Skip to main content

I love Thanksgiving but I don't condone Indian killing.

I just read on D listed, my number 1 site for intellectual progress, that Angelina Jolie hates the shit out of thanksgiving because she's so abhorrently disgusted with American's and their commemoration of dead Indians. The turkey, I suppose, might as well be a roasted Cherokee to Mrs. Jolie.


Look. I am really tired of Americans who hate America. Nobody's perfect okay? And while you might think it makes you look progressive and enlightened to think of your fellow countrymen as backwater hicks who can't tell the difference between piss and shit, it just makes you look like a pretentious and hateful misfit.

America has issues. So does every fucking country in every fucking continent on this green earth. Instead of concentrating on how god-awful it is to live in such a wonderful place, take your billions of dollars and help improve it.


So fuck you Angie and the rest of you super liberal pansies who think Thanksgiving is nothing more but a murderous memorial. I think it's a great fucking holiday, and I always have. I don't see anything wrong with getting together with the people you love once a year, even the pilgrims were total douchebags.

Comments

Popular posts from this blog

I Can't Hear Your Little Red Rooster

Fright

I call this room Home.

He will not look at me

His eyes flicker with

a speck of violence.



my strained smile,

disgusted by

my pleading eyes.

my veins freeze

icy blood

tearing through coronaries




May Day

'Hope, you don't have to use it on your wedding night.'

She handed the pistol to Hope, right after the vows, right before the reception.

'I'm just kidding, darling. Don't worry. He's a good man. You did well sweetheart. He's a good man. You'll be fine.'

Hope's paper-thin smile tried to grow as she stared at her grandmother's reflection in the mirror. The mother-of-pearl grip sparkled in her grandmother's hand, bathed by the Chapel's cheap buzzing lights.

'There's a bullet for you, just in case.'

Hope had left the gun on the table.

A week earlier, drunk off self-pity, she had taken it out of its case and walked to the kitchen, where she stuck the barrel in her mouth and proceeded to take pictures of herself to send to Ray.

In a rare instance of good fortune, her phone ran out of battery before she could indulge her sense of pithy revenge. She woke up and pried open her tear-salted eyelashes then made sure to delete an…