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.

“Yes, I do believe it was,” he said to his midget. ”For I-eeeeee.”  He paused just then and stroked his goatee. “For I-eeee can only trust you…”  

Ripping his monocle from his lazy eye, he sized up young Tito, losing track momentarily as he began to admire his midget’s neatly tailored capris. Then, his anger blazing anew, he made yet another silent calculation, as he gazed into the near distance. ”For I can only trust you approximately 54.7 percent repeating as far as I can throw you.”

Tito shuddered, not just because he found Dr. Golan’s rages terrifying, but because who the hell covers one’s floors with bird skin? Feathers, he could understand. But bird carcass? Carcasses pulled taught?! Who indeed, Tito thought.

And as Golan lurched toward him, wielding a disembodied beak, Tito saw the answer clearly: a madman. 

The same madman who, as a young boy in the Kazakhs, once lost the final ingredient for his penile growth serum to a thirsty, and now well-endowed, ostrich. An ostrich that his father, a kleptomaniac zoologist, mistakenly believed would make a nice family pet. But it was Tito who would pay. And pay dearly — at the wrong end of the beak.

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!

Once in a lifetime, a movie comes along that changes the way we look at taxidermied deer, gonads, and moon fetuses; “Gentlemen Broncos” is that movie. While I cannot honestly say it is the best film I’ve ever watched, I can honestly say it is the best worst film I’ve ever watched, and that is exactly what I believe it was intended to be.

Jemaine Clement, of Flight of the Conchords fame, pulls off an Oscar-worthy performance as unethical sci-fi writer Dr. Chevalier. I had to rewind almost every scene he starred in because he had me laughing so hard I found myself missing parts of his hilarious dialogue.

“Gentlemen Broncos” was written and directed by the creative geniuses who brought us “Napoleon Dynamite,” and just like Napoleon, this movie grows on you the more you watch it.

If you have a great sense of humor, aren’t squeamish about vomit, and have access to a medical marijuana prescription, you’ll love “Gentlemen Broncos.”

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.

Jack in the box (fucking sucks)

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Date: 2010-03-18, 7:24PM PDT

Reply To This Post

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People still eat this shit?

Just in case you don’t know; Jack in the box is not “real” food.

Stop being so fucking stupid.
•Location: fucking sucks
•it’s NOT ok to contact this poster with services or other commercial interests
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