Forgot your password?

We just sent you an email, containing instructions for how to reset your password.

Sign in

  • So I stopped in at the Asshattery today. Everyone was rude, as always, but this one beast of a man with barracuda teeth couldn’t shut his stuttering maw for more than a wince, and he was so loud, bragging about how he’d won the Asshat Award for three weeks running, and aren’t we all just in awe of his magnanimous girth. So I dead-stare sneered at him, I told him he was a fucking fool because girth meant that he was a slobbering mold of adipose tissue, you teetering wingnut, and he starts to reel back his arm and form a fist, when the manager sends up a block and hoists him on his petard.

    And then I say, yeah, petard, you has-been Asshat, with a side of girth.

    Victorious, I sashay out, and forget my crown, so I have to go back in and bow to the Asshat manager so he can place it on my head while he shames me for an imperfect exit. I hate the Asshattery. Really. I hate it.

    Image credit: © Charlie Waldron. All rights reserved.

    Word count: 166 Time: 13 minutes

Better browser, please.

To view Cowbird, please use the latest version of Chrome, Safari, Firefox, Opera, or Internet Explorer.