Articles from Michigan State

  • You Red Trucker Mother F**ker

    Yeah, I know you.

    I just met you and I already know the kind of douchemaster you are. I don't even have to look outside to know you drive a Red Truck. You ugly f**k.


    What was it that let me on? Sh*t, man, do I have to tell you? Is it not obvious?

    The "Built Ford Tough" tattoo? No, I knew way before I saw that. And why the f**k did you make me see that? Next time don't just assume that everyone wants to see your white pimply ass before you drop your faded black jeans.

    And it wasn't your farmer's tan either. My girlfriend has one of those, because she likes to garden.

    I can't believe I'm talking to a fucker who drives a Red Truck - why would I waste my time? F**k. You know, I hate Red Truckers, I hate them like a fat kid hates the three hours between lunch and dinner. I hate them because I drive a minivan and you fuckers always think it'd be fun to pass me going ninety, on the right. Yeah, you're cool - I admit it, passing someone on the right is f**king cool as f**k. I mean seriously. When I drive a Red Truck, I do it all the f**king time. And you know what, I jerk off while I'm doing it. Because I'm a jerkoff when I'm driving a Red Truck. Only, I'm never a jerkoff because I never drive a Red Truck. F**kers.

    Why did you even buy that color of truck, if you were going to buy a truck? I mean, if you're any sort of real man, you're going to buy a black f**king truck. No, you said, let's get a truck the color of passion, of blood, of the lipstick ring your wife leaves around the cocks of all your friends (What, you didn't know? If you'd known, would you still have bought the Red Truck? Yes? Then I don't feel bad).

    No, if you really want to know how I know, just ask the Nickelback song you have playing on your iPod mini. Nickelback? Really. If you're going to be a Red Trucker, at least be original in your choice of tunage. Ask the one earring you have, or the cowboy-boots-turned-tennis-shoes that you deliberately walk through the mud in.  Ask your flannel shirt, or your popped collar. Ask the brown cigarettes you smoke, only you call them "cigarellos" as if they aren't just Kools that are brown. Ask your Prada cowboy hat. Ask your Fossil watch, you sonofabitch. Ask the way you refer to middle-easterners as "F**king Ay-Rabs." Ask your two inch dick, which is the reason you bought a Red Truck in the first place - and, what a coincidence - the same reason your wife likes the taste of foreign meat.

    I mean sh*t, I don't even have to look outside and I can probably tell you what kind of stickers and truck decorations you have on your Red Truck. How about a giant NO FEAR sticker plastered  on your back window? Really? I'm good. Rubber testacles that you can hang on your trailer hitch? Check. Wow.



    Oh man, I can't even go on anymore. I'm going to puke. Red Trucks make me homicidally agitated and wetly nauseous. Please, please go. Get out.

    Rev your engine as you leave, let us all hear what your engine sounds like with the muffler gone.  Squeal out of the parking lot, and run over some little children. Pass someone on the right. Gawk at a girl driver and make lewd masturbation gestures. I don't care anymore. Just get out before I...





  • New Year, New Laws...

    On the books as of Feb 10, 2007. 


    BOSTON, MA

    - It shall heretofore be an illegality for any person(s) to place any children's toy that gives off light out of doors and leave it there. Also, in regards to the children's toy that is dubbed, "Lite Brite," let it be known that any image created resembling an explosive device, spelling out the name or reference to the name of an explosive device, i.e. "bomb," or "da bomb," or "dyn-o-mite," or any depiction of aliens making obscene gestures, or any representation of cartoon characters currently endorsed by Cartoon Network, or any criticism of the Boston Police Department, shall from this point forward be considered an offense warranting a misdemeanor.

    NEW YORK, NEW YORK
    - It will be illegal for any professional baseball player to pilot any sort of aircraft over New York City. Furthermore, it will be considered a felony if any aircraft piloted by a professional baseball player strikes a building. [NOTE - If the baseball player is of Arabic descent, the felony will be increased to a declaration of war on that player's country of origin.]

    DETROIT, MICHIGAN - From this point on, it will be illegal for Winter to start any later than January 1st. Fifty degree weather on January 15th is ridiculous, and we're not going to stand for it. If Winter starts any later than January 1st from now on, Winter will be charged with a fine of $400,000. Also, it will be illegal for the Detroit Tigers to lose the World Series.

    PUNXSUTAWNEY, PENNSYLVANIA
    - The groundhog's name shall no longer be Phil - he shall be named George instead, and Punxsutawney will now be spelled "PunkyTown" Oh, and also we're switching the whole "What happens when the groundhog sees his shadow," thing. Yep, flipping it around. Fuck off, Winter. You douche.




  • Hello Ncicole (if that is your real name - maybe you meant Nicole). I've just finished plowing through your story "Mars Child." In an effort to be honest, I'm just going to tell you outright: This story is not good. In fact, I think it’s hopeless. Others will try to give you advice, things that will help you in your writing, and so will I. The difference between their advice and mine is that if you follow theirs you will be constantly led down a road of hope and letdowns. I've also stopped trying to be fake nice to people who send me their shitty stories to “critique.” So strap it on and bend over.

    First of all - your story has no plot. It is a meandering and often ridiculous sample of the thoughts of a seemingly insane fourth grade girl. Your main character is nameless and lifeless. Most things in your story happen with such absurd reality that it's hard not to laugh at them. Your main character listens to Martian music on a Martian website – before Martians have even made contact with the Earthlings. Are you just really dumb or do you have no idea what you’re writing? Your main character (what the fuck is her name?) then gets abducted by some Martians and they impregnate her. Woo. Wait, how old was this girl? Nine? Shit, that’s some fucked up shit Ncicole. So then, her “Mother” is basically like “Oh, I don’t think that’s legal.” WHAT THE FUCKING SHIT?! Are you kidding me? In a world where no one even knows that Martians fucking exist, the girl’s fucking mother has a COMPETENT UNDERSTANDING OF THE LAW REGARDING MARTIAN/NINE-YEAR-OLD CRIMINAL SEXUAL CONDUCT?! Oh, and hey, wouldn’t her first reaction be “Oh shit, you just got fucking raped by fucking aliens”? Just a little bit of a believability issue. Yeah, a bit the size of a porn-star’s dick.

    One last question: Do you have Tourette’s Syndrome? No? Then why the FUCK does the phrase “Mars Child” keep showing up in the most random of places? “The Martian hands were old and when Mars Child they touch her she feel like they in her and then Mars Child she pregnant.” WHAT THE FUCK? What the fucking SHIT?!

    Delete this story. Delete it, and never think of it again. Trust me, you don't want people to know you wrote this. And if English isn't your first language, don’t write in fucking English. Are you dumb? Also - spell check is your friend. If shit isn’t spelled write, no won is going two want to reed what you rote. That includes your fucking name too, Ncicole. Shit.

    If you want to continue on this road of writing fiction, the most important thing besides actual talent is practice. Since you don’t have the former, I suggest you practice ad infinitum. Preferably until you die. Maybe then, when the Martians invade Earth in a hundred years, some of your shit might be legible to them. Go, now and read some short fiction (all of the short fiction ever written, please) so that you know what the fuck you’re doing.

    I'm sorry if this has been hard on you - but if I submitted a stick figure to a professional artist to critique, I would be expecting the same kind of ass-raping that I gave you.

    Best of Luck with “Mars Child,"


    Stephen King



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