Concha Libre’s hope in the spirit of humanity is also dead.

Yo, Death, get your bony skeleto-hands off my favorite writers!

First Vonnegut.



Then Wallace.





Now this?




What about a Wall street exec? Maybe you want to impale Paris Hilton? Or stick a big fat cancer rod up Tupegolvich’s ass. There are so many more deserving of the bony little tap of your index finger. How ‘bout Augusten Burroughs and his douchey little audience that funds him.


Do you think your little essay speculating on Updike’s death is funny now, douchey, douche?

I guess what I’m trying to say is, Updike is forever immortal, and Burroughs can die already.

¡viva la 'bama!

We, at Concha Libre® and company, would like to congratulate Mr. Obama and his family. We'd also like to note, this will probably be the only time we are happy about anything the entire year. So, let's savor the moment. hooray.

Until tomorrow,

Concha

Thank You, Bloomingdales

No, really. Let me express my utmost gratitude for giving me something to blog about, when we are hearing almost nothing from Satan Palin.

Thank you for employing sales associates who don’t believe a little courtesy and halfway decent grammar should be included in that $300 price tag. A little civility might make me feel too comfortable to go home and bang on my keyboard to avoid finding myself swimming among the cesspool of completely worthless employees that currently make up your staff.

Thank you for completely ignoring the tastes of the New Yorkers who make up your city. Thank you for instead catering to the banality and substandard fashions of the suburban American tourists who only want to buy something utterly worthless like a Coach keychain or pair of fucking argyles, so they can go back to fucking Akron and boast its purchase from your flagship store. Because the next time I have a momentary lapse in reason and decide to cross the East River, I’ll save myself a hell of a lot of time by remembering this motto: If Brooklyn doesn’t have it, THEY DON’T MAKE IT.


nothing quite says i'm a douchey girl, like this piece of garbage

And finally, thank you for completely underestimating about a third of my gender’s intelligence with displays like this.



Because the next time I start chastising myself for not being a size –87, I’ll remember that anyone who tries to live up to the ridiculous example you set, has a brain size about as big as the jeans snuggled around these unrealistic, plastic asses.

May the economy heap burning coals of bankruptcy upon your head.


no, fuck you!

By the way, Bloomingdales, Bloomies, Vomit, whatever fucking stupid name you're calling yourself these days, this is a display in a store called Future Perfect, a store whose coolness you will never reach, you utterly average, waste of precious New York real estate.

click here for free concha

While you eagerly wait for inspiration to strike me down to my focus chair and bestow upon you more adventures and unarguable theories from a life so libre, here are a few activities to keep you busy, and up to date with all things concha.

the funnest five seconds of your life ever #1:

facebookers all around the world can proclaim their amor de concha! membership indeed has its privileges on the facebook fan page, including special member's only updates so you're always in the know. and as long as you're super hot and not drinking one of these, members can score free makeouts!


look how much fun we're having!

don't delay, join today!

my concha runneth over:

double the fan, double the fun on the facebook blog page!



Click you some concha.

Finally, your amigo al fin concha libre has undertaken another quest.


git yer nutz

Read the manifesto here, get the all the balls you ever wanted here, become a fan here, and as we say in my head, ¡viva los blogs y viva la concha!