Check Out My Gyro Balls

Right. We are going to mix things up a bit. And by "we" I mean "me" because you are providing nothing here. Seriously. You are like the guy who comes over for dinner and doesn't bring anything. Shithead.
Anywho, We (I) are (am) going to count down the top 50 people I hate. Not all at once mind you. One a day.
Number 50:
Fergie. Not hot. And what in the blue hell are you singing about? My humps? Fergalicious? You now have your own London Bridge?
When your manager brings over your pay checks, do you wear a ski mask? Because you are stealing. There is also something about you that looks like you might have at one point in time been sexed up by a gorilla. And that gorilla covered you in his cum. And gorilla cum turns into plastic.
You are not attractive and have fooled the world into believing that you are. I believe you did this through trickery you learned from that bitch who played Blossom. You make my cock wish it could hide in my pubic hair.
I hate you. I hate you. I hate you. Stop making music. Stop making up words. Stop making my nieces dumb.
The only good thing about you is the inevitable porn you will star in. It will be you taking it up the ass from some dude who talks about your hump is fergalicious and you write a new song about ringing a bell helps you attract boys and the pyramid was built by love. You daft twat.

I dropped my packet today. Tomorrow should be fun. I'm going to have to talk to the Colonel. Maybe I ought not drink for breakfast and lunch tomorrow.
I have these slippers my mom bought me for Christmas, and they are the jet. At first I hated them, but now I love these fuckers. They are stupid looking and nerdish. They look like slippers a father wore in the 1950's while he smoked a pipe. Speaking of which, where can a brother get some of those button up pajamas? I am such a dork.
I am a grown ass man and I have no idea what the fuck Grey's Anatomy is. Moreover, based on the type of people I hear talking about such blither, I don't want to know what it is.
Q: What was Custer's last words?
A: "You ever see so damn many Indians?"
That shit is funny.
You know what rules about being Catholic? Everything that's what.
Let us all agree that I am the best thing ever.
I want us all to go gamble. Everyone of us. I want to sit around gambling with you. Because I like you. And I like gambling. If you read this blog, I want to gamble with you. Then, I'd like to take our winnings and pay for us all to watch a woman with father issues shove things up her ass. Weird things. Like frogs and shit. And large things. Like bowling pins and shit. And sexy things. Like those leg lamps in that Christmas movie. That's the kind of blogger I am. I am like a super nice non-murdering non-crazy Charles Manson.
Please look into my old face and see the pretty man I once was. Because I once was pretty. I wasn't always broke and empty. I wasn't always on my knees. I once stood and walked with great men. I wasn't always a monster. But then again. I look into your pretty young face and see the haggard old woman you are. Because you are now horrid. He ensures you aren't broke, but you keep yourself vapid. You have taken to a life on your knees. You now stand and walk with cretins. You look like an angel.