Well, it’s official, the universe will implode on February 5th, 2011 at 11:30 Eastern Standard Time.
The earth will rip apart and just as the molten goo from the center of our planet begins to melt your skin off, you will have just enough time to reflect on all the time you wasted carefully placing 20 pillows on your bed every morning. You will beg God for another chance to live life to the fullest but your screaming prayers will go unanswered, because the instant Dana Carvey and Linkin Park share the Saturday Night Live stage, heaven will be the first thing to explode. Poof… no more God. Satan is calling the shots now, pal. It’s over.
Why is this “job” of mine always getting in the way? You’d think that after working 12-14 hour days I would be in the mood to spend an hour writing about Guy Fieri, but surprisingly I choose to sleep face-down in my clothes until the next morning when I get up and Groundhog Day it all over again. Mo money, mo problems.
Come on, really? I mean… what? I don’t need this shit, not today, not ever. Why?
Please stop telling me your options have changed because I know they haven’t.
Apparently every company I have ever called since 1998 is constantly striving for the PERFECT order in which to place their 4 options, like they are the Lennon and McCartney of automated phone menus.
“Hey boss, I was doing some thinking about our phone menu over the weekend instead of attending my son’s 1st birthday party.”
“Go on, I’m listening.”
“Now, just hear me out OK. I think it might be time to put customer service at position 2 which would allow us to put sales at number 3.”
“Johnson, my grandfather started this company in 1918 with only $2, a tin of sardines and a shoelace. From day one our customers could access our company directory by pressing #1, sales has been #2 and customer service has always been #3. Where, sir, do you get the balls big enough to suggest changing some of our options?”
“Mr. Parker, with all due respect to you and your grandfather, I am merely suggesting that it might be time to change some of our options.”
“Johnson, I’ve never liked you, but this company is not doing well and I am willing to try anything at this point. You may change the pre-recorded menu options but SO HELP ME GOD, you had better warn people!”
It’s about time someone had the courage to speak out against these pieces of shit.
Now, before you waste your time (although I’m guessing most of you are unemployed and have plenty of time on your hands)… anyway, before you waste your time telling me your tips for “the most awesome” scrambled eggs, please allow me to stop you, I don’t want to fucking hear it.
It took me decades to finally realize I have never actually enjoyed a single plate of scrambled eggs. I used to be brainwashed just like you and found myself charmed by the warm and fuzzy reputation of scrambled eggs. I mean, just look at those cute little yellow pillows of protein begging to be cuddled by your tongue. Well, much like a cute little bear cub, these fuckers snap in an instant and destroy you.
How is it possible that eggs over-easy can taste so perfectly delicious but as soon as you scramble that sucker up it tastes like a wad of toilet paper soaked in egg water? Also, the toilet paper has poop on it.
And while I’m at it, fuck you omelets! The only reason you are slightly better tasting than scrambled eggs is because you have so much shit in you, you are barely even eggs anymore. Such an ego on you, omelets. And how the fuck do you even spell omelet? I want it to be omelette but spell check is making fun of me for that choice. That’s how I spelled it here but suddenly it’s not good enough for my spell check. Even my computer hates whipped eggs!
Why is the universe trying to kill me?
I sure do fail you a lot lately. Sorry, I am pretty much working every day from 8am until 10 or 11pm. The life of a male prostitute for rich MILFs is not as easy as it sounded in the brochure. So shut up and stop hating me. That’s my job.
Now, if you will excuse me, I am going to go back to daydreaming about Hawaii.
Girls, I’m going to let you in on a little secret… your boyfriend likes porn. Your husband likes porn even more.
HEY, calm down, it’s not the end of the world, you big baby. I’m not saying he’s ordering European horse porn and having it delivered to a PO box in the next town over, but I am saying that he has enjoyed “normal” porn in the past and will continue to in the future. The computer screen you are looking at right now has most likely been the stage on which tiny pizza delivery men and lonely housewives perform acts of unspeakable awesomeness.
It’s OK though. He still loves you! He just wants to watch men with questionable fashion sense make sweet dirty love to women who never take off their pearls or high heels. It’s perfectly normal and healthy, unless he really is into horse porn, then you have a serious problem on your hands, especially if you own a horse. Why are you even dating a guy who likes horse porn? Get on that horse and ride the hell out of town, tonight!
I know I know, he’s told you many times that he thinks “porn is dumb” and it “doesn’t do anything for him,” he’s mostly lying out of fear and/or respect for you. While it is true that most porn is about as erotic as getting your teeth drilled (I’m sure you can actually find teeth-drilling porn) the incredible amount of porn produced in the last four decades insures there is something that even your perfect Johnny likes.
Please do yourself a favor and don’t start interrogating him tonight at Olive Garden. There’s really no need to worry about it, guys loving hardcore porn is as American as… well, I guess it’s as American as guys loving softcore porn. USA! USA! USA! USA! USA!
You should really be asking yourself why you can afford a horse but still choose to eat fucking Olive Garden.
I already know that I’m the only person who cares about this so feel free to discuss any topic of your choice. I don’t care, It’s my list and I am sticking to my boring topic. Blogging fever, CATCH IT!
Dear Music Video Director Jerks,
Can you hear the slow clap I am currently performing in your honor? It’s so slow that my first clap occurred on March 15th, 1993 and the next scheduled clap will take place on August 3rd of this year. This slow clap is so fucking epic that I don’t anticipate the pace to pick up to its unstoppable fast clap ending until the year 2051. I have planned the culmination of my slow clap to coincide with the 100 year anniversary* of the microphone you love to use in every music video since the birth of MTV in the early 80s.
I get it, you think the Shure 55 series mics have more “presence” on film and make the singer look “sexy” when they inevitably wrap their hands around the mic and press their disease-ridden mouths up against it, but maybe it’s time to move on to the next cliché. Hey, it’s OK, don’t cry! I’m sure if we work together we can find some untapped cliché to exploit. How about singers singing into giant, realistic dildos? If Justin Bieber was singing into a big, veiny rubber cock I might actually start watching music videos again.
So let’s just put the wacky 50s microphones away and move on to big rubber dicks.
Thank you in advance.
*I think it’s about 100 years. If I’m wrong I don’t need some microphone nerd telling me otherwise.
For the record, I had no idea if this Creed video actually used a Shure 55 microphone but I had a feeling. I was right. I’m always right.
Also for the record, I had no idea if any Alice in Chains videos used this mic but, once again, I was right. I should also point out that this song rules.