bayonetting the wounded Mug
(verb) The act of waking up, espically in the late morning or any portion of the afternoon, and finishing off any alcoholic beverege remains from the previous, exceptionally drunken, evening. Why is this phrase such a perfect explaination of the incident it refers to? Well, to bayonett a wounded person is paradoxically both wicked and compassionate. On the one hand, the dude is already hurting, and to bayonett him/her (for all you politicaly correct assholes) is essentually just kicking him/her while he/she is down. On the other hand, if you kill a wounded party by bayonetting him/her one could liken it to putting a hurt race horse out of its misery. As you gather up those cups/glasses/cans/bottles the next day, it is safe to assume you're hurting similarly to the afore mentioned wounded dude (I refuse to add dudette even if I am being politically incorrect). On the one hand, more beer/liquer/wine/mixed drink/anything containing alcohol (shit, even NyQuill) will aleviate your shakes/headache/feeling of impending death. On the other, you'll just get drunk again, only this time on something room temperature that is likely to contain backwash of friends, people you pretend to be friends with even though they're irritating, people you have never met, but somehow have been in your house numerous times, that slut who was getting laid in your bathroom, the neighbor's dog, and quite possibly, your mom, and postpone the incredible discomfort.
The Urban Dictionary Mug
The snarky message on the mug always gets big laughs from guests so I'm now using it as my go-to bourbon glass
Love the coffee mug. Would have been nice to see who had the word accepted into Urban Dictionary printed on the bottom of the mug. As I was the one. "Dusty Dawg" Other than that I love.
fuck ur mugs i want one for free
This mug, much like a cursed relic unearthed from the depths of despair, embodies a cacophony of design flaws and manufacturing mishaps that make one wonder if it was birthed from the darkest corners of incompetence itself. From its deceptively promising exterior, which boasts a color scheme akin to a bruised banana left out in the sun for too long, to its handle that feels more like a medieval torture device designed to punish the unsuspecting hand that dares to grasp it, every aspect of this mug screams "regret." Its material, a sinister amalgamation of recycled nightmares and shattered dreams, leeches a flavor reminiscent of stale coffee mixed with the tears of disappointed souls into whatever liquid unfortunate enough to be poured within its cursed confines. The rim, jagged and uneven like the edge of a poorly forged blade, guarantees that each sip is a perilous journey fraught with the risk of lip lacerations and existential dread. And let us not forget the bottom of this vessel, where the manufacturer's logo is stamped with all the subtlety of a scarlet letter, branding the user as a victim of their own poor purchasing decisions for all eternity. Indeed, this mug serves as a stark reminder that sometimes, in the vast expanse of consumer goods, there exists a dark abyss where quality and utility fear to tread, leaving only disappointment and regret in their wake.
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