Michael Jackson Phone Home
To a nation in mourning over the untimely passing of a Pop Legend:
Re. Fucking. Lax.
Would you cry like this if your Magic Bullet Blender died? Unless you had formed an illicit (and may I say dangerous) relationship based on its riveting vibrations, then no madam, you would not. That’s because the Magic Bullet Blender, although still able to make us feel something, is a machine, and we don’t cry over machines.
Narrator Voice Overs
I would not, in fact, “be the world’s greatest detective.”
I know I’ve claimed to have superhuman abilities of observation and deduction, but I’ve also claimed my bladder could hold a full gallon of urine, and that my blood contained the cure for HIV. So I want to feel special, sue me.
Anyway, I would suck at being a detective because without someone telling me exactly what’s going on, my brain automatically invents theories that are, as a Perkins waitress once told me, “full of bat-shit crazy.”
Quick example: I once reasoned, in all seriousness, that a bird must have flown into my apartment and stolen the last boston cream doughnut. My main piece of evidence was that I lived on the 4th floor, and cats cannot fly.
Swine Flu
Who’da thunk that pigs, of all things, would take down the mighty dynasty that is man? Lizards, sure. They have mean eyes. Even cats, because I don’t put shit past those bastards.
But piggies? Sweet, delicious bacon supremes? You were our friends, dammit! Why in God’s Sweet Fuck would you leave the comfort of my charbroiled Whopper deluxe to become some stupid deadly flu?
Some of the fan base are bitching that my VS. deathmatch format is all we ever do around here. They want shorter, more frequent posts to pleasure them in jack-hammer fashion, instead of the slow and intimate style of pleasure I’ve provided so far.
Well I’ve never left anyone wanting more, so in the interest of Giving the People What They Want, I’ll be adding some new features in the coming weeks.
This first one is “Open Letter,” which the literate among you might recognize from other publications. Stay tuned for more features that will give meaning to your life, such as “It’s gonna need Jesus!” and “Michiko Must Die,” where I bravely defend the world from New York Times book critic (and assassin death-slut) Michiko Kakutani.
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Dear Nabisco French Onion Wheat Thins,
So you really thought you could cash in on the family name there, huh? You thought you could just saunter in with your air of French sophistication and be the Belle of the Wheat Thins Ball, right?
Well I got sour news for you, bitches. It took a month for me to finish you all, because every one of you tasted like a hot slab of rotten coyote crap baked in the unforgiving Nevada sun.
I’ll give it you, your premise was strong. Sure, who among us have not caught themselves in the middle of a long jog or the Bar exam, when you literally cannot go on without sampling the delicate flavors of rich, sauteed Vidalia onions? It’s a bond we all share; it is, I imagine, what makes us human.
But taking the best and boldest creation of an entire people (French Onion Soup), and making it portable, for on-the-go bistro taste at your fingertips? A dream too glorious for man to behold…
I could not even eat you when I was drunk, that’s how bad you were. Remember last Tuesday, when I went on that bender and forgot to eat both lunch and dinner? At midnight I crept into the kitchen and took the Multi-Grain Wheat Thins to bed with me.
They were phenomenal.
We’re over.
-Skelwell
My New Hideous Disease
A wise soul once said, “Beer, the cause of — and solution to — all of life’s problems.” It was probably Plato or Amy Winehouse or Muhammad (may peace be upon him), I always get those three mixed up. What matters is that truer words have never been spoken, because out of nowhere beer has created My New Hideous Disease, and will (maybe) heal it.
Now as long as I’ve been drinking heavily, I’ve managed to look really good doing it. It also makes me sing good and be hilarious and a great fighter and dancer and impervious to bullets and gravity and the law. But starting last month, every time I take a few sips of beer my face turns bright red and splotchy like some kind terrifying leper-Muppet.
Out of nowhere I have developed an allergic reaction to booze. In the words of the Internet, Fuck My Life.
The Fast and the Furious: Toky Drift
Everyone’s got their little guilty pleasures, you know.
Some people know all the words to MmmBop and sing them quietly in the shower, hoping today will be different. Some people keep a small unmarked bottle of Popov vodka on their person and pour it into literally everything they drink, including other vodka. Some people have every episode of Passions on homemade DVDs they got off eBay last June, and god help the person who doesn’t return the episode where you find out Vincent Crane is an intersexual who got pregnant with his own father’s son. Just, god fucking help you.
So in comparison to those snack-sized bites of human misery, my own guilty pleasure doesn’t seem so bad. And in honor of the upcoming sequel, I will openly admit it: I love The Fast and the Furious movies.
And I like Tokyo Drift the best. Read the rest of this entry »
Martha’s Explodi-Pooch
It’s been a pretty wet-N-wild news week:
But despite all that crap, Martha Stewart managed to pull into the lead with the most (literally) explosive story of all! Read the rest of this entry »
Fun With Mommy’s Oxycontin
Back in my home town, a highly organized ring of prescription drug dealers just got busted, ruining the weekend for untold numbers of high school children. Apparently they were stocked with everything from Adderrall and oxycodone to something called lorazepam, which sounds more like a mythical dragon friend than a euphoria-inducing narcotic, but what the fuck do I know?
A couple lines that need call-outs immediately: Read the rest of this entry »
Rush Limbaugh
Rushbo has challenged Bam Bam to a duel! Of words!
No one really expects O to play ball since, let’s face it, it’s sort of unbecoming for the leader of the free world to accept random pissing match invites. Unless it’s from Hil, then it’s a manhood thing and who can blame him.
But for all his wacky shock jock exploits, Rush has quite a way with power. When elected officials are shining his shoes and miss a spot, he kicks them in their malnourished orphan ribs, pulls them off the ground by their malnourished orphan ears, and makes them apologize as the dark wet spot spreading from their groin erases any last vestige of dignity. Read the rest of this entry »
Things in the shape of the Virgin Mary
The 10 Commandments. The Shroud of Turin.
A cornflake.
The good lawd chooses strange vessels for his message. And while vessels like Morgan Freeman and Alanis Morissette are definitely strange, at least they make some sense. Unless the rumors are true and you’re Dave Coulier, and that bitch calls you in the middle of dinner. I mean, fuck that – you’re the only thing standing between three wily girls and Bob Saget, and fucking Kimmy Gibbler keeps stopping by in a clearly coke-induced stupor so she can skull fuck John Stamos with a glow-in-the-dark 80s strap-on (as if there’s any other kind), and now on top of it all Alanis “Jagged Pill” Morisette is interrupting meatloaf night?!!??
Sorry, sometimes I just go there and it’s hard to come back.
What I’m trying to say is, a message of hope to humanity probably won’t come in the form of a pretzel: Read the rest of this entry »
