Unlike Netflix with its smug conviction that I’ll just looove “Kung Fu: Enter the Fist” (disgusting — I don’t even want to know) and the full season of “Canterbury’s Law” (starring Juliana Margulies and her 18-century-moustache eyebrows), you understand my needs.

Pandora, will you accept this rose? Let’s go make out like you’re Casey and I’m Vienna, only I actually won’t mind getting guilt raped by you in front of green-lensed night-vision cameras…and all of America. Guard and protect my heart, Pandora! Guard and protect it!

On a related note, I just experienced the anger and rage that is Awolnation’s single “Sail.” It made me realize that (a.) there are, in proctology terms, a buttload of sailing songs out there, e.g., Enya’s “Sail Away,” Cartman’s “Come Sail Away,” and “Sailing…Takes Me Away” by some one-hit-wonder whom, I imagine, probably looks like my dad, maybe has the same Cat Stevens beard and whatnot, and (b.) most sailing songs suck balls.

And while I applaud Awolnation for breaking the tradition of keeping songs about sailing light, airy, and as soothing as a wind-blown sheet in a Downey-ball-of-freshness commercial, I’m just not sure violently screaming at the listener to take up boat transportation is the best approach for getting someone out to sea. Maybe it’s just me, but I think I’d feel more comfortable having more than just maritime “law” standing between me and what sounds like a certifiable psychopath. Then again, as far as sailing songs go, this one kind of rocks.

Inbred shiatsus have less tear output, and at least they have the fur to soak it up once it’s made a run for the border. The world’s favorite hawker of panini-makers needs to turn those greasy peepers away from camera four and over to an ophthalmologist who can dry that shit up. I don’t like it. It’s disgusting.

And I know that goo isn’t tears because it is present even when she’s not talking about her shameful kinship with potato chips. If I wanted to watch an hour of juicing, I’d flip back to the Jack Lalane informercial I was watching before I started craving liquefied celery.

But I don’t want to watch an hour of viscous fluid production; that’s why I changed the goddamn channel in the first place! So for the love of G.O.B., will you get those things fixed?!

I think I went to apply more Secret clinical-strength carcinogen-fresh antiperspirant. Then I may have gotten caught up in a cost-benefit analysis of becoming a uniboob verses opting not to use a stinky pit as an inadvertent self-defense mechanism at work.

By the time I was done filling out the mental Venn Diagram, I believe I had started checking my e-mail, only to click on an ad for the new Hannah Montana CD.

God, she’s so hot right now. That flowing hair and her provocative relationship with her dad/molester. I wonder if he drives a windowless van. I saw so many of those when we were house hunting in Dana Point the other weekend.

I guess I’m glad that Realtor never called us back about that sweet house, the one with the panoramic views of the ocean and gang members plotting to shoot me in the face. Maybe even directly in the teeth.

And I just paid to get that filling fixed, so man would that be a waste of money. When I brushed it earlier it didn’t feel that sensitive. Oh, wait. That’s because I never did brush it.

The toothbrush is still sitting on the sink with a fresh blob of Crest on its dry bristles. So, no actually. I didn’t brush my teeth yet. Oh, look! A hummingbird!

The thing is, I hate that moment just after I’m asked, “Would you like to donate a dollar to children’s cancer research?” Because even though I know I’ll do it, I know I’ll do it reluctantly and with a frustration I’m incapable of hiding. While my mouth is utilizing every ounce of strength to form the word yes, my brain is screaming, “No. No I wouldn’t, see? Because then I’d have one less dollar to put toward my Ben & Jerry’s versus Godiva versus Haagen Daz taste test research. I only have three pints of premium dessert flavors here! Can’t you see I’m only buying the necessities?! Clearly I do not have a dollar to spare!”

And it’s never even some generic charity, either. It has to be some ridiculous need that you actually have to think about for a second, like Jesus Christ what kind of world are we living in? I just wanted some Chunky Monkey and now I’m all worried about some insane cause, the name of which is as long and painfully drawn out as the patient’s suffering. Would you like to donate a dollar for Blind, Diabetic, Infant Refugees with Spinal Bifida who Need New Prosthetic Arms so they can Swat at the Flies Buzzing around their Sunken Eye Sockets?

AHHHHH!!!! Fine! Fine, of course I would and you can send them my ice cream, too, because now I’ve lost my appetite and it’s not just from thinking about flies landing on malnourished skulls, but from the disgust I feel toward myself for feeling angry that you’ve just burst my delusion bubble where all that mattered in life was celebrity gossip and dark chocolate fudge ribbons.

I began by shoving only TWO mini crumb donettes down my dental dam, followed up with just three point five shots of chewable black tar espresso. That’s a point five deduction from my quotidian habit, which may not sound like a lot to you, but as many an Olympic ice dancer knows, a point five deduction can feel like it’s going to kill you.

A prolonged fight ensued between my half and half pouring hand and my will to get fit, leaving me with a cramped arm and the kind of mess you’d expect to see if a cage fighter kicked the shit of a cow in your kitchen. Eventually, my desire to look little-boned won out and I choked down my mug of the good stuff without the aid of a high-calorie mixer. Foregoing my heavy pour of cream allowed me to create a beverage that was both fat free and a handy test that assured me my gag reflex was still fully functioning.

Feeling undercaffeinated and about thirteen donettes short of a full stomach, I could hardly get to work on my To Do list. So I did what I always do when I have a To Do list that needs doing and sought a distraction. Thankfully, the violent thrashing coming from our wall had yet to cease. I decided to call Raul to see if he had any advice on how I might put our new friend out of its misery.

For some inexplicable reason, all of Raul’s suggestions involved me entering into close proximity with the creature, rendering his proposals moot. Had he recommended dynamite, standing in front of the heater and staring at it for long periods of time, or spraying the fire extinguisher through the slats, I’d have happily obliged, but as it was, the call proved ineffectual. I wandered into the bathroom to floss as Raul’s frustration with my refusals to open the heating unit reached a crescendo. Just then, a thump against the stucco startled me so much my eyes whipped open. Then they whipped open again as I registered just how bloodshot they looked the first time they whipped open.

“Hold on a sec,” I said to Raul as I set my cell on the sink and craned closer to the mirror to inspect my crimson peepers. It looked like I’d stayed up all night alternately smoking pot and pepper spraying myself in the face, which, I’m pretty sure I hadn’t. “I’m gonna have to call you back.”

According to WebMD, possible explanations for why I appeared to have contracted the worst case of pink eye in human history included: dehydration, indoor allergens, bulimia nervosa, subconjunctival hemorrhage, giving birth, or Kawasaki Disease, an ailment that has far less to do with brand name personal watercrafts and motorcycles than I had expected.

I analyzed the list. I couldn’t recall the last time I’d drunk a glass of water that didn’t contain beer-like ingredients, so Option One seemed possible. Then again, if the headbanger in the heater was a cat, indoor allergen exposure could be the culprit. While my breakfast did make a few escape attempts, I couldn’t say I qualified as bulimic. As for the other three possibilities, it seemed I lacked some relevant side effects such as a torn retina, a baby, and an acute rheumatic fever.

It seemed I just needed to drink some alcohol-free water, but as with anything worth doing, I thought it worth overdoing. Within minutes, I found myself curled in the fetal position, clutching my water-logged organs, and recalling a story a friend of mine had told me. A radio station sponsored a contest that required participants to engage in a water-drinking contest. The winner died, not from the excitement of collecting her cash prize, but from drinking water. Back to the internet.

An EHow article looked like it might provide valuable information for fending off the angel of death. It offered four steps for avoiding water poisoning. Four steps! Even in my panicked state I could see the hilarity in this. Isn’t there just ONE step for avoiding water poisoning?

The article was pretty entertaining and made for a great distraction from my original distraction’s distraction. Its four step program can be summarized as follows and doubles not just as a great way to succeed at avoiding water poisoning one’s self to death, but as a great way to succeed at life: First, Don’t Panic; Second, Avoid Becoming Very Ill, Especially Whilst Engaging in a Triathlon or Other Strenuous Sporting Event (like trying to escape a wall heater?); Third, Never Have a Water Drinking Contest; and Fourth, Do Not Binge or Do Anything Stupid.

If only my buddy in the heater had followed these steps, maybe he would still be alive right now. The fact that it’s been quiet for over an hour now makes me think he’s passed on to that vast wall mounted heater-free space in the sky. As for me, I’ve decided not to refill my Brita, in an attempt to avoid ending up there, too.

Top Searches
unicorn horn,  freakish animals,  ladybug smashed by a hammer,  cloris leachman breasts

Unicorn horn, freakish animals, and the sweet rack on a sexy silver fox, sure; I understand your deep desire to read about such fine, high-brow topics. You’ve come to the right place. Welcome home, friend.

But…ladybug smashed by a hammer? Who goes online to engage in discussions regarding violence against ladybugs?! What’s that? You’d like to direct my attention to Anxiety Activator #61? Fine, I’m not exactly the Ceasar Milan of the insect world, but it’s not like I’m advoacting decapitation via wrench.

I can’t even tell you how much I would pay for video of this person, this angry man with his axe to grind against ladybugs, hunched over his ancient computer in his grandmother’s basement, the dangling overhead lightbulb casting shadows about his deep scowl as he punches open a browser, rubs his palms together, and pounds the enter key on his search. Hurry up, google! I imagine him growling at his monitor. Show me a ladybug smashed by a hammer! I gotta see that right now! Not a taracnhula; don’t show me a fucking tape worm. It has to be a ladybug and it has to be murdered with a hammer!

He waits, ever so patiently, his excitement growing like the number of governemnt watchlists on which his name appears. Just when he’s about to lose his mind from anticipation, he lands here, where there is no video and no writing, not even a song lyric, about this one thing in life he so desperaltey seeks. Well, you know what? I’m sorry, Bob the Beheader, but you are just going to have to calm down and step away from the toolbox. Let the ladybug fly to safety. She’s not trying to hurt you, though, if experience has taught me anything, she may be thirsty for a little sip of your nipple nectar. Go on, give her a taste. Then, when you’re done with that, click here to read about some freakish animals and/or here for Cloris Leachman’s breasts. I have a feeling that may be exactly what you need. That and a good therapist.

At this point I realized I’d either developed some James Cameron super 3D floaters, or I was about to have my own Chris Farley in Tommy Boy moment.

It buzzed back in my vision and hit me in the cheek. I shrieked and took both hands off the wheel to swat at my attacker. It landed on my left boob, which led to more screaming, and the second I looked back up, a high-pitched skid as I slammed on the brakes and missed the bumper of the car in front of me by a millimeter.

Freaking out that nature’s winged beast was now affixed to my chestal region and apparently attempting to breast feed, I pulled a hard right into a parking lot, nearly flattening an old lady leaving Grower’s Direct. I glanced back down and yelped, “What are you doing, bug? I’m not freaking lactating. Get…,” I plucked at the fabric around it, trying to trampoline fling it at the windshield, “Off!”

I thrust the car door opened and flew out, jumping up down whilst flicking at my teet. I hopped about squealing Beaker meeps that happened to create a nice harmony over The Pointer Sister’s “I’m so Excited” blaring from my open vehicle and adding to my embarrassment.

Finally, the mutant surrendered its calling as the world’s smallest breast pump. It spread its wings to fly toward some other unsuspecting driver. It was at that moment when I noticed its red and black pattern.

Sweet Jesus, I thought. I almost crashed my car, hit an old lady, and gave myself a public breast exam over a ladybug.

But in my defense, they really are creepy little insects, especially when they’re trying to milk you. It was definitely not baby sized so there’s just no excuse. It was large, which begs the question: Was it a lesbian ladybug? Obviously so.

I’m telling you, do not let the name fool you. Do you think it’d be any less to disturbing to find yourself driving along in your car only to have a gentleman worm drop down on your lap?

You think you’d just keep cruising down the highway in your Camero, the T-top open, your skullet blowing wind, as you act like you don’t care that an episode of Fear Factor is taking place on your cod piece? No, you’d probably crash because only the name of the sick creature and not the reality of it is a euphemism.

Your crotch-diving gentleman worm would not sport a little bow tie under his slimy neck any more than my ladybug donned a bonnet. It was not a lady. It was a bug. And it attacked me.

So stop trying to make me feel like a freak for calling this ladybug what she really is and that is Anxiety Activator number sixty-one.