Mittens Romney Joins the 47 Percent

Mitt Romney walks onto train

 MITTENS ROMNEY

Excuse me ladies and gentlemen. My name is Mitt. You folks can call me Mittens. My apologies for disturbing you on the subway this Wednesday morning. No, I am not a bum. I wear red power ties with a double Windsor knot every day. But running a failed political campaign is expensive.

People say I can’t relate to America. But look at me now! I’m asking for handouts... I mean contributions... just like the rest of the 47 percent. Folks, I understand your struggle now that I’m riding the subway for the first time in my life.

Romney wipes a single tear rolling down cheek.

Folks, I know desperation. I'll take anything today. American Express, Visa, Mastercard... hell I'll even take debit. I've fallen on some hard times America. I might... I might just have to become a CEO again.

But no one knows the real Mittens. People think I have no beliefs. No true opinions. No soul. I've got soul. I once had dreams before this cruel calloused campaign. In my youth, I sought to find the spotlight on a Telenovela. 

Unfortunately, you can’t be afraid of minorities if you want to be a star on a Spanish language soap opera. Crushed dreams I tell you. 

So please, if you can find it in the goodness of your heart to give me a few thousand dollars, I will forever remember your kindness. I promise you it’ll go exactly where I tell you it’s going. I am not a liar like those guys on the streets who carry those signs "Need money for Weed." Want to know a secret? They are not even buying weed. I know. Once I tried to sell them a nug of the finest Oxfordion kush. But they just scoffed at me. Those liars are using your money to buy food. Shameless.

Me on the other hand, I am just your average person, who wears red power ties with double Windsor knots every day... and needs a few thousand dollars for a cab ride. Thank you and God Bless... Joseph Smith.

Blackout

Could I love someone who loves pineapple on pizza?

Could I love someone who loves pineapple on pizza?

By: Francesca Ratner

Could I love someone,

Who loves pineapple on pizza?

Even if he's fun,

And buys it with his own Visa?

We could go for walks,

Watch the bright sunset on the beach,

We'd hold hands and talk –

All that's within our scope and reach.

He's almost perfect,

With warm, gazing eyes and kind smile.

But there's one defect

That would linger all the while.

Never together

Could we sit down and truly share,

Not now or ever,

A slice of pizza as a pair.

He'd want yellow fruit,

And I'd demand my sausage meat.

It might start dispute.

No more would he seem great and sweet.

We could, I suppose,

Then split a much larger pizza,

He and I'd propose,

And still put it on his Visa.

And would it matter,

If we shared the same silly slice?

We could get the bigger platter.

It might work so nice.

But cheese melts and spreads

On half my salty, spicy part.

Sweet, gross taste I dread

Slowly invades, closes my heart.

It simply can't work.

He's too into pineapple mess.

I've got my meat quirk.

It won't lead to true happiness.

Dear Cardigan

Dear Cardigan,

You were one of my first purchases out here in America. It took me about 9 months before I could afford to buy any new clothes after coming back from Honduras. I instantly liked you. I knew you would match me and I’d match you. Last winter I wore you all the time, even with my pajamas when I rolled around in front of the television. I was excited for this fall to come because I knew we’d be back together again. But now I’ve gone and ruined it all cardigan. I threw you in the dryer when I should have hung you to dry. I should have known better but alas that is my story. Knows better but doesn’t do better. I will miss the way you used to make me feel. Confident and flowing. You are a bit short now and you make my ass look big. I know you don’t mean to. I will miss how we were. Maybe I can grow to love you for how we are. Besos.

Love,

A foolish man

The Third World Should Be Banned From Facebook

The more I use Facebook, the more I notice certain trends between different groups of people. I have come to the following conclusions.

1. The third world should be banned from the use of Facebook until they learn how to properly use it.

I do not want to look at a meme every other day of Jesus bleeding under a crown of thorns, hammered onto a crucifix… looking at me… judging me.

I don’t need to see memes that say, “If you wish cancer did not exist, like this picture” [of a child in chemotherapy].

This meme pretends to raise cancer awareness. In truth, this is some sick third world Latin American fuck that wants to get hits on his meme at the expense of little children with cancer. Fuck that guy. Fuck him in the ass.

2. Anyone under the age 18 should not use Facebook. It’s creepy and it feels illegal.

3. Old people are allowed, as long as they uphold the minimum requirement of posting one drunk photo a week.

Paz y Mucho Amor,

CG

A Guide to Texting Under the Influence (TUI)

1. Don’t do it.

2. Don’t do it.

3. Forget why you’re not supposed to do it and do it.

4. Text everyone in your immediate history they are a bitch face.

5. I LOVE YOU. I LOVE YOU. I LOOOOOOVE YOU.

6. Apologize and explain to everyone in your immediate text history you’re under the influence.

7. Take subway because the poor reception prevents further texting.

8. Get off subway and notify everyone in immediate history you got lost in the subway.

9. Contact your ex.

10. Text random Spanish phrases.

11. Get home.

12. Go to bed ho. Just close your eyes and go to sleep ho.

13. Wake up next morning and encounter an intuitive fear of your smart phone.

14. Experience inner struggle on whether or not you should read what you wrote.

15. Read what you wrote.

16. Recoil in terror.

17. Take a hot shower and cry.

18. Delete messages and pretend it never happened.

19. Remember why you're not supposed to TUI.

20. Don’t do it.

21. For the love of God, don’t do it.

Yoga: The Art of Don't...

Homicidal rage sporadically wells within me since quitting cigarettes. I decided to undertake the holistic quest to yogi hood in an attempt to fill the void and quell the restless soul. The spiritual growth through physical awareness has become a part of my daily routine. Unfortunately, yoga sometimes adds to my stress level.

On the way to the studio...

 

Man I look so badass with this yoga mat strapped to my back. Like a ninja with a sexy ass ninja scroll. Open the scroll and release the awesome power of touching your toes. Damn, it's kind of hard to walk through the bus aisles with this thing strapped to my back. Whoops, just slapped someone in the face with my ninja scroll. Whoops, just scrolled someone again. Sorry... sorry... namaste... namaste... namaste motherfucker... sorry. I SAID SORRY ASSHOLE!

At the studio…

Sit cross legged. Close your eyes. Breathe in through the nose. Breathe out through the nose. Straighten back. Pull in navel. Do not pay attention to air pockets ricocheting in your small intestine as they encircle your colon and bide their time to unleash their thunderous evil.

Be a tree. Be the tree. Hug the tree. I have a wedgy. Don’t pick the wedgy. Don’t be a tree that picks its wedgy. Is anyone watching? Okay, be the tree that picks its wedgy.

Look, the girl in front of you has a wedgy too. Don't stare at her wedgy. Don't stare at her wedgy... wedgy...wedgy...wedgy...

 

 

Child's pose. Sit up and bring your palms together in front of chest. Child's pose. Raise yourself to plank position. Transition to downward facing dog. Feel...so....vulnerable...

 

Prayer twist. Prayer twist. Prayer... Dear God....please help me discreetly untwist my nuts.

Breathe in slowly, focusing your breath from the bottom of your spine, up your spine to your third eye. Hold the energy in your third eye. Don’t release the energy. Someone will hear you. Someone will definitely hear you release the energy.

 

Low cobra, upward facing dog. Now wag your tail. Wagging your tail doesn’t make you gay. I wonder if the people in class think I’m gay… not that there’s anything wrong with being gay. Don’t be racist. Don't be phobic. Wag your fucking tail.

Flex your glutueus supranusa hotsauce #$&*(#$... I don’t know what I'm doing. Look at the person next to you. Okay, I get it. Wait no, the teacher just told me I'm doing it wrong. Damn you, look what you made me do. You stupid IDIOT. You made me look like an IDIOT.

Peace and Namaste Sauce,

Chogi Guevara

Guide to Ramenface-itis

Ramenface-itis – though technically not a medical condition till the turn of the decade, Ramenface-itis originated during the onset of Japan’s Edo Era. In 1603 feudal Japan, local villagers often referred to the condition as Fatface-son or Godzilla. Although the Japanese invented ramen, Koreans elevated ramyun to a whole new level… 300 percent of your daily sodium intake.

The chain reaction that leads to Ramenface-itis:

1. Eat ramen noodles
2. Drink the delectable salt infused soup
3. Fall asleep from the MSG content

The Average Chos warn that you will wake up with a face twice the normal size and experience symptoms comparable to a hangover.

Guide to a Champion on Ice

Being a straight male figure skater can pose many underlying challenges that must be managed at the same time. Before partaking in such venture, Average Chos cautions readers the journey would be ill advised and not enjoyable for the homophobic. One of the first recommended courses of action is to first teach the aspiring male figure skater karate. That way he can be known as that figure skater that knows karate. The proper use of meditation must also be mastered. Usage should strictly be restricted for the mental preparation of the spandex he is required to wear. Bicycle pants are recommended to prevent junk from being broadcasted in cold rinks. With mastery of these skills, mastery of figure skating is only 10,000 hours of practice away.

No Country for Asian Man

My yoga studio betrayed me. Last week, I was changing in the locker room when a scraggly, homeless looking man came up to me.

"Hey, you look like a violin player."

An explosion went off in my brain, various voices shouting in different directions.

I wish I could say that I responded with brutality and quick wit.  Alas, I was slow to the punch. I couldn’t get myself to start a confrontation in my sullied safe place.

Not to mention, I did not initially understand why my subconscious cursed out this mofo. What was he was getting at? I never played violin. My brother used to. Does he know my brother? Did he mistake me from my brother who used to play violin?

Then I realized the man was attempting to forge a social connection with me through racism. Verbally twisted, I let out an awkward laugh.

"Hah hah, no. Actually, I played piano."

My face darkened when I realized I sold myself out and let this fucker off the hook. Should I have round house kicked his knee cap?

"Sometimes ignorance is better left ignored," I reasoned.

As I walked out the door I thought,"Yea… well the jerk store called. They're running out of you."

The good comebacks never come when you need them.

Lesson learned. Be like water my friend.

Paz y Mucho Amor,

CG

Balls of Power

Impressive numbers

The New York jack pot provocatively dangles her titties at $500 million right now, leveling up more than $1 million in just one day. Yesterday, I placed all my hopes and dreams into my first ever lottery pool. Stamping a prayer and a piece of my life force on George Washington's face, I handed him over to my across-the-cubicle neighbor and fantasized over who I would slap in the face first with my wallet. In total, 30 people from the office joined in on the lottery pool. At a dollar a ticket, 30 of us are sharing 30 different, 5 number combinations. The jackpot total divided by 30 is $16.666666666667 million. I stand to make a profit of $16,666,665.66.

How to increase my odds of winning

Wrap my body in aluminum foil and climb trees during the next severe thunder storm.

Superstition?

No.

The odds of getting struck by lightning twice are better than the odds of winning the lottery. Therefore, lighting increases your odds of winning the lottery and getting super powers.

My multimillion dollar budget in chronological order

1 McChicken

1 hybrid jungle cat

1 trophy wife

1 house with a two acre backyard for the hybrid jungle cat

1 divorce lawyer

1 bankruptcy lawyer

1 NY jackpot lottery ticket

Paz y Mucho Amor,

CG³, your Cubed Guerrilla