I just can’t stomach reality shows. (except Hell’s Kitchen).
It’s suicidal to give up your life and indulge your temporal lobe in finding out what Kendra ate and regurgitated for breakfast. At Shitville, life’s too interesting to watch reality shows(except Hell’s Kitchen).
The drunkard passed out in a ditch with a dog humping his beard is always an inspiration for my tweets. Ms.Trump, my math teacher, is always a potful of racial slurs for my Facebook page. The local butcher is always jolly full of creative curse words like fatherf**ker, reminiscent of Chef Ramsay’s colorful vocabulary (no I have not been paid to promote Hell’s Kitchen. I wish I was though).
Every time I try to watch a reality show I get this nauseating sensation that can only be described as the feeling you’d get from touching a sweaty, cheesy, trumpy, pus-filled, bloody boil on a snail’s back in the dark. Or rather, you know the white stuff that accumulates at the corner of the mouth when really thirsty, if that got spat onto your lip from a bum’s mouth. Am glad I was able to share that feeling with you expressly. I greatly apologize for the vomit all over your keyboard, but now you understand how I feel when I watch a reality star try to attain subject-verb agreement in blondese.