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Friday, October 12th, 2007
11:50 am - That's it! I just can't watch gameshows anymore.
They simply enrage me too much. Those dumbasses are losing money that should rightfully be mine.

First question asked to the Mensa woman on ARE YOU SMARTER THAN A 5TH GRADER? last night:

How many consonants are in the word "vowel?"

"Two. V-o-u-l. V and L are the consonants. Two."

(head explodes)

Stupidest contestant in the history of game shows EVER, and I watch daytime WHO WANTS TO BE A MILLIONARE, so that's saying something.

At least she walked away with nothing. The dumbass that preceded her left with $175,000 even though he didn't know the name of George Washington's wife OR the official language of goddamn Australia, for Christ's sake. "Duh, I thought Crocodile Dundee spoke Farsi." Die, mongoloid!

ARE YOU SMARTER THAN A 5TH GRADER?: We reward your utter retardation.

current mood: annoyed

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Wednesday, September 12th, 2007
1:35 pm - Random thoughts on the arcade game Joust
Flying ostriches? Ok, I'll accept that. Killing a rider makes the bird spontaneously lay an egg? I guess it could happen. But why when the ostrich eggs hatch are they human? What the hell is going on in those stables after dark?

current mood: devious

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Thursday, August 23rd, 2007
9:20 am - And now for another episode of...The Continental
Ah, my lovely creature. I see you have received my message. You have come to retrieve your underwear. How they came into my possession is a mystery to me. Alas, this apartment complex has a large laundry facility. It's entirely probable that you simply overlooked your five pairs of panties in the drier. Yes. Now come. Sit, and enjoy a glass of fine champan-yah.

Ah my dear, you are such a sight to behold. It is like a fevered Picasso drew you on a cocktail napkin and then stuck you under his pillow so he could revisit you on sleepless nights. Or in the morning during a hangover.

May I offer you a snack? I prepared a plate of meats and cheeses. Bologna? No? Prosciutti? It's a dry, flavorful ham from Northern Italy. No? Oscar Mayer olive loaf? No? Ah, I see there is nothing on this tray that tickles your fancy. But I have one other variety. If you want to follow me into the bedroom, perhaps you would like to nibble on some hard salami?

Wait! Don't go!

Ah, my skittish doe. I misspoke. Please. Come. Sit. Enjoy the fine champan-yah. I see you require a lighter fare. I shall make you a salad. Trust me, they cannot be beat. I was tossing salads at 8 years old. Now, we must start with the lettuce. So crisp, so green. It is crying out to be eaten and turned into poop. Ah, vine-ripened Roma tomatoes. You see, as a salad chef, I make it a habit to know my produce intimately. And now for the cucumbers. Tell me, my luscious heaving beast, have you ever been intimate with a cucumber?

Wait! Was simply a joke from the old country. Calm yourself, my restless pixie. Breathe. Relax. Now come. Sit and have some more champan-yah.

Perhaps I can persuade you to have some soup. A meager repast, yes, but I have made it myself. Minestrone. Wait, don't try it yet. Let me add some fresh cut spices. Here, a pinch of a basil. Now, a smidgeon of tarragon. Finally, a dollop of my favorite spice...Rohypnol.

WAIT! Let me explain! Ooof. I've never been kicked in the testicles with a high heel before. Your precision was impeccable. I take it that the time for champan-yah is over? So be it, my impish hellcat. Don't forget your panties. I shall dream of you long after you depart while I'm choking on my own blood. Ciao, bella. Ooof.


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current mood: petulant

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Tuesday, June 26th, 2007
1:32 pm - You know who I feel sorry for?


Porn stars who didn't anticipate internet search engines. Oh, Flame, you silly sapphic redhead. Bet you thought you were being pretty clever in the early 90s by giving yourself that moniker. Too bad it's a noun and a Google search on your name turns up 60 million hits. Tough luck to the horny fanboy who wants to wade through that. My advice, if you want to have sex for money while people film it and you want your fans to be able to find you, name yourself using the Star Wars planet convention: Seqqqskie Xindee should be all right.

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Sunday, March 11th, 2007
3:16 am - The eyes have it
I think I watch too many goddamn movies. Tonight, I was viewing "Shock-O-Rama" and for some reason, the performance by Sylvianne Chebance gave me a real feeling of deja vu. After scratching my head for nearly twenty minutes on the whole affair, it suddenly became clear to me. She had clearly purloined Karen Black's eyes! No no no, I think it clearly goes beyond the alluring mild strabismus. Organ theft MUST have been committed here. Why won't anyone believe me?

But then, I've been wrong before. For the longest time, I thought Peter Greene and William Fichtner were the same person. Also, for a while I thought Tobin Bell was really Brion James with a nosejob.

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Friday, February 16th, 2007
4:11 am - Ass Parade
Were you aware that between 1977 and 1978 there were three animated movies about the donkey that carried the fetal Jesus to Bethelem?

No, it's true.

Here's how you tell the difference:

"Nestor, The Long-Earred Christmas Donkey" was claymation, and had Roger Miller narrating. Anyone who doesn't cry during a first viewing of this should be immediately shipped to the salt mines. Because you're not normal and you don't feel things the way humans do, freak.

"The Little Christmas Burro" was 2D, and can be found in dollar DVD bins everywhere. It had Lorne Greene narrating. Also, this thing is so obscure that not even the IMDB recognizes it. Oh, and by the way, it's a piece of shit.

"The Small One" was made by Don Bluth. He went on to make one good movie and then a lot of shitty ones like Rock-a-Doodle and All Dogs Go to Heaven. This one also features Gordon Jump as Joseph. Depending on your generation, you may remember Gordon Jump as a stuffy Maytag repair man or as a creepy child molesting freak who debased the moral fiber of much of the cast of Diff'rent Strokes. Your mileage may vary.

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Thursday, February 1st, 2007
3:31 am - The Triple-Go means, like, super urgency!
For like the last 5 or 6 years, I've noticed people in movies never just say "Go!" to their friends when they're running away from danger anymore. They use a Go followed by a Triple-Go. Oh no, the maniac just ripped Tiffany's face off and he's coming for us. "Go! GoGoGo!" You will notice that it's never "Go! Go! Go!" Those are separate words and the urgency imparted by saying it as one word shows just how pressing a sentiment it is. Also, it irks the shit out of me for some reason. If you need help, watch INTO THE BLUE (2005) and CURSED (2005) and every movie involving untalented people in peril since 2000.

The shitty dead teenager movie SEE NO EVIL (2006) has a bizarre variation of this. Dude only does a double go and ends up dead. It was "Go! C'mon! GoGo!" You do the math.

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Tuesday, January 16th, 2007
2:39 am - God Bless the Diarrhea Town
Ever experienced a Diarrhea Town? I bet you have.

Definition: A Diarrhea Town is a town you'd never visit in a million years unless you were driving on the highway and were suddenly stricken with uncontrollable diarrhea.

My Diarrhea Town is Stacy, Minnesota.

There I was on the I-35. Minding my own business, naturally. Driving and so forth. Suddenly, my sphincter was hit with a message that said, "That stuff in your bowels? They gotta go. Now, bitch!"

I pulled into the first exit that the highway provided me. It was a grocery store/gas station. They didn't require a bathroom key. I respected that.

Anyhoo, I laid total waste to that bowl. But it's my policy to buy something wherever I leave my wares. I even make it a point to buy something that no one would ever buy. Cuz I'm altruistic like that. I bought a bag of those orange marshmallow circus peanuts, just cuz I thought no one else would buy them.

For a Diarrhea Town, Stacy seems to have much to offer:
http://www.stacymn.org/

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Sunday, January 14th, 2007
2:39 am
Do you ever find yourself wishing that that the only surviving kid actor from the POLTERGEIST movies would die in a weird way just so it could give you some kind of symmetrical closure and also an interestingly morbid conversation piece?

Nah, me neither. What are you, a sick fuck?

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Monday, November 20th, 2006
1:48 am
So I've been watching a lot of lesbian vampire movies lately. These flicks bring up an important question. No, not THAT question. We know they have daddy issues, retard.

I'm talking about you getting bit by a vampire and you staying the same as you were at that exact same moment. We know they don't physically age. My question is, what does this mean for the acne-prone? If I have a gigantic zit on my forehead and some vamp skank bites me, does that thing stay with me for eternity? That is SO fuckin not fair, goddamnit! You're telling me I nurtured this zit so it could become swelled with pus and ready to reach supernova stage and that's when you bite me? What kind of horseshit is this? They always say vampirism is hell because your soul is damned. Fuck you. I'm walking around with a perennial whitehead that can never be popped.

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Wednesday, October 11th, 2006
6:44 am
Had the strangest dream last night. I was living in a small Texas town. It was election season. Slim Pickens, Clifton James and Bo Hopkins were all running for the office of sheriff. I told the election official, "I want to vote for ALL of them!" She cracked my knuckles with a ruler and told me that I could only for one of them. "I hate democracy!" I screamed.

Sometime later, Scarlett Johansson showed up at my slumber party. She said, "I really don't know what all the fuss is about. I'm just an albino twelve-year-old boy who enjoys acting and doesn't know how to wear make-up." I agreed wholeheartedly, though the ensuing awkwardness was palpable.

All of a sudden, wily foreign actors Rutger Hauer and Jackie Chan appeared. Rutger looked at me with those dreamy eyes so Aryan blue that they'd make Paul Newman's eyes look like dirty diarrhea water in comparison and said, "One of us is the antiChrist. Try and guess who it is."

I decided to question them.

Jackie said: "Yrgsgss tgsrsg gsdsg4y45 sfbfbjjrjes gsgrtee." Or something. I really couldn't understand him, but that's par for the course with him. I became skeptical.

Rutger said: "I'm foreign born and yet I speak with no discernable accent. Isn't that something? Just think of all the damage I could do. I starred as a blind fucking samurai swordsman in a movie, for Christ's sake. Don't fuck with me. Now give me all of America's nuclear missile secrets." And I did.

Then I woke up and discovered that I was no longer a sassy British big game hunter who liked to shoot elephants and Jill Schoelen wasn't my girlfriend and I felt sad.

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Monday, August 28th, 2006
2:29 am - Daddy's little squirt!
Did you ever stop to think that maybe your dad remembers the actual orgasm that was responsible for your conception?

It's not so far-fetched. I can remember many orgasms, often the result of other person or persons being present.

It's not like parents with jobs go at it all the time. These people had things to do. An orgasm was difficult to find in the '70s, man.

I was a September birth. So I can only guess that the 'rents were all into the Christmas-y dirty talk.

"I'm a good girl, Santa! Give me your special holiday love nog!"

I asked my father about this, but he just spat his filthy tobacco and glared at me, as usual.

Anyone else have better luck?

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Thursday, August 24th, 2006
1:55 am
They say evil is alive and well in America in the 21st century, but what happened to the men with waxed curly mustaches who wear black capes and top hats and tie woman to railroad tracks and/or saw mill conveyor belts and then curl their own mustaches in a fit of self-satisfaction to show just how evil they truly are? You never see those guys anymore. Now they just rape and murder willy-nilly. That sucks, yo. Have we forgotten our tribal wisdom? Just maybe.

Also, why do the lesser and more immature among us tell us to "mind our own bees wax?" Seems that, phonetically, "mind your own bees nest" would be more compatible with the word "business," AND would make a lot more sense. But don't mind me, I'm just a lowly file clerk. I don't wish to make trouble.

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Wednesday, August 16th, 2006
6:11 pm - Sometimes you gotta make doo with what you have
I ran out of toilet paper today. Naturally, I had to get resourceful. MacGyver resourceful. After carefully weighing my options consisting of Zippo lighter, four thumbtacks and a stale ice cream cone, I ended up using Monopoly money. That's right, kids. I dropped 2500 large down on one sitting. I felt just like John D. Rockefeller would've...if he had had the taco squirts and was too lazy to put clothes on and go to the store.

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Saturday, August 12th, 2006
6:28 pm
It's gotta suck being a man from Nantucket. Everyone thinks you're staggeringly well-endowed and can do bizarre tricks with your genitalia. What if Nantucket guy doesn't want to be hypersexualized? Maybe he enjoys opera or something, did you ever consider that? Seriously, is there any other geographical location from which you can hail where people automatically assume you can self-fellate? I don't think there is.

You know who's getting off easy? Residents of Uttucker, Mongolia. Sleep with one eye open, people. They'll find out about you someday.

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Thursday, July 20th, 2006
3:57 pm
One constant putdown critics like to use on a bad movie is to say that a film is too cartoonish. But cartoons aren't necessarily a bad thing. It's just that often the writing in cartoons is somewhat lazy. For example:

1) How come after 300 Popeye-bestowed assbeatings Bluto doesn't catch on to the brilliant idea that maybe he should eat spinach, too? Cause and Effect 101, you tard.

2) What the fuck, was OSHA disbanded in the future? Because those moving sidewalks on THE JETSONS sure look like they could use some guardrails. You're telling me no one ever trips accidentally or falls over while stumbling around in a drunken haze? That looks like it'd be a pretty long drop, yo.

3) I'm willing to cut Captain Caveman some slack. I'll buy that neanderthals can be thawed from a block of ice and reanimated for the purpose of helping a biracial group of perky coeds solve crime. But never once do the writers address the obvious fact that CC has got to have a seriously outrageous dingleberry problem. One that would make the annoyed Teen Angels leave him less and less subtle hints throughout the course of the season. But is the topic of pruning caveman rump foliage even broached? Not once. Pure laziness.

4) It's totally apparent that Grape Ape has Tourette's Syndrome. That's fine, but give him something better to repeat than his OWN GODDAMN NAME. You call that a catchphrase? It's sad and irritating. That gorilla could have had a lot more of an edge to him if he had spastically yelled inappropriate things, like "shiteating pigfucker" after everything he said. Let's face it, hearing "shiteating pigfucker" never gets old.

5) You know, when Clark Kent changes into Superman he at least loses his glasses and moves the part in his hair to the other side of his head. But when Prince Adam changes into He-Man, he looks EXACTLY THE FUCKIN SAME, only gayer. Why doesn't anyone notice this? When I was 6, my uncle dressed up as Santa Claus one Christmas and I was totally fooled. But there was a long white beard, a costume, a pillow under the coat to add weight. It was a good ruse. But if my uncle had walked into the room wearing nothing but a pair of provocative assless chaps, I think I'd fuckin recognize him. The people of Eternia are so dumb. It's right that Skeletor wants to enslave them.

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Wednesday, July 5th, 2006
10:29 pm
I'm not usually one to cast judgment on other people's decision-making skills because I know I've made some boneheaded moves in the past. Like back in 2002, when I thought there'd be a market for a product for women suffering from Brazilian Bikini Wax Remorse. Surely they'd want an all-natural, easily-applicable quick fix for those times when they felt too bare down there, I reasoned. That's when it hit me: Chia Pubes! Alas, customers stayed away in droves and I was ruined financially.

But honestly now. Serial killer groupies. That's right, I'm talking about the growing number of women who become pen pals with convicted multiple murderers and then marry them.

Does it bother anyone else that the Night Stalker is getting more tail than Charlie Sheen? Is that a sign of a civilization in ascent to you? What's more, it's GOT to be a real kick in the balls for the prison guards who haven't gotten laid in forever that have to deliver the fan mail to the cells. How long before they think to themselves, "Hey, maybe if I strangle some senior citizens and then remove their eyeballs with an ice cream scoop I'll be a playa too?" Oh, who am I kidding? There's no maybe.

But groupies, what is your thought process here? Before the wedding day, was there no one in your life that gave you a sit-down talking to? Not one friend? Not one family member? Not one co-worker? Did you try Dear Abby? Because I think that's a problem she'd answer for you if you took the time to ask.

Gee, what do you think the honeymoon night is like for a woman that marries a serial killer? Not uneventful is my guess. I think the sign on the conjugal visit trailer should read something like:

IF THIS VAN'S A ROCKIN'
PLEASE COME A KNOCKIN'
(BECAUSE I'M PROBABLY BEING RAPED AND MURDERED, THOUGH NOT NECESSARILY IN THAT ORDER)

You know, when Lou Rawls said "love is a hurtin' thing" you weren't supposed to take that literally. God!

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Sunday, June 25th, 2006
7:51 pm
I don't want to sound like a whiner or anything because I'll admit that Mentos have gotten me out of some dicey situations many times in the past. Granted, I never would've come up with that idea of dressing up in a gorilla suit in order to retrieve a frisbee from my cranky neighbor's roof without them. But using a product marketed as a problem-solving candy creates an interesting conundrum: sooner or later, you're going to face an adversary who enjoys Mentos just as much as you do. That, my friend, is not going to make your next Mexican standoff any easier.

Sure, you can eat two Mentos, but then he'll eat three, and you'll eat four and then it'll go back and fourth until you both run out, much smarter but none the wiser. So unless you want to achieve anything besides Mutually Assured Freshness, preparations must be made. For example, if you remember my last brush with Colonel Laconicus you'll know he made the fatal mistake of underestimating me. While the colonel correctly assumed that I, like himself, would be carrying a full unopened roll, he was also of the opinion that stashing an auxiliary Mentos suppository in my rectum would be beneath a noble opponent like me. Which it wasn't. Checkmate!

That's right, baby. In these troubled times, I always keep fourteen in the clip and one in the chamber. It might not be pretty, but keeping the nation safe for democracy never is, yo.

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Tuesday, June 13th, 2006
6:39 pm
Why is it that Kim Basinger can slather whipped cream on her nipples and when Mickey Rourke licks it off everyone thinks it's the most erotic thing in the world, but when I dollop MY nipples with fresh Cheeto residue from my fingertips and say, "Don't worry, baby. This buffet is all you can eat!" my blind date suddenly remembers that she has to get up early the next morning?

Gee, double standard much?

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Thursday, June 8th, 2006
12:07 am - The afterlife is like being in that dream where you're in school and you're naked...for ETERNITY.
Colloquially-speaking, ghosts are manifestations of the spirit or soul of a person which has remained on Earth after death. Fine, I'm open-mined enough to entertain the possibility. But you know how I know that everyone who's ever claimed to have seen a ghost is full of shit? The ghosts all wear clothes. That's just nonsense.

Call me skeptical, but I just don't see how my Dockers are going to generate their own ectoplasm once I've passed over. Sure, I'd love to be reunited with that kickass Hawaiian shirt I used to wear in ninth grade when I'm dead, but let's face it. That thing is gone forever. Cuz it had no lifeforce to begin with, duh.

A lot of hipster doofuses will have you believe that your tattoos will follow you to the spectral side, but that's just crap. You'll need to come up with a new conversation piece.

What if you had an unsightly mole or a vestigial tail removed at an early age? Will those come back in death? I don't know. I'm not an expert, hey. Maybe you get it back if you're born with it. Maybe it's Maybelline.

I've tried getting confirmation of my nude ghost theory by asking my Ouija board to materialize some jiggly spirits, but it just writes back ROTFLOL and tells me that its ethereal scanner is broken. Lame.

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