep singing “Torremolinos, torremolinos” and complaining about the food - “It’s so greasy isn’t it?” - and you get cornered by some drunken greengrocer from Luton with an Instamatic camera and Dr. Scholl sandals and last Tuesday’s Daily Express and he drones on and on about how Mr. Smith should be running this country and how many languages Enoch Powell can speak and then he throws up over the Cuba Libres. And sending tinted postcards of places they don’t realise they haven’t even visited to “All at number 22, weather wonderful, our room is marked with an ‘X’. Food very greasy but we’ve found a charming little local place hidden away in the back streets where they serve Watney’s Red Barrel and cheese and onion crisps and the accordionist plays ‘Maybe it’s because I’m a Londoner’.” And spending four days on the tarmac at Luton airport on a five-day package tour with nothing to eat but dried BEA-type sandwiches and you can’t even get a drink of Watney’s Red Barrel because you’re still in England and the bloody bar closes every time you’re thirsty and there’s nowhere to sleep and the kids are crying and vomiting and breaking the plastic ash-trays and they keep telling you it’ll only be another hour although your plane is still in Iceland and has to take some Swedes to Yugoslavia before it can load you up at 3 a.m. in the bloody morning and you sit on the tarmac till six because of “unforeseen difficulties”, i.e. the permanent strike of Air Traffic Control in Paris - and nobody can go to the lavatory until you take off at 8, and when you get to Malaga airport everybody’s swallowing “enterovioform” and queuing for the toilets and queuing for the armed customs officers, and queuing for the bloody bus that isn’t there to take you to the hotel that hasn’t yet been finished. And when you finally get to the half-built Algerian ruin called the Hotel del Sol by paying half your holiday money to a licensed bandit in a taxi you find there’s no water in the pool, there’s no water in the taps, there’s no water in the bog and there’s only a bleeding lizard in the bidet. And half the rooms are double booked and you can’t sleep anyway because of the permanent twenty-four-hour drilling of the foundations of the hotel next door - and you’re plagues by appalling apprentice chemists from Ealing pretending to be hippies, and middle-class stockbrokers’ wives busily buying identical holiday villas in suburban development plots just like Esher, in case the Labour government gets in again, and fat American matrons with sloppy-buttocks and Hawaiian-patterned ski pants looking for any mulatto male who can keep it up long enough when they finally let it all flop out. And the Spanish Tourist Board promises you that the raging cholera epidemic is merely a case of mild Spanish tummy, like the previous outbreak of Spanish tummy in 1660 which killed half London and decimated Europe - and meanwhile the bloody Guardia are busy arresting sixteen-year-olds for kissing in the streets and shooting anyone under nineteen who doesn’t like Franco. And then on the last day in the airport lounge everyone’s comparing sunburns, drinking Nasty Spumante, buying cartons of duty free “cigarillos” and using up their last pesetas on horrid dolls in Spanish National costume and awful straw donkeys and bullfight posters with your name on “Ordoney, El Cordobes and Brian Pules of Norwich” and 3-D pictures of the Pope and Kennedy and Franco, and everybody’s talking about coming again next year and you swear you never will although there you are tumbling bleary-eyed out of a tourist-tight antique Iberian airplane.....
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