All the Things I Wish I Could Say
Sorry to have so quickly fallen off the blogging wagon after my expressed desire to post at least a little something every day. I developed an eating disorder on accident after I fell into a bathtub of Slim-Fast. French Vanilla. I haven’t eaten in a week because I was floating face down in a foot of 50 calories a serving and 26 vitamins and minerals.
Actually, Claire and I have been helping to watch my nephew and 2 nieces while my sister is in the hospital after having her 4th child. Welcome to the world, baby Brayden!
Now, I’m sure you’re expecting the usual anti-child diatribe associated with the topic. That will come later. If I’ve ever said a nice thing on this blog (and I haven’t), it is that, while watching 3 children for a few days has not increased my desire to have children of my own (God forbid), it has greatly increased my desire to spend time with those particular great kids. There. Now put your Kleenex away. I’m not going to say anything else nice, so sit down and shut up.
Now, I bring the reason you all showed up today! . . . I promised free pizza. Well guess what? I lied. While you’re here, though, go ahead and read what’s below.
I said all that to say this: there are lots of things I wish I could say on here, but do not say because they might be a little questionable (and many of them make reference to fecal matter). Therefore, I will not actually say these things, but I will only go so far as to tell you what I will never say. That way, we can both have a clean conscience about it. Begin.
“I can totally respect people who still own and love pit bulls. You know, more children are taken to the hospital for chihuahua bites than for pit bull bites. Of course, they still have their faces after a chihuahua bite.”
“Listening to Justin Bieber’s music feels like the devil is clawing his way into my body through my ears, sliding down into my chest, and farting on my soul.”
“I think the reason I like eating veal so much is because I know it grew up in a restrictive cage. Just like me.”
“I was halfway into a profanity-laced rant when I stopped, looked around, and said to myself, ‘Don’t be so hard on them. They’re just kindergarteners.’”
“Dave Ramsey must be a very smart guy to be able to help so many millions of people get out of debt! I only have one question: If you’re so smart, then where’s your hair, Mr. Smart Guy?”
“I think calling the Wii controller attachment a ‘Nunchuk’ is really a misnomer. It did nothing to protect me from those ninjas.”
“So, if there’s a rabbit that has an unusally high amount of babies, what do other rabbits say it ‘breeds like’?”
Under 500 words. Mission accomplished.
Hard Drive to Format
I’m really going to do it this time! It’s my goal to tantalize your senses with shorter posts more often. What I lack in quality, I will more than make up in quantity! If it can’t be good, gosh-darn it, I’m going to flood the Interspace with nearly-palatable crap.
This is merely an announcement. I have no intention of writing 500 words or more, as is my custom.
Oh, and somewhere along the way, this blog passed 20,000 views. So, feel free to pat me on the back or send a few lottery tickets my way.
I’ll leave you with a few thoughts:
I think it’s just a matter of time before we find out Cap’n Crunch was never in the U.S. Navy at all.
It’s high time we do something to enforce the Child Labor Laws in the country. Let’s put these kids to work!
Sometimes, I get the sneaking suspicion that Lady Gaga is not really human, but is, in fact, an otherworldly visitor from the planet Goofballs.
So wait, let me get this straight: Conan O’Brien left NBC because Jay Leno was going to push his show back a half-hour. Then, TBS signs Conan and pushes George Lopez back an entire hour. My point is this . . . TBS still exists? I haven’t seen it in quite a while, but I assume the programming still consists of Matlock for the first 12 hours of the day, followed by 12 hours of Family Matters. Lather, rinse, repeat.
Farewell.
Potpourri
I know you missed me! After 3 months (if you can believe it) off, I’m making my glorious return to the Internet. All World-Wide Web traffic (as my great-grandmother calls it) has come to a screeching halt and been involved in a 25 car pileup in anticipation of this post. How lucky you are to be seeing this with your eyes! I’m not sure what else you’d be seeing this with, except maybe a bionic eye that can peer through man’s soul, but you’re still lucky.
I decided I should update you so you can be so inspired to go out and do something meaningful with your life, as I am, instead of eating Cheetos on a recliner watching reruns of “Touched By An Angel”, as I am. Darn it. I just love Della Reese. She’s so stinking soulful.
In the past 3 months, I have mostly just been working. I’ve put in many hours of overtime, and saved up for my James Bond trunks. Claire and I are going Mexico this summer! We were able to book our hotel and flights. The amazing part about the Internet is you are able to put in a request for your particular seat on any given flight. We specifically asked for the seats behind crying infants and in front of ADD children with sporadic outbursts of violence. Nothing like a headlock from a 6-year-old with a 30-second attention span.
The James Bond trunks are, in fact, a compromise between Claire and me. I pushed vehemently for a Speedo®, and she pushed back with similar disdain, and offered a suggestion of board shorts. Though I have knock-knees best reserved for viewing under ankle length board shorts (or in a pinch, a burquini), I came to the realization that I am married. I don’t have to look good anymore for anyone. Especially my wife. She’s supposed to love me, even if I have a belly hanging over my Speedo© that reaches my knee.
That’s the beauty of marriage, friends. I can completely let myself go and have full confidence that my wife will never leave me. She may opt to sleep in an entirely different room, but we’re still in the same house and, by law, that constitutes a fully operational marriage. It is my personal recommendation that every person hit the gym, starve yourself thin, and find a reasonably attractive mate that will accept you for who you want them to think you are. Then, release all bodily responsibility, and give your heart a run for its money with all the bacon grease your can fit into a paper cup. I’m just kidding! Of course I don’t expect you to hit the gym. That, however, should not stop you from buying the Speedo™ of your dreams.
If you also would like to drop a cool $138.00 on swim trunks that throw modesty to the wind, please visit *link removed*. On second thought, you probably shouldn’t go looking for them. They are quite form-fitting and inelegant for those who are not in shape or decidedly French. I might be just as well-off to purchase a Speedo£.
In the past 3 months, I have also taken to overeating. This comes as no shock to those of you who have followed this blog for any length of time. Though I bested my personal record with an impressive 19 tacos, I was put to shame by a gentleman who was able to consume 26. He later died.
This last weekend, I wanted to see if On The Border’s all-you-can-eat enchiladas were really worth the money. My friends, they were and more. I recommend you have your stomach pumped, then visit this establishment for the enchilada deal. Then, promptly have your stomach pumped again. I’ve heard some hospitals offer a 2-for-1 deal. I cannot be blamed for any resulting injury or bowel obstruction caused by enchilada overload.
In other news, I still absolutely enjoy my job. It affords me the personal ego massage that comes with helping people. I am able to offer more joy than Disneyland, Harry Potter, and Hulu combined.
It comes as a great shock to myself that I can honestly say I have used my experience from my previous employment to better my performance in my current employment. Bagging groceries is the single greatest job experience one could ask for, apparently. For instance, when someone has a question I am unable to answer, I simply ask, “Paper or plastic?” The ensuing confusion gives me enough time to throw my smoke bomb and escape to my Fortress of Solitude.
Finally, my friends, I want to issue an offical apology for being away for so long. I am so sorry for depriving you of laughter, kindness, and bemoaning Miley Cyrus for 3 long months. Please know I lived well during my absence and did not forget you. I just wanted you to miss me. Is that too much to ask? (That is a rhetorical question.) I’m glad that we are together once again. And don’t forget the most important point of all: there is a sale on Speedo¢∞¼ products at amazon.com.
This Is What Happens When The Money Runs Out
As we all know, Oprah’s talk show is coming to an end in the near future. And by “near future”, I mean 2 years. That gives us plenty of time to change the channel, and I’m pushing for sooner rather than later. Since announcing her show will end in the year 2391, there have been a few interesting developments. I’ve scoured the Internet for the Oprah news you won’t find anywhere else.
From an online article dated 11/30/09 – “. . . it appears that negotiations have broken down recently in Oprah’s attempt to buy, for $12.5 Billion, her soul back from the devil.”
From the Guinness Book of World Records comes this new record for Oprah – “Since launching her own magazine in April 2002, Oprah has now dethroned Mickey Mouse as ‘America’s Most Recognizable Religious Figure’.”
As reported by Court TV – “In a landmark ruling, the 5th Circuit Court of Appeals has ordered Oprah Winfrey to repay each Oprah viewer fifteen years of wasted time. This is expected to have far-reaching ramifications than many experts believe will set a historic precedent. I’m thinking here specifically of those same viewers who watch Dr. Phil, Jerry Springer, and Grey’s Anatomy.”
The most important question of all remains unanswered, which is: What will stupid people watch now?
Do not fear; Oprah is in the beginning stages of starting the Oprah Winfrey Network, or OWN. As in, “I own you now”. The 24-hour network will feature lifestyle programs and human-interest pieces that will surely delight and slowly degrade your brain in a cool lump of porridge.
Who could possibly replace the Queen of Daytime Talk? I submit that no one could possibly fill the meaningful void other than, perhaps, a German Shepherd on roller skates.
If the Oprah Winfrey Network happens to fail miserably, which I believe it will, what would happen to Oprah? When Oprah is penniless and struggling to pay the mortgage on her mansion, to what lengths will she go to make a fast buck? Would Stedman, God forbid, finally have to get a job?
Let’s take a look back at what other stars have done to keep their solid-gold bathtubs just one more month.
Most recently, Creed has come out of a much-deserved and way-too-short retirement. Like any good movie monster that won’t stay dead no matter how much the vast majority of the population wants it to, Creed has released a nary-anticipated sequel of new music. (I am using the word “music” very loosely here.)
The only difference, of course, is that Creed’s members are not trying to make the payment on their mansions for another month. No, sir. Mansions are classy. It’s my guess that Creed’s individual members are actually trying to pay $40 in back rent so they don’t get kicked their parents’ trailers. What happened when Creed’s money ran out? THIS:
I doubt you were able to hold back the bile from backing up into your mouth. If you made it a minute in (and if so, I applaud you), you would have heard the inherently deep and thought-provoking lyric, “I’m entitled to overcome”. If it were just a bit more of a piece of utter tripe, it might one day be featured on OWN.
The Scam
I have absolutely no idea why I fell for it. After all, I am a college-educated individual. A state college, sure (and Missouri at that), but I should have known better. No, I did not fall victim to the classic e-mail scam: “Please to send monies for orfanige in Africka. I have many dollars in millions to gives you, kind freinde.” It was more subtle than that. (No, it wasn’t.)
I fell for the classic “Order these magazines for a dollar, and receive them for a year! No questions asked! Come around the back of the warehouse and ask for Slippy!” scam. The worst part of the scam: I ordered TIME Magazine. Or, more correctly, TIME “Magazine”. It was more like reading a political pamphlet that also happened to discuss whether or not spanking your kids would prevent them from playing the oboe well. The copies of TIME made great filler material for other junk mail I took out in the trash weekly. I only paid the dollar the first year, and I caught it today before I was charged an exorbitant amount.
In addition, I also received copies of Sports Illustrated, a year-long diary devoted to the failures of Kansas City’s teams (in all major sports). You have to hand it to Kansas City, though. At least we’re not Detroit. I’ll admit SI was a worthwhile magazine. I passed many a bowel movement reading the complexities of introducing instant replay into Major League Baseball. My final opinion on the matter: I should not eat so much Taco Bell.
Thank God I was checking my account balance tonight before Christmas shopping, or else I would not have caught the charges to my account. So when you open your gift from me, be proud that it helped me not to get scammed this year. Also be proud that you’ll be the only person on your block to received thrift store underwear. (Motto: the stains give it character!)
You know you’ve been part of a shady deal if you type “TWX Magazine” into Google, and the first 50 results come up:
TWX*Magazine Complaints: Scam Practices
Ripoff Report: TWX Scam Magazine
Beware TWX Magazines . . .
And so on.
I never did see a link to their actual website, which is probably loaded with more viruses than Paris Hilton. Hey-oh! I object, and let that be stricken from the record. (Sustained)
From these helpful websites, I was able to get a hold of the right number to call (1-800-UGOTSCAMMED) to get the transaction refunded and my subscriptions cancelled. I talked to the VERY friendly automated system (I think she was hitting on me) and went through the exactly eleventy bazillion options to find out how to actually rid myself of the godforsaken magazines. I now have a confirmation number. Let’s see . . . it’s . . . 12345678. Darn it.
It’s not too often you can get one over on ol’ Paul. But if you do, boy do I go for it!
I’d love to continue this diatribe, but I see I have some new e-mails I need to take advantage of to get great deals from Canadian pharmacies, job offers where I can work 1 hour a week and become a millionaire, and a GREAT deal on National Geographic for a year!
Just a Thought . . . Part 2
Here’s 21 more thoughts for your enjoyment:
-They say buying eggs is cheaper by the dozen, but I’ll never find out because I have yet to find a store that will sell me a single egg.
-I’ve become quite good at feigning things recently: interest, joy, talking, love, etc.
-If you try calling one of those “Date Lines”, Stone Phillips gets really angry and hangs up on you.
-I think a really good game show would be one where people spin a wheel to see if they have good fortune. Oh, wait. There already is one: The Price Is Right.”
-Some people think pie is “heaven by the slice.” I think carving pumpkins with a knife fits that description better. Man, I hate pumpkins.
-I dress how I feel. It just so happens I feel like a homeless person most of the time.
-I don’t see what the big deal with “Lady Gaga” is. When I was a kid, we called it “Girl Crazy”.
-Has anyone else had that dream about the talking windmill? It walked right up to me and said, “I’m your biggest fan.”
-The secret ingredient in your mom’s spaghetti is not “love”. It’s Mrs. Dash.
-If you were able to combine Celine Dion’s “My Heart Will Go On” with Lonestar’s “Amazed”, the sheer overratedness of those songs together would cause the world to implode.
-A headline I wished I had read 10 years ago: “The creator of ‘The Simpsons’ announces: ‘We’re going to quit while we’re ahead.’”
-Just so I can mess with companies on their forms, I am going to legally change my name to “First Name Middle Initial Last Name”.
-My cat is quite smart. He was laying on the bathroom vent because he was cold. That was right after I pulled a few staples out of his mouth that he was eating.
-Is it just me, or does anyone else get the overwhelming urge to post a string of obscenities on my Facebook status, then immediately follow it up with “oh my gosh, someone hacked my account!”?
-Dogs have absolutely no sense of decency. They think it’s OK to walk around completely naked. The nerve! Put some pants on!
-I’d like to buy the world a Coke. Mostly so its teeth would rot out and it would come crawling on its hands and knees for the cure to the only one who has it: ME.
-I don’t know what I ate, but it does NOT agree with my tapeworm.
-If you think about it, cottage cheese never really goes bad. It just gets cheesier.
-My cats are so cute! I like to look them square in the eye and tell them, “You don’t have a soul and nothing happens when you die.”
-I also want to walk down the street shouting a tyrade of obscenities, then follow up with, “Oh my gosh, someone hacked my account!”
-Babies are so stinking selfish. GET A JOB.
Good Job!
In my recent musings to myself, I mused intensely about jobs and their relative pay. “Surely,” I mused, “there must be some empirical indicators of job pay relating to another variable.” What were these standards, and why were they consuming my every waking moment until my family held an intervention?
My current research (that is to say, that which I am making up off the top of my head) shows an undeniable relation between salary and another factor. You must, of course, control for lesser variables, such as:
–Education
–Religious Background
–Hard Work
–Wind
–The GDP of Bangladesh
–Miley Cyrus
–Convection
–The sound of a tree falling in the forest when no one is there to hear it
All those considered, it leaves us with the only indicator that, without fail, holds an inverse relationship with a job’s salary: How tan you will get doing the job. Think about it. Let it soak in. I’ll wait.
<Intermission>
For those of you who are mathematically inclined (read: men), we can sum up this relationship using a simple formula:
Σ - π ≠ (√½∞) ≤ Δ ÷ 0
Those of you who caught my little math joke noticed right away I didn’t take into account the coefficient of drag (how efficiently 2 men can wear women’s clothing). Simplified even further, and a bit dumbed-down if you ask me, the formula means:
The more you get paid to do a job, the less tan you will get doing it.
–Another way of saying that is–
The more tan you get at your job, the less you get paid to do it.
For the simplest evidence, just look at the picture below.
The opposite rings true for lifeguards, who see plenty of the sun, but not much else in their paychecks. They use their tan, even-toned bodies to regularly rummage through dumpsters looking for apple cores to suck on for sustenance.
I work in an office-type environment, surrounded by fluorescent lighting. I can literally see sunlight, but none of the sun’s nourishing rays ever reach my pasty skin. If I were any more pale, I’d be clear. God help you if you could see through my skin and view what lurks inside. I have the hardest-working colon is showbiz, folks.
I think my dream job would be the guy who stands next to the road construction and holds the sign that says, “SLOW”. Oh, the power you wield doing that job! People have to do what you say AND you don’t have to work as hard as anyone else. Win-win, baby!
The only job more enjoyable than that would be the guy who has the two-sided sign that has “SLOW” on one side, and “STOP” on the other. It’s a matter of national security that I never get to hold that sign. I would be on the highway turning traffic into my own grown-up game of “Red Light, Green Light”.
Probably the most shining example of being simultaneously sickeningly tan and outlandishly underpaid is the girl behind the counter at the tanning salon. She only gets paid $3.00 an hour, but she gets to tan as much as she wants. If a tan could be cashed out, she’d be a gazillionaire. Instead, she’ll look like a snakeskin suitcase by age 20.
I rest my case. Either that, or I ran out of things to say. It doesn’t really matter which.
Kyle Baxter Didn’t Start the Fire
If you have no idea what I’m talking about, read the previous 3 posts. I haven’t the time to explain. Kudos to Nick Riportella for kick-starting this idea that brings back memories of “We Didn’t Start the Fire”. I have had an evening that lends itself nicely to releasing an assortment of random ideas. I hope you enjoy this as much as I do.
The Everything Song
This is a song for all the random things
Faulty fake IDs that land you in jail
This is the anthem for all the starving children
Buy this CD and add some salt and pepper
I’m not calling for a youth movement
But more reruns of Home Improvement
Tim Taylor was truly the man of the hour
To see a dishwasher and say, “More power!”
Calling all formerly famous sitcom actors
David Schwimmer, Jason Alexander
Dave Coulier, never afraid of a Full House of danger
And that guy who played Balki on Perfect Strangers
Wash the bedsheets and tear open the curtains
Let the sunshine of the moonlight wash over your bald spot
Comb over the strands of piano wire, make music to my ears
You’ll be lost in the ballroom, that’s for certain
I’m not saying we should all get along, good grief
I’m with the old lady asking, “Where’s the beef?”
Until Ronald McDonald put a hit out on her
She was turning the fast-food world upside-down
Calling the used-to-be-somebody corporate spokespeople
Pillsbury Doughboy’s half-baked, Joe Camel’s been deserted
The Gerber Baby is already out of diapers
And the Maytag Man has hung himself out to dry
The terrible twos have come calling
And they want their tantrums back
Let’s make it to three before midnight
And the scene fades now to black
Rosemary, Ted, Louis: all terrible names for pets
Skippy, Howie, Benson: as good as it can get
We specialize in tragic comedy, laugh until you cry
Giggles run down your face without you knowing why
Calling again for the unwashed masses
I think I’ll start looking in France
Greasy old men in horn-rim glasses
Who truly believe they can dance
Where, oh where, can we find Dave Coulier now?
I make no apologies. This is what it is. Maybe it’ll be the surprise smash-hit of the summer.
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