Real or Fake? Who the F**k Cares? Get Over Yourself
Jesus, what the fuck is wrong with you people? You know, back in my day, we didn't have a fancy set of intertubes that delivered half naked pictures of beautiful women to our offices and living rooms. If we wanted to see a naked lady, we had to wait until everyone had gone to bed and go to the wrinkled stash that we stole from our mentally deranged shotgun-wielding uncles and hid between our mattresses. Did we complain? Hell no. Did we speculate about a woman's breast size? Did we ask if they were real or fake? Or if they got away from her as she aged? Hell no. We gawked. And we thanked the heavens for our wonderful bounty.
This is what's wrong with America. It's not Sarah Palin or the right-left divide. It's not the 24-hour news cycle. It's not the vitriolic political rhetoric. It's not the lack of a salary cap in major league baseball. It's not 3D movies or endless sequels and remakes. It's not even the high-fructose corn syrup in the processed foods we eat.
The problem with America is that, even when we have it good, we can't fucking help but to complain. You see a gorgeous woman in a bikini straddling an orange guy while a whiskey drinking clowns looks on, and instead of an appropriate response like, "THANK YOU, INTERNET," you're all like, "Dude. Did she have a boob job?"
Spoiled fuckers. Get over yourselves, and before you start questioning a woman's breast size, take a good goddamn look in the mirror and ask yourself this, "Could my life be improved with a whiskey-swilling clown?"
Of course it could. EVERYBODY'S life could. No go sell your complaints to someone who gives a rat's ass.