Dear Murray:
After binging on cocaine for 12 days, I experienced some rough heart palpitations. I sent my rent-a-girl home, gave her the rest of the white as a tip, went to bed and got some sleep. Its been two days and I haven’t touched the Bolivian Marching Powder but my heart still beats irregularly and it sometimes feels like its straining to leap out of my ribcage like one of those chest-bursting Alien babies from the Sigourney Weaver flicks. Should I see a doctor or just stop crying like a little biznitch?
Whoops. Considering how long ago yo’ ass sent me this, it’s possible you’ve snorted Drano and were found belly-up foaming out of your nose. If that is the case, please refer to my complaint department.†
Anyway, are we the only country in the whole fucking world with a word like “binge” in our vernacular? Binge eating, binge drinking, drug binge, ass-fucking binge. Don’t you know where these things lead?
Please refer to the gospel on this matter, the movie Less than Zero. All binges lead to you crying and sucking cock for blow, right beside Robert Downey, Jr. But hey, ‘least you’ll get to meet a celebrity, and maybe you can finish each other off. Maybe he’ll even give you the courtesy of a reach around.
Look, we aren’t all Keith Richards or William Burroughs. We won’t be shooting up when we’re 72. Most of us will be lucky to (a) be able to shit, (b) have that shit land in the bowl and not (c) our pants. If I can complete that trifecta when I’m 72, I’ll consider it a life fulfilled.
I’m about the last motherfucka in the world to be telling anyone to stay off the drugs, but damn, a little moderation goes a long way. How about a little scale for perspective?
[—————————-|—————————-]
boring life sucking James Spader’s cock
MUCH LIKE THE BUDDHA PATH, THE MIDDLE WAY IS OPTIMAL.
Now leave me the fuck alone.
† COMPLAINT DEPARTMENT: If you’d like to complain, please write out all complaints on a 3″x5″ index card. Write legibly and use black ink. Then, fold the card over and stick it really far up your ass, because Murray doesn’t give a shit.
Categories: General Malaise
Dear Murray
Dear Murray a tasty, tasty bitch beloved and feared by hordes of basement-dwelling illiterati and their fierce antagonists, the Grammar Nazis. He single-handedly turned the webcam whorefest of Myspace into a lively commerce of ideas, including whether or not the TUBGIRL photo will ever be topped as a postmodern expression of the inexpressible. According to web historians, he has inspired more photoshop projects and syphilis jokes than Britney Spears (who he has been repeatedly linked romantically to). He is also rumoured to be the father of Anna Nicole Smith's baby, a disciple of Cliff Yablonski, and the second gunman on the grassy knoll. Although he could not be reached for comment, he reportedly resides in or near the tent cities along the LA River Basin, third right after the walrus sunning station.
He has vehemently denied all charges that he is any any way responsible for that rash your wife claims "is from the heat".
His primary function is doling out advice; the inspiration sprang from an endless and eventually dull repetition of fucktards failed to heed his words.
A secondary result is a dysfunctional family "round table" of people who contribute innumerable one-liners and personal experiences, rarely related in any way to the actual question.
It is estimated that tens of thousands of readers have "LOL'd" approximately 5,395,645,694,167,467,105 times, with the toll expected to rise.
He is immune to kryptonite, chlamydia, and brainwashing.
Wikipedia has banned PENCILTITS's entry, debating the relevance of his tasty bitchiness.