Sunday, May 28, 2006

Jokes Around World Write Themselves!

Dateline - Planet Earth

Tired of having to wait around until they're brought into existence by the human mind, jokes have somehow managed to find a way to will themselves into being. This is evidenced by the fact that over the weekend Michael Jackson visited a Tokyo orphanage.

Fucking really?

It's taking every fiber of my soul not to make the jokes that so desperately want to be made. I promise you, Jay Leno heard this story and got his first erection he's had in fifteen years since it was declared clinically dead after he saw Sandra Bernhard naked.

So, out of protest, since I'll have to kill myself if I make the too terribly easy comments that want to be made, I'm going to pretend none of this actually happened.

In sad news, the guy who played the principal in The Breakfast Club, Paul Gleason, died. The even sadder part? It was from blood loss after somebody taped his ass cheeks together. The article says he was 67, but I think that's two years off; I believe he was 65. He got a fake I.D. at 16 so he could vote. For those attending the services, food will be provided. I hope you like crushed-up Captain Crunch and Pixie Stix on white bread. There will also be PB and J with the crusts cut off. If I believed in Heaven, I'd like to think he'd be up there crackin' skulls--especially Jesus's.

Also, Michael Jackson visited an orphanage in Japan. I don't know what he's thinking. With those kids, he'll just be horny an hour later.

Fucking kill me.

Saturday, May 27, 2006

A Leap Forward in Evolution!

Over the weekend, the world was treated to the next step in human evolution. I'm not talking about X Men 3: The Last Stand. No. I'm talking about the birth of the ├╝ber-baby, Shiloh Nouvel Pitt-Jolie.

You're thinking, "Shiloh? What kind of a name is that?"

People thought Jesus was a weird name, too. Then it turned out he could fly and shoot lasers out of his eyes. Suck it, mortals.

Namibia's the new Bethlehem. Mangers are so 0000.

The birth was not an inconsequential event as are all Homo Sapien births.

In a hut somewhere in Namibia (I'm pretty sure that's a planet inhabited by lizard people), perfection manifest was brought upon the world. Instead of being forced out, covered in blood, into the welcoming arms of a doctor or dumpster, the baby hovered out of the beautifully-manicured vagina of Miss Angelina Jolie encased in a rotating two-dimensional crystal frame exactly like that which imprisoned the most powerful supervillians in existence in Superman II.Unfortunately she was born a girl because General Zod Jolie-Pitt sounds way cooler.

With a twitch of her eyebrow, she broke free of her crystal prison. Anybody in the room, aside from her parents, who laid their eyes upon the unimaginable beauty presented before them had their eyes melt out of their skull like crayons left on the dashboard of a car on a hot day. Only, don't forget, these are eyeballs and not Raw Umber. It's, like, way creepier.

"Mother. Father," Shiloh said, "I'd like to play with my siblings."

Not at all shocked by their newborn child's ability to speak perfect English, they prepared to leave their Namibian hovel. So, Miss Jolie took a wetnap and daintily wiped the edges of her vagina. Mr. Pitt filmed Ocean's Thirteen in that fifteen seconds, nearly doubling the time it appeared they spent making that god-awful shitfest of a cinematic abortion Ocean's Twelve. His words, not mine (editor's note: Those are words!).

Soon, the trio will be making the rounds on all of the talk shows melting eyeballs all around the world. Remember, if you want to look at the baby, you have to do it through a hole in a cardboard box.

Saturday, May 20, 2006

Robosaurus: Behind the CARnivore!

Most people see a giant metal robot who eats cars and other passenger vehicles as simply a monster with no conscience. What they don't understand is that there is a sensitive being behind that beast and I was determined to let the world know it.

I met with Robosaurus at his favorite Sunday morning hangout: a small cafe on Manhattan's Upper West Side. When I first arrived, I immediately understood why people hold so many misconceptions about Robosaurus. He had just pulled a small airplane from the sky and begun to devour it while shooting flames from his powerful jaws.
Do you mind putting that out?
Robosaurus: Sorry about that. It's my dinosaur slash robot instincts. Sometimes I forget that this is taboo in today's society.

Today's society? It's kind of always been...

RS: Not really. There was a brief period of time, right after the Paleolithic era, when my dino-robot ancestors ruled the planet. Only when the great meteor hit and killed off all of the natural automobile trees that once covered the earth, did we begin to die out.

You fancy yourself quite a historian, don't you?
RS: Well, I try. I mean, once you've eaten somebody's Honda Civic, it's hard to win them back, but sometimes, if I can explain to them the Treaty of Ghent, they consider the entire situation a wash. It's all I have.

You're being modest, it's not all you have. You're quite a renowned poet.
RS: Renowned? I don't know, but I do like to write. I wrote this one recently after a breakup.


And that's all I've got so far. It's a work in progress.

One single, giant tear fell from his hybrid eyeball as he relayed his intimate work to me. He thought I didn't notice, but I did. The baby it landed on drowned in a pool of oil and dinosaur sweat.

What's your proudest accomplishment to date?
RS: A lot of people would probably think I would say eating Bigfoot. That was cool and all, but, it had to be the birth of my child.

I didn't know you had a child.
RS: Yeah. It's kind of been kept under wraps by the mother, a Pepsi machine in the midwest.

How did you two meet?
RS: How I've met most of my romantic interests. It was a Sunday, Sunday, Sunday (ed. note: As he says this, he is completely unaware he is doing it. It is this reporter's conclusion that he believes that that is what the day of the week is actually called--I wasn't about to correct him; he eats planes) and I had gotten off work. It was late and I was hungry. Contrary to what people may think, the vehicles that I eat during a show are empty calories. They're stripped of all their nutritious parts like engines, mufflers, and carburetors. So I needed something with substance. I headed to this nearby college campus to check out the nightlife and to grab a bite. I had just finished eating a Sobe machine--which is a bad idea because it gives me the runs--and I looked up to see her there. She was beautiful. Her lights were all on and her selection buttons were in all the right places. She definitely wasn't out of anything.

After that night, we were inseperable. She toured with me.

I actually heard something about this now that I think of it. There was a story I read in the paper about an incident you had with a guy.
RS: Yeah. Those were dark days. I'm a jealous guy. I'm not going to lie to you. I guess it's a little stereotypical: giant, half-machine, half 100-million-year-old creature, tiny self-esteem.

So I come backstage after putting on what I felt was a pretty entertaining show and I see this roadie pushing my girl's Sierra Mist button. Who does that?

Somebody who's thirsty.
RS: Well...maybe, but I was incensed and blinded by rage. So I picked him up, set him on fire, and ate him in front of his wife and child. It turns out he wasn't a roadie, but a guy who was trying to buy a soda for his thirsty son.

Luckily, once I explained to them how a bill becomes a law, they were totally cool with me.

So what do you like to do in your spare time, Robosaurus?
RS: Gosh, that's a tough one. I mean, I don't get much spare time. It's always, "Eat this car. Set this motorcycle on fire." But I do like to watch TV. Have you seen Lost? It blows my mind, man. How did that goddamn polar bear get on the island? Will the castaways discover that Michael actually killed Ana-Lucia and Libby? And why are all their lives mysteriously intertwined? I can't get enough of it. Oh, and America's Next Top Model.

Thanks for your time, Robosaurus. I think you've definitely dispelled some myths today.
RS: That's what I was trying to accomplish. Thank you.

He picked up a passing bus and placed it in his jaws. Then, with a wink to me, he set it back down and let it on its merry way. Robosaurus, you adorable bastard.

Sunday, May 14, 2006

Happy Mommy's Day!

Some people worry about the adult that I've become, but those people should really take that up with my mom.

You see, two of my favorite childhood memories I have of my mom were when she was helping me to study for the Spelling Bee when I was in fifth grade. I was (and still am) a perfectionist, neurotic little bastard. To me, if I was misspelling a word, it wasn't my fault; the word on the list had to be wrong. I don't know how my mom put up with me, but she did.

She's holding this packet of words that she's had in her hands for the past couple of weeks helping me to study for the District competition. I remember trying to spell the word "yule." Yes. Yule. It's such a simple word. But you know how sometimes you think you're saying the thing that you're thinking but you aren't? Okay, that's probably just me.

So she says, "Yule."

"U-L-E. Next." I reply.


"What? U-L-E. Yule. Next." She probably misheard me.

"No." She laughs. This infuriates me.

I raise my voice, "U-L-E. YULE."

"NO!" She responds, still laughing, but giving me that sideways look like I'm the idiot in the room.

I'm never the idiot in the room. I'm supposed to be laughing at the idiot in the room, not her. It's a one syllable word. How am I misspelling it?

I grab the packet from her and scan down the page. There it is. Yule.

"U-L-E. I've been saying that!" Now I think my mom is just screwing with me. I briefly think over why this woman who I've come to know after eleven years would mess with my mind when she interrupts me.

"No. That's still wrong." Wrong? I read it off the piece of paper.

"U-L-E! U-L-E! U-L-E! Ohmygod it's Y-U-L-E." I don't know how, but at this point I'm still alive and not thrown in the trunk of a car and driven into a lake. Even after me being the biggest little asshole around (a title I would proudly hold until it's taken from me by a gimmicky midget prostitute in Reno), my mom laughed it off and still helped me study.

This next little anecdote will help you to understand even more how my mom has shaped me into the terribly immature man I am today.

As we were studying, we would run into problem words. No matter what, every time we'd come around to certain words I would have trouble with them. My mom, being the smart woman she is, gave me ways to remember them; little tricks. My brain was stocked with these tidbits of information that day at the Spelling Bee. There was one in particular that I had a fondness for and, as luck would have it, I was given that word during the Bee.

I'm sitting on stage in my white and blue vertically-striped button down shirt and my bright blue pants eagerly anticipating my next word. I walk up to the microphone and the announcer says, "Penitent."

I lock eyes with my mom in the audience who is snickering a little and I can't help but giggle.

I flash back to our study sessions.

"Okay, Kurt. Penitent."

"Penitent. P-E-N-E-T-E-N-T. Penitent." I look at her for approval.

"No. That's wrong again. Why don't we try something?"

Something to help me become the smartest person on the planet? Absolutely.

"Pretend that it's two words. It's like Penis plus Tent without the s."

Did my mom just say penis?

Up on stage I think to myself, "Penis + Tent - S = Penitent. I'm thinking of the word penis on a stage in front of a hundred people."

I wound up getting third place, losing on the word Dyspepsia, but I wouldn't have done nearly as well, or become the 27-year-old man who still laughs at the word penis, without the help of my Mom.

I love you, Mommy!

Thursday, May 11, 2006

Now That's Down Unda!

I haven't read the story, but the title of the article in this Australian newspaper helps me to understand why there are so many alligators on that continent.

Granny Beats Off Alligator

I mean, to me and you it's, "Eww, gross, a handjob from an old lady." But if there's one type of creature on this planet that's not going to object to the leathery touch of the elderly on their genitalia, it's an alligator--and Hugh Hefner's girlfriends--ZING!

After reading that article, it says that the gator bit her in the ankle then let go. That's because, if you bite into an old person, they taste exactly like Metamucil and those nasty little individually-wrapped candies that they give you on Halloween that you immediately throw away. It's like black licorice plus poached salmon.

I'll tell you one thing, they don't taste a goddamn thing like a gazelle.

Tuesday, May 09, 2006

Dirty Thirty (one)!

You know what 31% is? It's a big piece of pie. Like, it's enough to probably give you a stomach ache if you ate it in one sitting. Well, maybe if you got it a la mode and with lots of whipped cream and maybe some e.coli.

It's not so bad.

I mean, do you have any idea what 31% of a billion dollars is? It's still a lot of money. It's well over a million and that would last me for a long time.

If only 31% of all the people on earth all jumped up and down at the exact same time, it would cause an earthquake and ensuing tsunamis that could maybe kill some seals or at least a starfish or two.

You know what percentage of professional basketball players have won a championship? I don't, but it's got to be less than 31%.

Lately I've heard a lot of people complaining about how low the number 31% is. Have you even taken a look on a chart at how much 31% takes up?If somebody said to me, "Hey, you can have sex with 31% of Jessica Alba," I'd be perfectly happy.

31% of a rainbow is red, orange, and a little bit of yellow, and that's enough to make a Big Stick from the ice cream man. Ain't nothing wrong with that 31%.

"Hey! We're Science and we just figured out how to help humans live 31% longer." Thanks, Science. You just proved that 31% is a good thing.

On the news, it said there was a 31% chance of rain today. If you think 31% is a low number, then why did it rain? Suck on that, liberals.

I've never been a big fan of numbers anyway. I mean, what does it matter if the President's approval rating is only 31%? If that 31% controls 90% of the money in the United States, then it looks like that 31% just became 273%. I ran that by NASA and they said that I was 31% correct about that equation. If it's good enough for NASA...

Besides, if there was a swimming pool filled with sharks and you told me that 31% of those sharks had guns, I'd listen to the sharks with guns. Do you see where I'm going here? You can trust a shark holding a gun because it's like a lion with a crossbow. It was in Lion King II: Simba's Pride. A lion holding a crossbow always knows more than one that isn't.

"I'm sorry, sir. You have cancer and there's a 31% chance that you'll survive." 31 percent? That cancer is as good as gone! Epilogue: That guy died.

In closing, don't fret, President George W. Bush. 31% of the people in the United States like you. Think of it as just a progress report. It doesn't count toward your final grade, but you'll need to get a B on the final in order to pass. You can get a B on the final, right, Mr. President? Maybe you can do some extra credit. I think Karl Rove can help you. He'll have plenty of time soon.

Sunday, May 07, 2006


Today we have guest writer David Blaine contributing to Don't Read This Weblog! He is currently encased in a snowglobe filled with water and voodoo in New York City.

Hey guys,

Well, don't ask me how I'm writing this, because everything around me is soaking wet, it's magic! Have you guys been keeping up with the progress of my latest illusion online? If not, feast your eyes on the splendor and glory that will have your mind and heart racing to figure out how I do it when I EXIT THE TANK TOMORROW NIGHT LIVE!

That's right. Remember how I've been in that tank for, like, a week? Well, now, in what I believe is the greatest magic performance to ever grace the human race, I am going to stop being in there! Totally!

Mind-blowing? You betcha. Nothing blows anything more than me, David Blaine! I blow the most!

You know, initially I was going to submerge myself in a giant vat of au jus for a month and give away free french dips to passers by--"Taste the Magic!" the sign would say--but ABC nixed that when they realized people wouldn't be able to see me and that there was a 100% chance I would develop and subsequenty pass on beef syphilis. It's like regular syphilis, but it smells delicious.

Then I said that I should perform the death-defying stunt where I stare at a wall for a year straight with only bathroom breaks and the occasional blowjob from a supermodel. Then, at the end, after months of hype about the end of the trick, I turn to the camera, pull an Ace of spades from behind the ear of a nearby child and say, "Was this your card?" People would kill themselves at the thought that anything ever to happen on this planet could be better than what transpired.

In fact, I'm afraid that's what's going to happen at the end of this one. I mean, can you imagine? I'll be in water for a long time, and all of a sudden I won't be anymore? On second thought, don't imagine it, the pure glory of it all has been scientifically proven to cause spontaneous combustion.

I hope to see you all on Monday night, when all of your lives change forever and you greet your new Messiah, me, David Blaine, as I rise from the metaphorical womb of giant, invisible, asexually reproducing Jesus live on ABC.

I'm going to be so wet! It'll take maybe three towels to wipe me off! Wrap your heads around that, NASA! You can't. It's magic.

Thursday, May 04, 2006

I'm Making Uncomfortable Salad!

I've decided to use this blog to help better my fellow man (or woman--I seem to attract a bevy of lovely ladies who read me on a regular basis almost all of whom have sent me naked, near-naked, or not-naked-at-all pictures of themselves, don't be the last).

That's why I've decided to share with you certain recipes that I use in my daily life. And, as you can tell by the title, today's recipe is for Uncomfortable Salad.

How to Make an Uncomfortable Salad:

  • Get a bowl and fill it with a series of uncomfortable handshakes where you rub the back of the person's neck while they're shaking your hand and look them, unblinking, in the eyes.
  • Chop up a fine assortment of leaving the bathroom door open while your in-laws are over (number one works for this, but number two really gets the job done--ask somebody to bring you a magazine for added zest).
  • Sprinkle in a dash of going to a near empty movie theater and sitting right next to a random person. Make sure you stare straight ahead almost the entire time, except during tense moments when you should slowly turn your gaze toward them.
  • As desired, run around your closest college campus approaching as many strangers as you can and reach toward their belly button giggling, "Innie or Outtie? Innie or Outtie? An innie, good. I hate outties worse than I hate the birthmarked" (make sure you pronounce this as birthmark-ed, like Shakespearean style).
  • Don't forget to apply liberally a coating of sitting next to somebody on a bus bench, pulling out your cell phone, and saying something like, "No, Daddy! You know I only kiss if I really like them." This works best if you're a man. If you're a woman, try, "I know, I've seen thousands of them, but this one...can a penis have scoliosis?"
Chill and serve on a plate made of diarrhea farts. That's how you go out highbrow!

Tuesday, May 02, 2006

Show or No Show?

Good news, everybody! The success of the "gameshow" Deal or No Deal has influenced other networks to try their hand at offering other, equally no-skill-involving shows.

Don't get me wrong, I love the shit out of Jeopardy and, to a lesser extent, Who Wants to be a Millionaire?, but Deal or No Deal is not a gameshow--it's hardly a television show.

For the uninitiated, Howie Mandel picks a person to choose one of 26 briefcases and then they win some money. Yeah, that's it. They point out other briefcases that aren't theirs to Mr. Mandel and are then offered some money because they're on television. That's not a show. There's nothing involved in that. There is no trivia or endurance challenges. Nobody has to stab their best friend with a pen knife. Nothing.

And, I'm pretty sure it's just to piss me off some more, they ask the family members and pet turtles and shit, what number they should choose to eliminate next.

"Oh, come ON, Shmitty! You gotta pick 18. That shit's holding one cent. I fucking know it!" No you don't.

The only redeeming part of the show is this: The man's young daughter says, "Daddy, I think you should get rid of number twelve." And then he picks it and it's a million dollars that he won't be winning. I live for that stuff. Because, just like in two years when her parents get divorced, they're going to tell her it's not her fault, but it so fucking is.

I was watching the show one time (yeah, I know, kind of hypocritical, but, like I said, it's because I thrive on the misery of others--I'm like a tragedy vampire) and some woman was picking all briefcases containing high amounts (which is a bad thing to do on this show). But, keep in mind, it's all completely random. Then, Howie Mandel says the most infuriating thing I've ever heard him say (and I've heard him do stand-up), he says, "Slow down. Maybe you're picking too fast." Picking too fast? Maybe you were pressing the slot machine button too quickly--that's why you weren't winning. You know what? Fuck you, Howie Mandel. I hope some homeless guy sneezes all over your hands.

Now, I have some connections, so I've been able to get a hold of the names of the gameshows that these other networks are offering. I don't think they're going to be any more mentally-challenging than Deal or No Deal.

ABC is throwing its hat into the ring with the John McEnroe hosted Do You Win? Yes or No.

CBS has two shows slated to air back to back on Tuesday nights. The first is hosted by Tom Bergeron and is simply called Congratulations, Dennis Tisdale of Des Moines, Iowa. The second is hosted by a cartoon bear and it's called Take This Money or You'll Be Eaten by Lions.

Fox, the network heavily grounded in reality television, has taken a slightly different spin on things. They're going to put ten people in a bunker and, each day, for ten days, pick one person to give a million dollars to--each person can only win once. That's one is called You're Alive, Here's Some Money! and it's hosted by a bag of Doritos.