No thank you, Good Charlotte. No. Thank. You.

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Okay so I just announced the blog on facebook, so now more people than me and Tessa are looking at this so here are some are some feel good thoughts — the sort of home spun, folksy wisdom you’ve come to expect from me.

What the fuck do those two useless fucking gestated-too-close-to-power-lines douchebag twins from Good Charlotte think they’re doing working a drive-thru at KFC? How the fuck did they even get jobs there? What the fuck sort of qualifications do they have? I don’t eat at KFC ever since an x-ray revealed eight kilos of deep fried chicken sperm nestled in my colon, but if I DID eat at KFC I would want my food served to me by someone without quite such a comical collection of year ten, texta tattoos, and one time I ate KFC from TUGGERANONG.

I know we care about one because he was a professional, patronising hunk of warm shit with a stupid haircut on The Voice, but why the fuck do we care about the other one? I can’t tell the difference between them, I just know that one of them has shared a dressing room with the waxen, grinning death’s head of Keith Urban and had six or seven clutches of Delta Goodreem eggs laid in his spine, and the other one hasn’t done anything of note except bone Paris Hilton and Sophie Monk. So one was famous on the TV in Australia, and the other is famous for being less sexually discerning than someone who has a mop cupboard fetish.

The thing that fucking kills me though is the people who come through the drive through when the shitbeard knobhat brothers happen to be working — either

a) that woman in the driver’s seat is an actor and she is extremely good and acting as a woman who is surprised to see someone she recognises as famous working at a KFC drive-thru and then tries to keep her surprise going when she realises that they’re famous for being the soundtrack of rebellion for rich, white priveleged kids with nothing to fucking rebel against, and who except for the the most brain damaged of forty year olds suffering severe arrested development would give a shit about that? Still, they look so happy just to be recognised, you had better keep looking excited to see them otherwise they might start fucking singing.

b) an actual real person they sprung the Good Charlotte twins on, in which case when she starts fanning herself and can’t calm down, it’s probably because she’s having an asthma attack from the dueling Nicole Richie brand colognes wafting in to her car, or she figures if she fakes a stroke someone will call an ambulance and they’ll take her away from this awful, awful KFC window.

But the heart attack is pointless, lady in the car. Because the ambulance is being driven by Pete Wentz. Why, God, why?

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2 thoughts on “No thank you, Good Charlotte. No. Thank. You.

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