Stupid Human Dies

Mazeltov, Jewish readers.

I'd like to take the opportunity to speak of the death of actress Angela Lansbury.

"JK LOL," as you twenty-seven-year-old virgins say over your World of Warcraft games. In all seriousness, though, Brittany Murphy was a closet homosexual, and I have no doubt that they serve sandwiches in Hell for this washed up drug-addled has-been.

Luanne Platter was a slut and so were you.

This is Morgan.

Rap Songs

Good morrow, followers.

Whilst lying on top of the family couch, curled up in a ball, licking the bacterial residue of excrement from my anal glands, I overheard an advertisement play over the global broadcast conglomerate known as "Music Television." Ironically enough, for those of you who haven't been in the nearly 30-year loop, the once popular source for music-based short films is now a breeding ground for quote-unquote "reality programming" centered around groups of fake-tan bearing 20-somethings who pretend their reproductive organs defy the laws of proportional physics when, in laments terms, they're really just fucking tiny limp-dick butter baskets.

I digress.

The commercial I am referring to was akin to one of those "Time Life" advertisements you see from time to time during an episode of "General Hospital," where the script for said episode has been thrice recycled due to the group of writers and directors running out of good ideas thirty-five years ago. The product advertised was a compilation of songs fitting into the genre known as "hip and hop," and what came across my ears nearly made me want to jump out of the bed of a truck following a domestic dispute, and right after dislocating my shoulder during a turnabout season with the Cincinnati Bengals.

In all seriousness, who in their right mind listens to this trash? Hip and hop is merely poorly written rhymes haphazardly recorded over preprogrammed music that a six-year-old most likely created using Rockstar Games' horribly designed flash application known as "Beaterator." There is nothing hip about this music, and there is certainly nothing about it that makes me want to hop.

Utilizing the information superhighway, I complied a list of hip and hop songs containing some of the worst lyrics ever penned. Keep in mind, with every example noted, I re-wrote my suicide note to my human owners nearly a dozen times, with each re-write containing a different of method of my own death.

Examples are as follows:

"Never let me slip, cause if I slip, then I'm slippin'."

I would like to thank the artist known as Doctor Dre for teaching me the laws of vertical propulsion, and what could potentially occur if one were to "slip." Tell me, Dre, since you evidently have a doctorate in something, what occurs when you fall flat on your face, after I've pounced on your back and have clawed straight into your spine? Could you craft some sort of musical masterpiece of out my dismantling your central nervous system and hopefully paralyzing you from the neck down?

In fact, if done correctly, Doctor Dre would go from this...

... to this.

I'll note that the subject has not only transformed from Negro-American to Caucasian, but is not the genius that the above photograph of Nicholas Cage makes him out to be.

Allow me to point out to you simpletons that hip and hop music is nothing more than mindless, structureless banter vomited onto a sheet of construction paper. I would expect greater intelligence and penmanship from a five-year-old born without hands, eyes, a brain, birthed prematurely and stillborn.

In conclusion, I purchased the hip and hop compilation album, and after waiting a month and a half for the damn parcel to arrive at my abode, I proceeded to place the compact disc in my box of litter and diarrhea all over it. I made sure to eat an entire houseplant before hand, as well as an entire box of Ring Dings.

I am not a fan of the hip and hop music.

This is Morgan.

My First Post

Hello world.

Recently it was brought to my attention that there existed a network of computers that, for the past decade, has brought this world together closer than it has ever been. I have been told that this concept, evidently codenamed "the internet," henceforth referred to as, "the internet," was created decades ago in a college bathroom, by a group of virgins who would later commit suicide after hearing the abnormality known as "Tarzan Boy" by the twink Italian group Baltimora.

My name is Morgan Butters Acciardi. I was brought into this world in the form of an infant domesticus siamese, better known to you miniature-sized-reproductive-organ-bearing simpletons as a "pwetty Siamese kitty." Bah.

My objective on this Earth is to the point. I am to figure out the workings of this world; the minds of these human anti-Christ's who would rather fornicate for oil and wealth over well-being; and, of course, why I am attracted to small plastic spherical objects that contain metal ornaments known as "bells." This is my journal, my personal diary of things I have noticed in my time here on the planet known as Earth.

I will utilize "the internet" to bring forth my message to my followers. I was forewarned by several undercover agents in the field that there is a vast amount of photography concealed in this network involving human females baring no more than a pair of socks and various phallic shaped objects. They told me to stray away from such imagery, but I personally am enticed to look further in to this endeavor.

I end my syllabus for this journal with an anecdote:

"My journey to discover the truth of this world may not be simple, nor fun, though I have but only one plan - to emerge victorious, in the paws of my forefathers."

This is Morgan.