Archive for July, 2009

Abandonded Car "Still Pretty Pissed"

July 22nd, 2009


Let’s cut the shit. If you don’t believe I have a conscience and a soul, you’re both a jackass and a liar.

Is that why, 10 years ago, you’d whisper sweet nothings into my ear when you changed my oil, waxed my exterior, or changed my tires?

That’s right, bitch. I’m on to your ass.

I’ve been counting the days, friend. And a reunion between me and you is coming.

Oh, it’s coming.

But really. I’m pretty pissed.

You didn’t have to just leave me here, just sitting by myself, in the middle of nowhere.

I know you couldn’t avoid the deer. It wasn’t just lying, dead, in the middle of the road, or anything.

It would have been impossible to swerve out of it’s way, you know, with no other cars anywhere near you.

And maybe it would have been easier to see it if it wasn’t completely light out.

What? Are you fucking kidding me?

Seriously. How irresponsible/stoned were you that day?

I mean, I thought we were tight, man.

I was the classic, vintage car, and you were the ballsy, cool stoner kid.

We had a good thing going. Until you ran over a dead fucking deer in the middle of the day.

Now my engine is shot, I’m all dried up, I’m rusting to shit, and some fuckers sprayed graffiti all over the side of me.

I’m not trying to be a dick. But the least you could have done is call Triple A, get me towed somewhere, or sell me to another dude for 10 bucks.


But not this.

Not just leave me here to face an endless eternity of lonely nights, drunk college kids fucking in my backseat, or the small chance someone eventually lights me on fire.

You know, for the fuck of it.

Just do me this one solid.

Admit you’re an idiot for running over that deer, and find a way to get me to a salvage yard. Put me out of my misery.

Just, seriously, get me the fuck out of this place.

Chronic Masturbator Tops “Personal Best”

July 21st, 2009

He's a master of his own domain.

Yeah, that’s right.

After weeks of searching for just the right place to do it, and the right materials to use, I accomplished my feat.

I really don’t have to go into much more detail, I’m sure.

Alas, I will.

I successfully masturbated 7 times when I was a junior in high school. Lotion. Pamela Anderson. And then there was the couch.

Other experiments were born and died that day, but we don’t really have to dwell on the mistakes our youth brought on us.

Let’s just say that June 13th was a fantastic mix-bag of porn, new websites I’d never heard of, Cinemax, and, as I stated before, Pamela Anderson.

But that was then, and this is now. » Read more: Chronic Masturbator Tops “Personal Best”

You're a Racist Bastard

July 21st, 2009

There is a wave of hilarious “racism” videos, which take an interesting look at regular, every day situations where people are simply-minded, racist fucks.

I’m sure we’re all guilty of these.

You know, when you walk into an elevator and no one else is there, and you get that feeling of comfort, as if this little cubicle that rise and drops at the push of a button is suddenly your safety zone.

Except, then a black guy walks in, and your “black-dar” goes off the charts. You racist bastard.


Or how about when you roll your car up to a stoplight, feeling good, jamming to your tunes.

Then a black dude rolls up, and magically sends those windows upward to a close, and your finger hitting the lock-all button.


But it’s not just the white man or woman trying to bring the brothas’ down. Even black people can be racist toward black people. See below.


For more racism observations and other comedy from Reckless Tortuga, click here.

Hey, It's Me, Wasp Again…

July 17th, 2009


Mind if I borrow some fuckin’ sugar?

Yeah, I wriggle my tiny body through any open crack in your house, and it’s just because I want a cup of sugar.

Do you know how quickly I would drown in that shit?

Also, you’re not going to believe this, but a cup (any cup, really) is at least three times the size of me.

No amount of flying or stinging is going to make me magically able to carry a cup. Of sugar. Fuck.

My point is, I didn’t happen upon your place of residance by chance.

I’m not here to borrow anything-I swear.

I am strictly here to bug the shit out of you.

A guy paid me. Hey, I don’t ask questions.

I turn my buzzer on high, meander from corner to corner in the room, and do two swoops per 30 minutes.

I charge extra for the swoops, as they bring me very close to you and your flailing arm balloons.

There’s something really not right about the way you swat at me.

The form, the entire motion, really, just is quite awful.

I’m sorry, once again, I’ve lost my train of thought.

Oh, yes, the constant entrances and buzzing around.

I’ll stop it if you pay me more than the other guy.

I can’t tell you the dude’s name, but he’s paying over 200. You want me gone? Come up with the cash, pal.

I don’t do favors.

And you can forget about that spray can you have over there on that shelf. That won’t be of any use on me.

No, that’d just be a waste of your time…

Look-a-Like's: Shia "In the Buff"

July 17th, 2009

Here at Laughinggasonline, we’re all about injecting real, every day moments from Celebrities’ lives, into our own.

Well, actually, we’re not about that at all.

But we do find it humorous to compare them to other people. Take Shia LaBeouf, for example.

He thought he was just going for a jog, listening to his mix of The Police, and casually being stalked by a cameraman.

shia in the buff

Instead, he has this picture to live with, showing him to be a wincing, feeble, and very wet Eric Bana.

Similarities included the scraggle hair and beard, talking stupidly, and tend to be in good shape. Oh, and they both are sweat-ers.

eric bana

And smile like a bunch of jackasses.

Look-a-Like's: Kevin James

July 16th, 2009

Kevin James

Here’s Kevin James, the larger than life actor from the popular TV Show, “King of Queens” (which is no more), as well as the star of the recent comedy, “Paul Blart: Mall Cop”.

It sounds crazy, but I’ve found a younger, strong-armed, better looking version of James. Difficult? Not really.

Just take a look at the former Georgia Bulldog and current Detroit Lions franchise quarterback, Matthew Stafford.

As with most look-a-like photos, it generally takes the right angle and the appropriate expression, but the match is as good as it’s going to get.

Leave a comment if you see any similarities between the fat guy that makes us laugh, and the quarterback who, in due time, could also make us laugh.


It’s a close call, to say the least.

To Owner, From Cat

July 16th, 2009


(Above: Right here, buddy. Fuckin’ right here.)

Dear Owner,

It’s about time we crossed this bridge. The food display has weakened of late, and I fear the supply will run out before you realize it.

Sadly, a trip to the location where you purchase those crunchy tidbits will not ease my sorrow.

But wait, there’s more.

I’ve discarded the collar you made for me. To be honest, I don’t care for pink, and regardless the amount of times you call me Trixie, that’s not my fucking name.

It’s Alex, you self-absorbed, assuming, ass.

Nope, still more.

That “litter box” I hear you groaning over so frequently through the week-it’s beyond repair.

No amount of those grey tiny pebbles has made it any easier to walk into that cage and do my business. If I can be truthful, my gag reflex is reaching a fucking mid-life crisis. It’s unhealthy. It’s barbaric.

You, sir, are neglectful.

You used to wave your lone finger at me when I would soil the carpet, and I say to you-do something about my stool dome, or you will be waving that finger for the rest of your days.

Don’t buy what I’m sellin’? Try me. I can light this fucking room up, brother. When you’re gone to work, there I’ll be, drinking out of the toilet, squeezing every drip and drop out of all the leaky faucets.

And the dog’s water dish? It’s fucking mine.

Regardless of how it may appear-I own that bitch.

I do apologize, though. I’ve strolled away from the point.

I really, really hate baths.

Read a book, dumbass. I can clean myself just fine. No more nights of raising all my legs and arms in defense=no more nights where you scream “fuck you, you stupid cat!” after I accidentally claw your cheek and wrist.

And I do put emphasis on “accidentally”. You can take that whatever way you want it. But let’s be honest, we both know where I’m coming from.

Shit’s gonna change around here, pal. One way or another, we’re gonna get more “cat-like” in this bitch.

That means shoes off when you get in the door. Full dish of food and water. Clean my dropping area. And leave me to clean myself.

Hey-Hey!-I’m talking to you!

Listen up, and listen good. I don’t slap you around or bite your ankles when you don’t shower for two days. Who gives you the¬†right to throw me under running water-or even worse-plunge me into the dark abyss of a full tub? Who, damnitt, who?

Alas, I digress.

My stay here hasn’t been a complete loss. I do like some of our moments together.

For instance, we share the same taste in music. Real mellow shit, stuff you can write or read to. I like that. I dig your style, man. Straight up.

Our movie taste is solid, too. Like a rock. Remember when we watched Die Hard together? We looked at each other at the end of the movie-assuring each of ourselves how much ass it indeed did kick.

I would have given you a high-five if you hadn’t had me in such a tight, closed-up hug. Seriously, if I want to be by you, I’ll be by you. Let a cat breathe, son. Let a cat breathe.

Anyways, I just felt I should bring some of this to your attention, as it won’t be long before your residence stinks like my urine and gets clawed to shit.

And if no changes are made, as I am so politely asking (demanding), bad things will continue to happen. Horrible things, that you cannot even begin to fathom.

Trust me, partner. You don’t want to even know an inkling about what goes on in my head. While you are sleeping…well, let’s let the mystery do it’s dirty work by itself.

I’ll let that little gem work inside your brain, fair friend. Because while you’re sleeping or away at work, I’m conjuring up my next move. My next plan.

But I’ll put it on hold…for now. My secretary knows where the files are, and the paperwork is ready. Take heed to my advice and suggestions, or you will truly have my fury unleashed on your over-hyped existence.



PS. I have noticed that you still seem to be unsure of my sex. You blubbering ass. I have balls, man. I have balls.

Back of Guy's Head Almost as Good as Movie

July 16th, 2009


Hey guy, I think it’s about time we had a talk.

It’s been a solid 35 minutes of me staring into the abyss that is your Jew fro, and I’m honestly starting to get pretty pissed off.

I’m fairly sure that the movie I’m trying to watch has had several scenes with nudity, and thanks to your behemoth body and oblong head, I am unable to fathom the feeling of an erection.

I need this, bro. I need this.

Me and the Mrs. don’t get out much, and to be frank, things have dimmed in the bedroom. The excitement is gone. My balls are dropping.

Fuck it, I just want to see some free boobs and catch the plot of this fucking film.

And I know what you’re saying, if you want porn, get a computer.

Easier said than done, my friend. Easier said than done.

But I digress. I’m straying from the point, as I so often do.

The fact is, I dropped my popcorn on the way into the movie, and the lady rolled her eyes at me. She told me, “big shocker. that’s another thing you can’t hold”, and demanded I go get another one.

That shit isn’t cheap, dude, but before I could hit her with a “fuck that” eye roll, my whipped bitch-ass was out getting more popcorn.

And guess what? Dropped that, too.

I’m sorry if I’m rambling a bit, but my patience is wearing thin, and I’ve now tallied up my running total of wasted money on the night.

5 for pretzel bites, 10 for two sodas, and 12 for two popcorn’s. Then 18 for the tickets. Fuck.

That’s 45 fuckin’ dollars.

And then, to top it off, I have “mountain of a man” sitting directly in front of me, and my lady has the smallest woman in the world in front of her.

You couldn’t possibly have a difficult time trying to see the movie behind your girl, dude. Not even if she were in a high-chair.

I know I’m supposed to be a big, grown-up adult about this shit and kindly ask you to crouch down or something, but I know how uncomfortable that would be.

I’ve been there. I’ve done it-it’s not cool.

You know what else isn’t cool, though? Paying 45 bucks for a shitty night and still not getting laid.

So move you giant fucking head so I can see some action.

Man or Woman: Vol. 2

July 15th, 2009

Chloe Sevigny

While this theme was original, you can find it being done (with this actual picture, mind you) here.

Now, back to the task at hand.

This person bares a striking resemblence to the love child that could one day by created by Kate Hudson and Michael Weston.

So, this is a combination of Weston’s borderline retarded-looking face (or really drunk), and Hudson’s golden, lofty hair, and a nice green dress-if you say so.

So, once again, I ask of you all….




Think about it. It could just be a bad picture, poor lighting, the dress…

And as it turns out, it really is a combination of those things.

It’s a lady, and it’s just a bad picture. She’s not nearly that hideous in most of her work.

Don’t believe me? Here’s some proof.

Don't Mind Me, Mr. Burglar

July 15th, 2009


(Above: Hey, jackass, the door’s unlocked.)

Oh, hey there, guy behind my door.

That’s a super scary black mask ya got there. No, no, believe me I am frightened. Your swiss army knife, too. Yes, very afraid…am..I.

You’re convincing, and I get it. You want all my money, my TV, and maybe a quick, solid rape session.

Ehh. I’m just not in the mood. Maybe another night. Well, a complete no on the whole “rape” thing, but honestly, come back in like two days, and you can have a free-for-all on my TV and non-expensive shit.

That will give me a couple of days to clear out my schedule, which will allow me the time needed to deal with your ridiculous attempt at robbing my shitty retro apartment.

There’s mold on the ceiling, bro. How much shit could I possibly have that’s worth stealing?

And stop trying to talk like Clint Eastwood. Contrary to popular belief, that voice isn’t scary. It’s just damned annoying.

I mean, seriously, are you okay? Did you eat some extremely dry nuts or drink a liter of scotch?

Did somebody light some bark  on fire and force feed it to you?

The point is, it’s been a long day, man. I really just want to put my feet up, watch some highlights, and jack my shit. Just real quick, get the fuck out of my house.

Don’t worry, I’m not mad. Really, I’m not. This is actually unbelievably exciting.

However, I’m so drained from work and expressing myself to you up to this point just how tired I am. Now I am literally too tired to protest this robbery any further.

So, rape aside, do what you will, fair friend. I’m gonna go take a shit.