So, in an attempt to assuage my inner gorilla, I am gonna describe what forms of pain inflictments I would like to employ on the wonderful cast of assholes that rake my nerves lately, daily, hourly. Strictly a self serving catharsis sort of bent. Continue reading only at the expense of your faith in humanity.

I'd like to grab some long skinny sharp nails. Insert them in between the fingers of my fist. Every cabbie that turns onto Fourteenth or Twenty-third Street for getting through crosstown Manhattan traffic while I am in the backseat, will get punctures in the back of their head. Won't even care if the car is moving, yanking my hand stuck to his unwashed cranium, and sticking it back in.

Nextdoor neighbor home invasion. Kick down his door, announce "honey, I'm home!", and force feed him every blasted potted plant, including the soil and peat moss, that he has hung on our adjoining fire escape. Take all the jewel colored metallic ribbon and his collection of foil pinwheels. Strap him to a chair, paste his eyelids back. Shine reflections off all his fruity party favors directly into his retina with the highest wattage strobe lamps. I'll ask him how having an uninvited laser light show projected on his face feels and thank him for the daily one I get every morning.

Paul Bunyan. Oh you insipid bastard. So called shift manager at the jobby job. Break out the ether bunny. Lanky droll boy scout wakes up oblivious that subcutaneous monofilament electrical current nodes have been implanted in the webbings of his toes, his taint, his eyelids and his ear canals. Whenever he spoils my mental peace with one of his parroting repetitive sayings that were neither interesting, clever nor funny to begin with, flip the switch and send shocks into his nerves.

Sublet chick, why do you do it? Here's a hint for the world at large. When I inform someone that a particular event, object, occurrence, etc. drives me to furious insanity, don't reply back with a sunny jokey mockery. If I tell you in an email that the hot sticky months of July and August make me miserable and grumpy, why on satan's anvil would you respond with "summertime, summertime sum sum summertime!!!"? It just makes me want to kick your large uterus in.

The Pungent Swashbuckler. He's been dunking himself in putrid aftershave. The heat has only amplified it's topor. Everytime he sours my tear ducts and makes my throat feel like it has swallowed moldy grapefruit segments, I'd like to push his face into a vat of cold pork gravy.

Anyone responsible for the creation and the furthering agony of American HMO care should have a twenty by twenty grid tattooed on their back. Then in each party fun square a different puss ridden dermis ailment should be injected into them. Here is a direct quote from the doctor brilliance; "did we call you and tell you to stop purposefully overdosing on Sudafed?" "um, no." "oh geez, well it's really detrimental for your glaucoma.". Could have street sweeped that entire clinic in that moment.

Part of me suspects George Lucas is unable to sleep while his innards twist and churn with wrenching guilt over the hot tot he offered for Star Wars prequels. If he isn't though, I'd like to melt all my Han Solo and Darth Vader action figures, even the X-Wing and the mock Degoba System, and pour the steaming polypeptide liquid straight down his open bunghole.

Hopefully Shaq's metatarsals will continue to disentigrate and Kobe's life will spin out into a shame muck fest after getting crucified for fingering that blonde teen's ass. If not, now that they have signed Gary Payton and Karl Malone, and they plow through the league with four future hall of famers, well....... A smoking hole might have to exist in Lala land where the Staples Center once stood.

Uber sniffer software is required. So I can hunt down the criminals responsible in chat rooms for retarded chat speak. There is zero validity in replacing actual words with one letter. Or replacing letters with numerals. Shorthand and truncating of syllables is not linguistic culture, it's pure unadulterated mongoloid sputem. I would stack dictionaries on the chests of these lazy mushbrained children until their ribs cracked.

I would like to paste my company identification card on the end of a plank. Whenever one of the useless doormen at my office building flaunts their minor authority, I'd imprint their forehead with lumber. Ask them if they caught my I.D. that time.

I was pleading. Absolutelty begging the asshole at the Sunshine Theater to just suck his teeth a little. Giving his running commentary of The Legend Of Suriyothai. I had enough and told him to shut the fuck up. He looked at me as if I was the one ruining everyone's movie experience. He would have read the bottom of my Puma's if he even sniffed at me funny.

The Taco Bell on Third Ave in my hood recently put up a notice announcing "under new and better management". New management that cut the staff by two thirds and has enforced some penny pinching rule about only handing out meager rations of hot sauce and napkins. Also his newly hired staff seems to ride an even shorter bus than the last one. This business genius should have his house filled with refried beans.

Mayor Bloomberg should be forced to lick clean the asshole of every bum and gutter punk in NYC. Fucking weasel is trying to run a city as if it was a factory and the denizens are the product. Ticketing poor people for drinking beer at a Fourth party, until a certain quota of slips were handed out. A bottom line of fines to be met, his cop factory workers in charge of squeezing the public. Of course his snooty rich pals who drink wine in the park are given a pass. I'd also like to see cigars put out on his forearms. It's all well and good to be passionate about no smoking in your own life. To use your elected post to create laws and taxes to tyrannically force people to quit is prickiness of the highest degree.

Ex bosses Bubba the Hut, The Republican Fag, and Bujjy Chipmunk all should be chained to rocks and have their livers be pecked at eternally by the crows from The Wiz. Also would have to be subjected to watching them gyrate on a Soul Train dance line all day long. Each one of those crackheads caused me unnecessary grief and, I discovered, hampered my pockets by their actions. That's just fucking with my emotions.

Larry the Stupor. Continues with his village idiot tactics. The elevator obviously has decaying creatures on it's roof. The building's plumbing is still erratic. The rust pile he left behind in my bedroom still lingers after he "fixed" my fire escape exit. And his bandaid on my bathroom ceiling is once again leaking, making another glorious chasm to look at when I piss. I want a yo-yo device attached to his ankles. Up and down, up and down, inbred face getting more smushed with each descent into asphalt.

Puff Daddy. You are a serious choad smoker. You've put more air pollution in the system than all the coal burners put together. Talentless polished up thug punk peacock. Samplings of body parts from the unclaimed city morgue should replace all your own bits and peices. Might as well look as unoriginal as the vomit you produce on your record label.

Well, that was gangs of fun boys and girls. Time for Mr. Spanky to put the cardigan and sneakers back in closet. Remember you are special. Like Crackdonald's sauce.