Shitty Reviews

A Parody of Reality


Sand is the precursor to glass, and that right there is a big reason to tell sand to go fuck a Petri dish full of gonorrhea. Glass is admittedly Hellspawn, which is why glass always allows itself to be scratched at the exact place where something is visible on the other side that is important to your happiness, like lesbians scissoring or war against lesser cultures (see: all). However, glass can’t take the full blame, because it all originates with sand, Earth’s microbial douchenozzle.

Sand was created in 1964 by the Danish physicist Albert Danishlastname after a kid accidentally pushed him down some stairs in high school and accidentally had sex with his sister on top of his prostrate form. Vying for revenge, he went outside and beat two rocks together, screaming with such an intense agony that small animals and children fled from him, but returned immediately upon remembering he was a nonthreatening Danish kid covered in his sister’s vaginal Sprite.

The rocks shattered in such a way that small fragments of minerals clambered down his arms, into his shirt, and mingled with his nipple hair follicles. He carried these offending demons home with him, unknowingly scratching at his chest like an ape.

Except a lot less scary, because he’s Danish and covered in discharge and shame.

Except a lot less scary, because he’s Danish and covered in discharge and shame.

He took a shower, which at that time in history meant that he spit upwards and hoped it landed on his meat and cheese, and noticed the little rocks coating his nipples. After cranking one out, he brushed the first inception of sand onto the top of his desk, which at that point only housed an abacus, a pair of titties chiseled into a slab of stone, and a high-powered neutron microscope far beyond the time of this supposed history lesson.

When he looked through the microscope to view the material, what he saw were dozens of tiny, angular pieces of matter, still wet with his classmate’s semen and shooting the bird skyward, because sand constantly flicks off the sky for hiding the sun when ugly bitches go to bars to give them a better chance at not being alone like they should always be. An idea struck him, which may have been the most diabolical idea in the history of humankind: he realized that if he were the coat a vast majority of the planet in this flesh-irritating substance, he could make sure that it seeps into every crack and crevice of any person or thing that nears it, thereby making it more annoying than a load shot in the eye.

He ran outside, grabbed a wheelbarrow, and collected hundreds of thousands of rocks. He spent centuries crushing these rocks, even long after he was dead, because unknown to him, Satan had imbued him with everlasting life. One time, Matt Damon appeared before him, and told him to stop his terrible scheme, but Albert threw sand all over the deity. Normally, Matt Damon would have torn the offender’s dick off through the top of his skull using his pubic hair, but he noticed that the sand had no affect on him, and actually made him even sexier and overbearingly attractive to men and women alike. From then on out, Matt Damon never wore a shirt again. His chest hair simply grows in varying colors and styles, and shifts much like a beautiful chameleon.

Free to continue his reign, Albert suddenly was killed by Kevin Spacey, who took over the evil reign of annoying terror, and continues to enact it to this day against the unsuspecting public. This was almost awesome, because destroying lives is something I’m not too shabby at, but I can never forgive Spacey for his performance in that Superman movie, which I didn’t even see, but I’m sure sucked girthy cod.

I didn’t have to watch it, because I tape myself shitting every morning.

I didn’t have to watch it, because I tape myself shitting every morning.

If you’ve ever been to the beach, which you probably have because it’s the only place you can feasibly stare at tits and not get yelled at. Trust me, I have tried this in most situations, and that is truly the only place it’s acceptable. I tried it at church once, but the priest and I got in a huge fight. Some bullshit about it being a statue of the Virgin Mary, but fuck that, no one with tits like that is a Virgin. Plus, didn’t she have a son? Faith is one thing, but gullibility is another. Joseph was a jackass. That conversation probably went something like this:

Mary: Uh, Joey, I’ve got, uh.. some news.
Joseph: Why am I not eating, bitch? Why is your face visible, isn’t this Arabia or some shit? Wear a sheet, and talk less, or live less – whichever is quicker.
Mary: I know I’m not supposed to do anything but cook, clean, and rear-children, but, well, it looks like I’m pregnant.
I haven’t fucked you for, what? Ever? Yeah, ever. I haven’t fucked you in ever, so why the hell are you pregnant?
Mary: Well, I think it’s a magical childbirth. I believe that God placed this child inside of me, and I am to be the mother of his son.

Joseph then proceeded to beat her with sage until her eyes bled, and then he had sex with her so forcibly that he re-impregnated her with a second child, hence Bruce Willis.

Sand gets into everything and destroys it, including stereos, toes, cars, horses, and marriages. If you walk within six hundred miles of a grain of sand, it will automatically toss itself into the wind and jam itself into the inner corner of your eye, and continually fuck your retina with a little jagged sandy dick for sixteen hours, until you finally rub your oculars red and headbutt a child in rage. Sand also never fully goes away, as proven by the fact that there is always sand in your house. Always. Even when you’re homeless, there is sand in your house, and if you bought a brand new house, guess what? Fucking sand in it.

It’s like air, except it doesn’t carry your flatus into the mouths of unsuspecting family members at dinner.

It’s like air, except it doesn’t carry your flatus into the mouths of unsuspecting family members at dinner.

I was talking to my friend Acid the other day, and he sat on my bed in a completely heterosexual way as I desperately alt-tabbed away from a picture of Bambi having sex with all seven dwarves, and he started talking about inane bullshit I didn’t care about like politics, religion, rent, joblessness, and two guys touching cocks in front of him at a red light. After I threw water on him and he started melting because he was actually the Wicked Witch, I checked my bed and saw that sand was all over it. What the fuck.

So, I text Thrall, and he resurrects the dickhead, and I’m like what the hell, witches don’t go to the beach, there’s moisture and shit. And she cackles and brews a cauldron of green shit, or whatever it is that they do, and says she’s never been to a beach. That’s my point. She didn’t have to go to a beach, because no matter what, you always have sand in your pockets. Check your pockets right now. There’s sand in there. Know where the sand came from? God damn nowhere, it just sprouts up like cocks at a volleyball meet.

I went fishing once when I was younger and thought bonding with my dad would stop him from pissing on my shoes every night before bed while I still had them on. He was listening to shitty old music where it was still acceptable for musicians to wear pants tighter than the skin underneath it, and I was getting sunburned because I’m Irish. I looked down at the chair I’m on, and saw a little pile of sand right under where my balls are sagging down in the intense, summer heat. Baffled, I rigged a pulley system to lift up forty-seven pounds of testicular energy harnessed in wolf hide and a forest of barbed wire, and sure enough, there’s sand all over the seat. I stood up, and my pants fell off. Turns out they were made of sand. The sudden weight of my crotch dropping into place caused me to fall forward into the ocean, so I speared a marlin with my manpoon and rode him to Narnia.

Sand is also a prick because it’s best friends with wind. You remember wind, that anal plunderer that I have a heated respect for because it throws cars at peoples’ houses. Yeah, well, it also throws sand, and that is how you get pelted with that shit. As opposed to using super-pressured water, some people opt to sand blast paint off of buildings, cars, and the hands of hippies. Sand is also sometimes used for polishing, hence sandpaper, and dropping an item into a huge vat of moving sand. This is stupid, because there is only one positive thing sand has ever done for the world: quicksand.

Quicksand hates everyone equally, and will eat anything that isn’t Bear Grylls, because Bear Grylls is fucking crazy and quicksand doesn’t want to try to digest something that squeezed drinkable water out of camel shit.

His British accent is a ploy used to lure you in before he takes you as his wife (trust me, you’ll be the wife).

His British accent is a ploy used to lure you in before he takes you as his wife (trust me, you’ll be the wife).

Scientists are not sure what quicksand truly is, but they’re pretty sure sand and moisture is somehow involved. When you fall into quicksand, the air pockets that you create while struggling collapse on themselves, and the pull of the centrifugal gravity therein drags you down deeper towards your death. It is not impossible to escape quicksand, however, as if you make yourself horizontal, you can monkey-crawl out, or just sink in a new and exciting manner. Quicksand intentionally lets people escape its grasp.

Once you have been inside quicksand, you will have sand in your hair for the rest of your life. Even if you Brazilian your entire body, sand will still cling to you like bitches on a Lumberjack. The only way to even hope to remove quicksand’s everlasting influence on the folds of your penis is: you must take a bath in your own urine, and invite friends to take pictures of you for being a retard and thinking there’s a way to remove the sand. Quicksand allowed you to survive after you fell in – wear the scars proudly, even when you have to deal with a constant thigh rash.

Rating wise, even though I don’t give them, sand is a conundrum. Sand is a dick, because it loves the underside of dicks, but it’s also a badass, because it hates black people and children. I’ll do with five infuriating waves of hatred when I bite down on a sandwich and for some reason feel a crunch when I know there’s no lettuce on it because the only vegetable real men eat are quadriplegics, out of ten of all that shit stated again. It doesn’t get a ten, because it holds more territory than even Hitler wanted, but it doesn’t get a 1, or negative rating, because it intentionally strives to enter any and every vagina that goes near it, which gave us that awesome picture of Anna Kournikova scratching at her snatch in public.


March 28, 2009 - Posted by | Shitty Reviewer

1 Comment »

  1. To Shitty–

    Find Matt Damon. Kidnap him. Take him to Vegas. Marry him. Fuck him.

    Then get over it!

    <3 K

    Comment by kaliea | March 30, 2009 | Reply

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