By: Hyman Greenfieldspanbergstein

 

Hi all!  Hyman here.  Now it’s time for this month’s Greenfieldspanbergstein Gazette… with me Hyman Greenfieldspanbergstein.  This month I am going to vent a little steam in response to all the ridiculous things I am forced to deal with every day. 

Take internet porno, for example.  Internet porno is the best thing ever, but every once in a while you’ll get some doctored photo that, while it is a good fake, still detracts from the main point of the porn itself.  The whole reason I want to see porn is because I want to actually look at a real woman who is naked and doing nasty naked things.  These doctored or touched up photos are man’s ridiculously self-defeating attempt to make a naked woman better.  You can’t make a naked woman better.  She’s a naked woman, stupid; she already looks better than anything in the world.  This usually happens with celebrity porno.  You’ll get some e-mail from a website claiming to posses the biggest collection of celebrity nudes just about every time you open your e-mail.  So, you spend your precious time going to this site and filling out there little forms with a fake credit card number and everything, and when you see what they call “celebrity nudes,” you become completely livid because the girls in the pics are never real celebrities.  Most of the time it’ll be some college girl in a good money shot which would be great if they hadn’t pasted Meg Ryan’s face over the picture.  Once again, my main point comes up: leave porno alone!  It’s already good; it’s porno!  Sometimes, if you’re lucky it’ll be Shannon Tweed or some other warmed over cable porn starlet who, while she is a real person, is by no means a real celebrity.  Or sometimes they just post pictures of girls who look like they could maybe be related to Britney Spears or Jessica Simpson or some other loser.  With the best of luck all you’ll find are some grainy shots of Julia Roberts getting it on with a horse, and who the hell wants to see her dumbass naked?  Some dumbass, that’s who.  And she isn’t much, trust me; the horse was more engaging.  Though they both share the same trademark smile.

 

 

            Another thing that has been bothering me as of late has been this trend of assholes buying these new Mustangs.  These things just aren’t the all American vehicle anymore; they’re the vehicle for total assholes.  Please keep in mind that I do enjoy the old vintage Mustangs, you know like back when they had that real pederast feel to ‘em.  A guy would pull up with that engine roaring and every girl within a mile would get that juicy “I think I found that bad boy my Daddy didn’t want me to find” look on their face.  Nowadays, the world is filled with dumbass teenagers driving up and down a street repeatedly for hours on end in their shitty Hondas with a completely unnecessary two foot spoiler and some goofy attachment on their muffler that makes the car sound like a goddam lawnmower coming down the road.  Oh, and they also have those stupid ass lights on their hood where their windshield wipers are… stupid lights.  Unfortunately, if only for the company it keeps, the new Mustang has fallen into this same pathetic category.  My main problem with these asshole mobiles is that half the time… no… three fourths of the times you see them, they are driven by some college or high school girl who’s Daddy bought her the car so she could get back and forth to the school she lives three blocks from.  So where do we find this fine specimen of modern American life?

1)      At the mall.

2)      At the movie theater.

3)      On the highway.

Now, I have placed these in order from the least to most annoying instances.  First off, these vermin are almost always at the mall.  But that really isn’t important because real people only go to the mall during Christmas.  And most of us don’t even go then.  However, I am a big movie fan and it is always an issue at the movies.  The goddam parking lot is like a Ford dealership.  A Ford dealership that pays assholes to drive recklessly through their lot like they own the free world.  It’s either the assholes in the Mustangs or their penis envying counterparts in the Ford Excursions, but most of the time it’s both.  These dipshits in the new Mustangs are always the people cutting you off to get into the space you were politely waiting for.  Then, once they hop out of there asshole mobile and trot by you in their Abercrombie shirts and pretty little jeans with the cuts up the bottom of the seems so their pants can fit over their boots which they don’t wear, they give you this look as if to say “if you had a more expensive, sportier car, maybe you’d be in that parking space.”  That’s when you lean out the window and scream “maybe I don’t feel like alienating the whole of society with my toddler like driving skills and risking a near fatal accident just to get into a parking slot!”  Then, as you make your way toward the prepubescent moron with your fists clenched tight, ready to wrap your manly hands around his hemp necklaced throat, screaming obscenities into the night sky like some drunken carnie, the security guard drags you off and charges you with disturbing the peace.  Then, when you calm down enough to realize that security guards are a complete joke, you run out of his security booth naked and wind up hiding in a briar patch cowering in the moonlight.  Don’t ask me why I was naked.

 

 

These women, and it’s usually a woman; if you can call a nineteen year old with braces, a piss poor “gimmie more” attitude and a propensity for wearing “90% Angel” t-shirts a woman.  They always have their little man boy in the seat next to them.  Their “friend.”  This dude is absolutely the most unsatisfactory guy in the modern world.  What kind of mother fucking asshole?  This dude rides around all day long shopping and talking and jamming out to Dave Matthews with this stupid bitch behind the wheel the whole time.  What kind of a weak willed son of a bitch is comfortable with always playing second fiddle to his girlfriend’s assholitude?  She drives around, weaving in and out of traffic like Nick Nolte and all the while this dude is content being evil henchman to her mad scientist. 

But, by far the worst time to encounter these panty waste mother fuckers is when you’re having a nice drive on the highway.  Actually, you could even be having a terrible drive and these assholes would still manage to ruin it for you.  The typical scenario unfolds slightly like this: you’re driving in the fast lane (because you’re going fifteen miles an hour over the speed limit) when all of a sudden some jackanape comes flying through the three or four cars which are following close behind you like some lame ass eighties skateboarder flying through a row of little orange cones.  The initial experience is enough to surprise any man; however, what happens next is what always manages to piss me off beyond words.  Before you know it this asshole, who (keep in mind) is almost always a young woman, is riding right up on your ass… I mean like three feet from your rear end.  Now remember that you’re going around eighty-five as well.  The very worst part is that these mother fuckers always act like it’s no big deal.  They just sit there singing along to their Matchbox 20, flapping away at the mouth to their “friend” who is in the passenger seat.  Then they always hurry to pass you so they can get right in front of you and be stuck behind the same Ford Focus that you’ve been trying to get to move over for the last twenty minutes.

 

 

And another thing that has been pissing me off recently is this absurd notion that every last magazine seems to share with every last idiotic “Riott Grrl” that for whatever reason Gwen Stefani has good fashion sense.  What in the world are these people thinking?  She dresses like some homeless crack addicted prostitute.  Just ask the homeboys who stand out on the corner selling crack, they’ll tell you that every single customer dresses just like her stupid ass.  And this faux-mystic metaphysical bullshit she tries to pull with her goofy jewel glued between her eyes is just about as see through as saran wrap.  Yeah, a lot of real deep and philosophical cats wear twenty-four carat gold jam box shaped necklaces.  Let me get this straight… just ‘cause your famous you can show up to a social event of any echelon wearing a pair of pink leather pants held on with a bright blue studded belt, accompanied nicely by a four inch wide tube top with the word “fresh” scrawled across it in calligraphy and a yellow fur scarf and still have people write things like “Gwen showed up in an outfit she actually designed herself!”  No shit she designed it herself.  This stuff actually looks worse than the ridiculous things the fashion industry has those paper thin mole people traipse down runways in every spring.  On top of all this, just to show what a stupid bitch she is, she styles her hair in that “I wish I’d lived in the forties” style so that everyone can call her taste “classic,” instead of calling it unbelievably disgusting and obviously thrown together at the last minute by some drugged out moron who apparently doesn’t posses a mirror or the simple cognitive ability it requires to dress oneself appropriately.

I’m too pissed off to finish this article, so I’ll end it with a picture.