You just made my list!

I’m so sorry.

Seriously, I’m really sorry.

I am so so so SORRY!

I never meant to hurt you!

PLEASE forgive me.

Oh my God, I am sooooo sorry. So incredibly sorry!

Was I in a coma?

When did every profession get its own reality show? What do you do when that profession, A.K.A. driving trucks on ice, becomes old news? Take those same truckers and force them to drive on a dangerous Himalayan mountain road and asfvvvvvbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbb… Sorry, I fell asleep face down on my keyboard.

The other night, while flipping through the on-screen channel guide, my girlfriend noticed the show “Parking Wars” and asked, “What is that show about?” I answered, “Parking.” Unsatisfied with that answer, she said, “No really, what is it?” I punched her in the eye and said, “I ALREADY FUCKING TOLD YOU, IT’S ABOUT PARKING!” OK, I would never hit my girlfriend but I was forced to say, “No, seriously, it’s a show about people parking” and then cried myself to sleep.

My attention span for watching people drive trucks on TV is somewhere between less than none seconds and none seconds.

2 minutes and 35 seconds of truckers changing gears and saying shit about roads or something. How is this is real?

You know, just because you are an “emergency” vehicle trying to “save someone’s life” it doesn’t mean you have the right to make me miss my turn at the green light. I mean come on, I sat there forever in a long line of cars watching the lights go from red to green, red to green, red to green until FINALLY it was my turn to sniff the sweet aroma of green light freedom. I fantasized about this moment for the last 5 minutes and even planned on changing my Facebook status to “Woo hoo, finally made it through the intersection. Thank you Mr. Green Light!” but you and your gaudy, flashy vehicle just HAD to be there at the same time and ruin everything!

Fuck you ambulance, what’s the rush? And fuck you dying person in the back of the ambulance too. What, the whole world has to bow to you as you parade around the city in that kickass adjustable bed like some big shot? “Oooooo, look at me, I’m Donald Trump.” Maybe I would like someone to drive my lazy ass around, ever think of that? Selfish prick.

I hope you know I’m secretly hoping you die. Yeah that’s right, you make me miss the first 2 minutes of “The Biggest Loser” and I pray for your death. Seems totally fair and rational to me. You inconvenience me, so I hope you are inconvenienced by an exploding heart.

Ahhhhh, that feels much better.

I’m sure all of you were equally destroyed by the news of Bob Guccione’s death and, if you are like me, you will be taking the day off to mourn and reflect.

Rarely does mankind see greatness like Guccione. Playboy may have shown me my first glimpse of female pubes but Penthouse let me behind the curtain, so to speak. It was as if Bob Guccione himself was taking me by the hand and giving me an intimate tour of the female anatomy. Not too many grown men would do that for a 13-year-old boy and he deserves all the praise in the world for it.

Sure, it was scary at first, after all the first issues of Penthouse I saw were from the late 70s and early 80s when a woman’s pubic hair extended 6 inches from her body. Once I worked through the fear it was an incredible journey filled with head bands, baby oil, tan lines, Venetian blinds lit by red and blue lights, naked women washing cars and, most importantly, girls having sex with other girls. My eyes are filled with tears as I type this.

I fear that Guccione’s greatest gift to humanity will be lost. I am speaking, of course, of Penthouse Forum. Forum was better than the pictorials and it was nothing more than real letters from Penthouse readers telling real tales of getting laid. Yes, they were real and I don’t want to hear any more about it! I couldn’t wait to grow up because, thanks to Forum, I was under the impression young adulthood was going to be an endless parade of sex with hot housewives in their pools, sex in the woods with hitchhikers, sex in the grocery store parking lot, sex with triplets and sex that produced a minimum of 8 male orgasms. That son-of-a-bitch Guccione had me masturbating to words. WORDS!

Rest in peace sweet sweet Bob Guccione.

You proud of yourself, God? I bet you think you are king of the fucking universe right now, don’t you? All high and mighty, sitting up there on your cloud, killing two beloved TV parents in the same week. As Christian Bale says, “OH, GOOD FOR YOU!”

Well you finally did it, you made Wally and Beaver orphans. I know you have been dreaming of this day for a long time and now you can kick up your old man feet on some stupid cloud La-Z-Boy® recliner that’s made out of clouds and smells like clouds and give yourself  a nice slow clap. I watched “Leave it to Beaver” every day after Junior High so I can’t help but think some of this was aimed at hurting me.

Let me get this straight, God… Guy Fieri gets to wake up tomorrow and put on his favorite flame-covered bowling shirt but June fucking Cleaver is six feet under? Yeah yeah, don’t give me this “she was 94 years old” bullshit, you’re God, give unto her the ability to live forever! Dick.

Barbara Billingsley being awesome

And then this shit happens…

Sunday, Monday, Happy Days.
Tuesday, kill Mr. Cunningham?

What’s wrong with you? Tom Bosley was Father Dowling, A FUCKING PRIEST, for your son’s sake. Were you jealous that Bosley was on pretty much every classic TV show ever… Car 54 Where Are you, Get Smart, The Mod Squad, Bewitched, Mission: Impossible, Maude, The Paul Lynde Show, Love Boat, Happy Fucking Days, Touched by an Angel!?!

You wish your resume was that strong, God. Let’s see, what have YOU done with your life? You created the Earth 6,000 years ago. BFD! I entered a video in Madonna’s “Make My Video” contest on MTV in 1986 and they fucking played it on the air, TWICE, and said my name, but you don’t see me going around bragging about it every two seconds.

Let me see if I understand this… Mr. C. is dead but right now, as we speak, Guy Fieri is buying a totally “money” belt buckle that looks like dice? It just doesn’t add up.

I realize this Happy Days intro is from the time period when the show sucked and it started to look like the 80s even though it was still the 50s and Fonzie was a teacher or something, but I wanted you to see the super douche move that occurs at the 0:49 mark. Watch closely.

This is going to be a short rant for 2 reasons.

1) I spent the day in a 5 hour meeting. The kind of meeting where you aren’t the person doing any talking so all you do is sit there and conjure up the sickest sexual fantasies you can involving the women attending the meeting. Then someone finally turns to you and says, “What do you think?” and you blurt out “Baby oil!”

2) Does anyone really care what I have to say about anything?

3) I’m just kidding, I know I am worshiped by many.

4) I was going to write about Giada de Laurentiis and her crazy psycho smile but while looking for photos of her I realized I’m too hypnotized by her cleavage to say anything negative about her. “Baby oil!”

5) Finally, what can really be said about these people? Learn how wide your car is jackass. Should this bother me? Does it actually affect my life in any way? The answer is obviously yes. I hate these people! I also hate people who have no idea where their front bumper is and will cause me to die a slow death behind them in traffic because they REFUSE to simply turn their steering wheel and go around whatever obstacle is in their (our) way. It bothers me. A lot of things bother me.

Oh boy, I’m ready for the hate mail to pour in on this one. “You’re a jerk and you live in your mom’s basement and these dolls are beautiful and you’re just jealous that nobody ever loved you, I hope you never have kids, blah blah blah.” There I just saved you all that time.

I’m forced to write this while sitting on the toilet because it’s impossible to look at these creepy dolls without shitting at least a tiny bit. I should have warned you! I’m sorry you now have poop-filled pants.

OK, this shit is fucked up! First of all, these dolls are referred to as “Reborn Babies” and there’s a whole subculture of insane psychopaths buying and making these creepy plastic monsters. The process of making a realistic baby doll is known as “reborning” or “newborning” and it usually takes place in the darkest corner of Hell. Even Satan is like “Um… yeah, I’m going to go see what Hitler and Dahmer are up to for a few hours while you gals finish up… um… whatever it is exactly that… uh, you’re doing over there.” Then the great beast slowly backs out of the room timidly.

At least that’s how I imagine it.

Yikes…

Guess what? This post is going to suck it hard because it’s late and I’m lazy. You see, I actually had to prepare a bunch of stuff tonight for a workshop I was asked to teach about blogging. I know, RIGHT? I am so fucking awesome! I’m going to make the world’s worst/best Power Point presentation for this thing, I can’t wait. I need to track down a corduroy jacket with elbow patches ASAP!

So anyway… let’s talk a little bit about ripped up designer jeans. They are ridiculous. Can I just say that and go to bed?

Why do people want to walk around like they were just attacked by fucking piranhas? And why do they want to pay handsomely for that privilege? When did it become cool to look homeless? Sorry bro, it doesn’t make you look edgy, it just makes you look like you were dragged behind a tractor. Ahhhhh, let me hold onto that image for a while.

The people who wear this nonsense seriously need to get their shit together and think about doing something important with their lives, like teaching blogging workshops. As a professor of blogging, I have superior intelligence and can tell you, without question, that these inconsequential simpletons know not of their own deplorable demeanor. The French have a saying, “Votre pantalon est chié” which means, “Your pants are shit.” At least that’s what Babel Fish says.