Goonies R Good Enough!

Yeah. This is the Cyndi Lauper song I chose to title this one after. It doesn't have anything to do with what I'm writing about, I just wanted to spite people who thought I'd go with "She Bop" or "True Colors," though "She Bop" would probably be much more appropriate.

Julia Roberts recently had twins, a boy and a girl. And, much like those who have come before her, she has given them names that will more than likely induce their first coke binge.

I haven't actually read any press on the babies, I've just read the headlines, but this is what I imagine they say.

Babies Hazel and Phinneaus marched their way out of the Pretty Woman's vagina early Sunday morning in a Southern California hospital. It wasn't a Pelican Brief affair. One eyewitness reports that the room sure didn't smell like Steel Magnolias or Mystic Pizza after her water burst either. Her baby Phinneaus, The Mexican, slid from the womb landing Full Frontal on his freshly severed umbilical cord. If she were alive, I'll bet this birth would have even made Mona Lisa Smile. Upon Closer questioning, Roberts said that she would like to have many more children. Could this be the new Ocean's Eleven or Ocean's Twelve? I'm going to go take a rusty cheese grater to my jugular now.

I hate when people who write entertainment news write shitty, easy stuff like that with a passion normally reserved only for small children and people who include stuff like "LOL" or ":)" after everything they write online. I actually could have included more of her movie titles in that, but I actually started to enjoy it. It's like a parasite that eats away at me. As I was writing it a commercial for the Blue Collar Comedy show came on and I almost didn't want to hunt down Jeff Foxworthy and sodomize him with a tire iron.

People often email me and ask why I hate retarded people so much. Actually, nobody ever emails me and the only interaction I have with the world is every ten years when I purposefully don't mail in my census form so the worker has to come to my house and help me fill out the form. Anyway, for the sake of this story, people always wonder why I hate retarded people. Well, truth be told, I don't hate them. In fact, I've touched one before.

The following is an actual story of something that happened to me in high school (I've got three pretty good retard stories, this ranks last on the list, maybe some day in the future I'll tell the other two):
It was my senior year and I was excited because all through high school I had seen the signs once a year about the blood drive in the gym. For some reason, I had this fascination with giving blood. I really wanted to give it, but you had to be seventeen or something. Finally, the day came when I could give blood and I quivered with girlish excitement at the thought. In the gym that afternoon, there were a bunch of people sitting around waiting to make sure they didn't have AIDS or tattoos or something and I was one of them. While I was sitting there waiting, my friends were across the gym floor feeding people juice, cookies, and shit (this was literal shit, too--I thought it was strange, but they said that nothing helps regenerate blood cells like a spoonful of recycled butternut squash) because they worked for ASB. The girl next to me, who I had suspected was a retard before she opened her mouth, confirmed this belief once she spoke. She was giving me that all-too-familiar look that I've come to learn: the longing look of a retarded girl who wants to bone me. She said to me, in retard, "Are you scared?"

I shot back in her native tongue, "No! I'm actually pretty excited!"

At this point she began to gnaw on a bag of blood on the table behind her and I thought I was done with the conversation. Alas, I was wrong. She said, "Are you sure you're not scared? You look scared."

I was tempted to ignore her because, being the asshole I am, noticed my friends were watching me from across the gym and snickering to themselves. But, for some reason, my heart wasn't in its horribly hardened and dark shape that it is now and I spoke again, "No. Really. I'm fine."

"Well," she replied, "I think you look scared and need a hug."

Fuck! I thought. Please, god, tell me that a hug is something different than actual physical contact to a retarded person--like they're Peter Pan or something.

However, once she stood up, held her arms out, and didn't say, "I'm an airplane made of meat! Whee!" I knew that it was the same thing. I glanced back at my friends for the last time as they watched on with what can only be described as the this-is-the-best-thing-in-my-life-I've-ever-witnessed-and-simultaneously
-I'm-so-glad-that-it's-not-me look on their faces. I stood up and received my karmic punishment for future misgivings that I would impress upon the mentally challenged community.

It was on this day that I learned two things: 1) There is no God and 2) Retarded people smell like a mix between a new He-Man toy and asparagus piss.

Interesting thought of the day:
Mythbusters marathon Sunday is the best day in the history of man. There's nothing like writing two finals papers and watching insect foggers blow up a house filled with homeless people.