Old Women and Gaping Crevices

I don't know if you've seen this commercial, but you have to look out for it because it's by far the greatest commercial that's on the air right now. It's a lot like the old days of the "I've fallen and I can't get up" lady, but better. The commercial I'm talking about is for a wheelchair/chair for really lazy people called the "Hoveround." It's basically like those things you see that they have at the grocery store, I can't remember what they're called, that are for old people to sit in and roll around in while they shop and smell weird. They advertise this thing as like the wheelchair for people who want to go where anybody can walk. It's good in theory, but they take it too far. The commercial ends with the announcer saying something like, "You can take it to the park (picture of somebody in the chair in the park), the grocery store (shot in grocery store), or even the Grand Canyon." Then there's a shot of two old women whose wheelchair's have obviously been turned off, looking around while they're literally about two feet from the edge of the cliff. Apparently the Grand Canyon is a huge tourist spot for people who can't walk anymore and this company sacrificed the lives of two old women (who, let's face it, probably died soon after the commercial was filmed) in order to perhaps get the elderly extreme sports fanatics who can't walk. That's a big sacrifice for such a niche market.

I saw I, Robot today. Possible Spoilers follow (but, honestly, I'm saving you the money). I didn't want to see this movie because it has Will Smith saying great lines like "You so need to die." Yes, he actually says that toward the end of the movie. Will Smith, in the year 2035, becomes Buffy the Vampire Slayer while killing a robot. I think that sentence I just wrote is the first and last time that combination of words will ever be used in the English language. There was also a shot at the end of the movie where, after the world has been saved from the evil robots (the ones whose chest was glowing red; for those who don't know, in Symbolism 101, red means bad), for no reason whatsoever, the goddamn Blue Angels fly overhead and break off into different directions. Then the movie ends. That's how it ends, I swear. The Blue Angels, who played no part in anything in the film at all, make a cameo appearance 31 years in the future to cap off a delightfully ridiculous film. They could have had a ghost come out and shit on a painting of Munch's "The Scream" and it would have been just as relevant to the movie. The only redeeming part of the film is Shia LaBeouf. Hopefully he goes on to movies that are actually good and not god awful like Charlie's Angels 2: Full Throttle, I, Robot, and The Battle of Shaker Heights. Anyway, one more downfall of the movie is that the director, Alex Proyas, who actually did a good job with Dark City and The Crow, apparently thinks the audience is full of complete idiots (he may be on to something here, though. Anybody who willingly goes to see a Will Smith movie expecting it to be Shakespeare has to have something wrong with him). The plot points and foreshadowing are hit harder than my future wife will be after I've got a six pack in me. He goes so far as to replay the key phrases over and over again. It's only an hour and forty minutes; I'm sure people will remember something that happened twenty minutes earlier in the film if it's only mentioned once. In closing, I give I, Robot six. I'm not sure what unit of measurement I'm using or out of how many units that six is, but, I think it's clear how I feel about the film, you can sculpt your own ratings system around that number. In fact, go ahead and comment it below. Or, if you disagree and you think I, Robot wasn't hideous, let me know.

Interesting thought of the day:
That famous woodchuck whose chucking ability has been pondered for centuries actually couldn't chuck wood at all. He had soft teeth and stuck to the much less dramatic and iambic pentameter breaking chucking of mashed potatoes.

Comment below like you've been so good at lately (not good enough for naked backrubs, though) or email me.

Upgrades to This Shit!

I came here to type to my increasingly large audience about something inconsequential and then I realized that they gave me more tools to play with on this thing. So, I'm happy as a pedophile who gets a job as a Middle School P.E. teacher.

I think I eat hot dogs too much. I mean, it's the only thing that I use ketchup on in my house and I've gone through a bottle of ketchup in about two months; this is by myself. It's kind of disgusting to think about the fact that I've consumed enough ketchup in two months to fill two soda cans. I actually walked out into the kitchen just now to check the amount of ounces on that so I could get it right. You all wouldn't know if I'm lying about it, but I'd know and I can't have that. It's even more disgusting, though, to think about how those two soda cans of ketchup pale in comparison to the amount of processed animal leftovers that I've taken in. I love using odd units of measurement for comparison, so I'm going to venture a guess that I've eaten, in the past two months, two average, healthy, newborn babies worth of hot dog meat. That's about fifteen pounds of beef or pork or llama (that's the english word for "almost like a camel", not the spanish translation for "s/he calls"). This, I feel, is a lowball estimate. If I had never pooped in the past two months, that's another fifteen pounds I could have gained. Also, I could have formed two meat-carved babies that I could have left in baby carriages in Central Park on a hot day in summer. Man, I think I'm done eating hot dogs* and I'm moving on to meat art.

So, Kobe Bryant is going to stay with the Lakers. This is good news to all the girls who work at hotels of cities in the Western Conference who would love to get raped. This gives you twice as many opportunites as those who work in Eastern Conference cities. So, you can write to Jerry Buss, the owner of the Lakers, and thank him for resigning (signing again, not quitting) Kobe and giving you the opportunity to have giant black wiener forcefully placed inside of your body and thrashed around like a crocodile with a meat-formed baby in its mouth. So that was a stretch, but that's no stretch compared to how stretched out your lady parts will be once Kobe's done taking your rapeginity. That's what he's coined it now so it doesn't sound as awful as regular ole rape.

Grammar and Punctuation Usage Technique of the day:
I realized I use contractions a lot, but, quite frankly, I don't think I use them enough. Therefore, I will use them at innoportune times as right now I'm. There's nothing like seeing 'I'm' at the end of a sentence. You're probably thinking, This guy sure is bright he's.

I received comments two entries in a row, and, if I receive three or more from three different people, I will send out coupons for free naked backrubs to each of those who comment. Or, you can email me.
*as soon as the package I have is gone

Beer In Big-Ass Cups

I don't drink. I've never had a drink of alcohol in my life, but if I did, I sure know what I would use to drink my beer. I wouldn't drink out of those sissy glasses. No! I would drink from a chalice. If you don't know what a chalice is, it's one of these.

Can you imagine walking around a bar, with your shirt off, hairy chest exposed, wearing nothing but a loincloth and a smile drinking beer from that thing? There is no chick in the bar that wouldn't be wanting to get to know you "biblically." She'd be all rubbing on your chest as you imbibe from your golden chalice as she says, "What's bigger? That big thing you're holding, or that chalice?" See? She'd use the ole switcheroo on you. That means that you're definitely getting some. Why will you be getting this massive amount of woman vagina (as opposed to man vagina --mangina)? Because of your chalice.

I wrote that last paragraph in the second person because it makes you feel more like you're a part of what's going on in this weblog. I hope to, one day, use this weblog as not only a source for entertainment, but as a self-help source as well. "You won't let the guy at the dry cleaners yell at you anymore." "You can stop eating cigarette butts you find on the street." I'm like the internet Dr. Phil, but without all of the skin on my head that's not covered in hair.

I'd probably make my chalice all personalized like people do with their pool cues, fishing rods, or semen paintings of John Travolta. I'd get my name engraved and probably encrust jewels and various etchings on the side of it. It'd be like a class ring, but way more boss and capable of drawing in a hundred times more of the delicious beef curtain soup.

On a different note, I think that the guy who created Family Circus has gotten a little weird lately.



Comment below or I will hold up my promise to start eating some more puppies. You all did a good job with the last one, but soon my thirst will arise again. Or, if you like, and you want to get my information so you can hire me to write for you, you can email me.

Back into Whoopi Goldberg's Butthole

Well, since money isn't free, it looks like I'll probably have to go back to Red Lobster (Whoopi Goldberg's Butthole) and try to see if the new GM will hire me. When I quit before, I had to quit because I couldn't work the schedule they wanted because I had school. Everything was left fine, but since I left, only three months ago, every manager that ever knew me is gone. So, now I've got to go to this new GM, who I've heard isn't exactly the poster child for nice ladies, but, coincidentally, is the actual poster child for the new disease sweeping the nation, Hepatitis Orange. I'm not sure what Hepatitis Orange is, but apparently it makes the person who has it a not nice lady.

Anyway, so I guess on Wednesday or Thursday I've got to go down there and make this lady understand that I'm the glue to her shitty, shitty working environment. Unless I magically get a job writing between now and then. It'll be fantastic when I finally start hearing back from those agencies who I want to send my screenplay to because then I'll feel so Hollywood. That's when I'm going to start calling people things like, "Babe," and saying things like, "Ciao" and "How much does it cost to have sex with you and you pretend like you're a dragon."

Hollywood's going to be awesome.

Alas, I sit with my nine thumbs up my ass, opening my wallet over and over again hoping money will appear there. I'm guilty of doing the same thing with my refrigerator when I'm hungry; it never works there, but I figure maybe money's different. If you want to send me money, feel free. It would be best, though, if you sent me various other items as I, unlike most of the world, deal in barter and trade. The other day I got two butter churners, nine cattle, and my third wife for helping with a barn raising.

I can't wait until I have money again because then I can buy that monocle I've always wanted.

Interesting thought of the day:
Ten out of Ten dentists are dentists.

I swear to God, if you all don't start commenting on this page (and it has to be people I don't know, I don't want my pity friend comments --I talk to you all the time), I'm going to start hunting each of you down and making you eat a bag of mystery poop. I call it mystery poop because you know it's poop, you just don't know where it's from. Or, if you want to give me money or items with which I can procure other items or abilities of another person, you can email me.

Disneyland and Prison Rape!

Since I've been doing nothing but sitting in my room letting my facial hair grow until it starts to itch my chest while I wait to hear back from the 23 agencies to whom I sent my letters of inquiry, I'm going to write about random stuff. 'To whom' always feels too formal, but I can't end the sentence in a preposition, so I have to do that. If you don't like it, you'll be to whom I send my bag of punches in the face.

A post on a message board I read was asking about bad birthdays that people have had, so I wanted to relate a bad one of my own. When I was turning eleven years old, as was tradition, I went to Disneyland with my family. It was an extra special birthday because my knee was hurting a lot leading up to that day because I'm a huge wuss and I hurt it playing basketball, yet, as soon as I stepped foot in the park, the pain in my knee magically went away. This was going to be a great day, I told myself. Skipping merrily through Main Street, we headed immediately toward Fantasyland because I was eleven years old and I think the first ride I wanted to go on was something like Peter Pan or Pinocchio. On the way there, we passed by the Sword in the Stone. I remember, in years past, how cool I thought the whole ceremony was and how I wished that one day I could be a part of it. As luck would have it, the ceremony was just about to begin, so, my younger brother, mom, dad, and I gathered around in the front row as the ritual began. They called up the first person, a man, probably thirty or so, pretty strong looking. He tugged and tugged and could not remove that sword. They called another man up, who looked a lot like the first guy, who tried as hard as he could, but, once again, no luck. Then, it happened. The man in the wizard getup pointed in my direction. Butterflies filled my stomach and a little pee shot out. He walked toward me with his hand out to pull me up to the sword. This was it, I thought. I'm going to pull the sword out of the stone on my birthday. I love my family. Can life get any greater at this moment? I don't think so. As I'm about to put my hand out to grab the wizard's hand so I can be escorted to be King for a Day at Disneyland, I realize that he's pointing at my younger brother. So, he goes up to the sword, pulls it from its place deep within the heart of the Fiberglas rock, and holds it into the sky. Trumpets and music played and the crowd erupted in applause. The wizard draped a kingly cloak and crown upon his head and he had his picture taken to be picked up at Main Street on the way out that day. All of a sudden, my knee started to hurt.

Fuck that birthday. Fuck it in its filthy Happiest-Place-on-Earth face.

On a different note, I got a collect call from a prison yesterday. Too bad I couldn't understand what name he gave when he called. I think I was still hung up on the preface of "You have received a collect call from some correctional facility." If you've never had a collect call from a prison, it's really an experience you should go through. There are a lot of options that you can do like block the prison from ever calling you again. I was tempted to do that, because it was obviously a wrong number, but then I figured if he can misdial once, he can misdial again and I don't want to deny either of us. I will learn his name. I almost felt bad just hanging up the phone, but I didn't have the option to learn more about the prison inmate whose phone bill I might be footing. If there was an option like "To learn more about what crimes this person has been convicted of, press 4 now." I would have been all over that like the lonely, depressed bridesmaid on the wedding cake. Alas, I could not further the relationship between myself and my unknown probable-murderer because there was no option 4.

If you're a reader of mine, "Ray Ray," call me again. I promise I'll accept the charges.

Astoundingly Genius Moment of the Day:
When I waited tables, a deaf couple came to the hostess stand to be sat. The hostess, noticing the couple is deaf, promptly grabbed two braille menus and showed the couple to their seat.

You can comment (anonymously if you want, just look for the option to log in anonymously) below or email me.