Monday, September 27, 2010

I Do Not Know if These People are Good At or Bad At Dying.

I'm going to tell you right now NOT TO READ THIS if you have problems with the words "horse" "fuck" and "ass" being used in the same sentence more than just that one time.  I'm super-duper not kidding about this.  It's not often I get an opportunity to use the words "horse" "fuck" and "ass" in the same sentence, so I'm going full-bore with this.  Consider yourself warned.


The guy who owns the company that makes Segways died this past weekend by Segwaying his Segway off a cliff.

Nothing is funnier than that.  NOTHING.  Well, not today, anyway.  I'm sure some moron somewhere will top that epically ironical feat sometime really soon.  Until then, I'm going to laugh at that poor man's death pretty much consistently for the rest of today.  I truly hope that, as he was losing his battle with gravity, he had a moment to realize just how hard a good chunk of the world's population was going to laugh when they found out how he bit it.

After laughing at this poor man's death for a length of time that can only be described as "psychotic," I started to feel bad.  Not because he died.  Not because I laughed at it.  Because it is not even close to the most embarrassing death ever.  I don't know what the most embarrassing death ever is, but these three have got to be high on the "Fuck -- REALLY?  This is How I'm Going to Fucking Die?" List.

(And I'm serious about the "horse" "fuck" and "ass" thing.  Really, really serious.  If you don't want to read it, you'd better stop after these next two stories.)

Let us consider the case of wrestler Mal "King Kong" Kirk.  1987.  Shirley "Big Daddy" Crabtree (who the fuck thinks up these names?) does the "Belly Splash" onto Kirk.  The "Belly Splash" is exactly what you think it is, unless you think it is what I thought it was after watching an "art film" in the Internet this one time.  I guess sometimes a thing can be two things, as in the case of the "Belly Splash."

So, yeah -- Kirk gets smooshed, Kirk gets heart attack, Kirk gets dead.

"King Kong" Kirk died while wearing tight man-panties.  With another man in tight man-panties laying on top of him.  A man named Shirley.  Who had just done something to him called the "Belly Splash."

(One more story til the horse thing.  Really.  It's right after this one.  I'm probably not going to warn you again.  But just so you know, the horse wins in the story.  The horse.  Totally.  Wins.)

Michael Anderson was convicted of murder in 1983, and sentenced to death by electric chair in South Carolina.  Lucky for him, the people who decide not to execute people who are sentenced to be executed decided not to execute him.

Too bad he was a fucking moron. what Michael Anderson would hear people say, if he weren't dead from being a fucking moron.

While sitting in his cell, on a metal toilet, he tried to wire something up on his TV.  Cut to screaming spasms and the foul stench of fried ass hair.

(Ok.  Last warning.  It's the horse thing.  Again, the horse was fine.  Probably.  I mean, depending on how you look at it, the horse pretty much had nothing bad happen to him at all.  I think he might even have had a pretty awesome day, for a horse.  Plus, the bad guy is dead, so the horse came out on top, I think.  The previous sentence will be extra funny once you finish reading this next story.)

In 2005, a man named Kenneth Pinyan in Seattle, Washington, died after he LET A HORSE FUCK HIS ASS.

His ASS.


Because some horses like to give, and some horses like to take.

And then he died.  Because of how very, very much he deserved to.

So, see, Segway Guy -- your death isn't that bad.  No one flattened you while wearing underpants.  Your ass didn't catch fire.  And your death didn't even involve one single horse dong.  Go gentle into that good night, Segway Guy.  Go gentle into that ironic, retarded good night.


Tuesday, September 21, 2010

Random Schmandom

Jamie Lee Curtis' ability to poop does not impress me, Activia.  In fact, I pretty much can't eat yogurt anymore because of you.

Jim Carroll knew exactly what people would say about him after he died, died.

On some tampon boxes, it outlines how many grams worth of 'liquid' the different strengths of tampons can hold.  Because all women measure that.  On a related note, I just barfed 20 grams of barf. 

Humidexes (Humidices?  I don't fucking know) are stupid.  It is 30 degrees, but it feels like 40 degrees.  So, it's 40 degrees.  

No, guy at the checkout counter at Mac's -- I do not save 30 cents if I buy two chocolate bars instead of one.  

Whenever I call Telus Customer Disservice about problems with my BlackBerry, they tell me to pull the battery out and put it back in again.  I'm glad this isn't how we fix problems with all things that run on batteries, because lots of people with pacemakers would be dead.

What is Liza Minelli?

The members of The Who didn't need to hope they'd die before they got old.  They could have all just shot themselves.  Guess they didn't want it that bad, after all.


Tuesday, September 7, 2010

I Would Like For My Balls to Be Pink

Holy CRAP.

I have been trying for the last half hour to write something even remotely post-able.  It is all SHIT.  If it's not totally whiny and pathetic, then it's full-on crazy and terrifying.  "Boo hoo -- won't somebody fix me?  Waaaaaaaaaah."  "BLARGH ARGH BOOGLE -- I'M GONNA GO EAT BABIES!!!"

Lettuce helps in the digestive process.

So now I have four unpublishable half-posts and 30 wasted minutes that I could have spent doing something productive like wondering what the sweet fuck I'm supposed to be doing.  Because I don't have one goddamn bloody idea.  Sleeping?  Probably.  Making lunch?  Wouldn't be the worst idea ever.  (No baby-sammidges, I promise.  I'm totally out of babies.)  Deleting the posts I've written so far today so no one will ever see them and I won't end up locked in an out-of-the way hospital ward where hopefully someone will remember to come change my big-girl diaper every week or so?  YES.

I think mostly I just want, like, a hug or something.  Because I'm bored and annoyed and stuff didn't work out today the way I intended it to and I got aggravating news about shit that I can't do a frigging thing about and try as I might, I can't do anything even half-right this afternoon. I dunno.  I don't really like people touching me, but that's what I feel like I need today.  A hug.

From him.

Hugs are good.  I'm learning that.  And I'm learning that none of us get enough or give enough of them.  A little while ago, I had this big epiphany and I was going to hug at least one person a day and I made it my Facebook status (which is basically like enacting a law) and it was going to make me allllll better and I was going to always be happy and cheerful because YAY!  HUGS!!! and then I did it for, like, a week, and then I stopped.  Because it seemed creepy.  And also because I forgot.

Everyone makes such a big deal out of talking and expressing 'feelings' and blardy-blar-blar, but we kind of forget about how nice it is to just get a kind smile or a hand on our arm or a hug.

From this guy.

I don't know about you, but a lot of the time, words don't work.  Words just give me something to try to figure out, because heaven forbid I just believe what someone is saying to me.  "Everything will be fine" probably means "You're screwed."  Or "You're crazy."  Or "I'm only saying this so you will shut up and go away because mostly right now I want to go to Science School and become a scientist and learn how to make balls grow on women so I can punch you in your balls."

I would like for mine to be pink, please.

Hugs are better.  You can't second-guess a hug or over-think a hug or dissect a hug.  But I suppose sometimes you could get a cold from a hug or possibly head lice.  Most of my friends don't look like they have head lice though, so I'm not too worried about it.  Most of them.  And sometimes people are afraid to hug because they don't want to seem weird or have it taken the wrong way.  And sometimes I start sentences with the word 'and,' even though that's grammatically retarded.

What about this guy?  Can I have a hug from this guy?

This is getting rambly, but I can't imagine that's really a fucking surprise. (See: everything I have ever written.)  I can't figure out if this is me trying to teach an important life lesson using humour and pictures of hot guys and pink testicles, or me trying to type some of the stupid out of my brain, or me just blabbering on about whatever crud is running through my head, or me being tired and perhaps I only think I'm typing words but all you will see is "aiweuhfdmusfaiq834kqjfgvgr ggdderlwd;'rieumdms," or maybe I really just don't want to do laundry, and I'm justifying my laziness with "What?  I'm busy expressing myself.  That's waaaaaaaay more important than having clean clothes to wear tomorrow.  My friends won't care if I stink."

Come to think of it, maybe they do.  Maybe that's why I'm hug-deprived.....

Nope.  I think maybe hugs are just going extinct.  I think touch in general is at the very least an endangered species.  They way we interact with each other is much more different than it used to be.  Touching is bad.  We don't even want kids kissing each other on the playground, for fucksake.  I can remember holding hands with my best friend when I was little.  Just walking around, holding hands.  Running up and hugging her each time I saw her for the first time any given day.  Watching TV at her house and putting my head on her shoulder just because.  Can't do that now.  We grow up, and it becomes weird.

I've lost interest in this.  I'd delete it, but it's the only thing I've written today that makes any sense (unless I'm right about only thinking I'm writing words, in which case I hope you've at least gotten a good laugh out of it) plus I think somewhere in the midst of Don Draper and pink balls and eating babies I've made something almost point-like, so I'm going to post it.  Take from it what you will.  Ask someone for a hug.  Give someone a hug.  Picture Don Draper with bright pink balls.  Call the people with the long-armed white coats and send them to my house.  Whatever.  I'd looking fucking HOT in a straight jacket.  Plus, it's just like giving yourself a big, crazy hug :)

See?  Happy!

Also, why don't more of you people look like George Clooney or Brad Pitt or Don Draper?  And how come NONE of you have bright pink balls?  You all suck ass.


Friday, September 3, 2010

Why Does Lorenzo Lamas Still Exist? Dolly Parton Has Giant Boobs. This is About Hurricanes.

Many of my posts over the last little while have been a little serious, which I'm totally OK with, but I think it's time for something goofy and ridiculous.  So let's make fun of hurricanes.  Devastating, horrible, violent hurricanes.

You know what I would name a hurricane?  Not Earl.  Or Teddy.  Or frigging Cristobal.  Actual hurricanes have actually been named these actual names.  Actually.  I'd go with something a little more.......kill-y.  Hurricane Trailer Launcher.  Hurricane Wind Fuck. Hurricane Death Sneeze.  I'd be much more likely to flee the area if Hurricane Tree Through Your Head were on its way to my town than I would be if forecasters told me to run away from Hurricane Dolly.  

Hurricane Dolly: Often followed by the rare Double Rainboob.

Teddy, Cristobal and Dolly are real hurricane names, by the way.  So are Mindy, Karl, Humberto (huh?) and Floyd.  Floyd killed 57 people in 1999, and the name was retired.  It was replaced with Franklin.


Since 1979 (The year I was born.  Coincidence?  Yes.) there have been six lists of names for hurricanes that rotate every six years.  They alternate boy-girl and are used alphabetically, except for the letters Q, U, X, Y and Z.  So there will never be a Hurricane Queen Latifah.  :(

Some of the names used do suit a giant death fart: Hurricane Victor.  Hurricane Bret (The Hitman OH MY GOD WHERE DID MY HOUSE GO???)  Hurricane Igor.

Winds so strong, his eyes were blown in opposite directions.

On the flipside, we have Hurricane Nana.  Hurricane Nestor.  Hurricane Joaquin.

Off!  Fuck

There are several hurricanes with the same names as people I know.  Does it make me a bad person that I hope those ones have wicked-cool death tolls?  (It does.)  Does it make it more acceptable that I want those tolls to include a certain lead singer of a certain band whose name rhymes with Dicklecrack?  (It does.)

This, but in a tree.

So, in summary, whoever picked most of the hurricane names sucks.  They should let Quentin Tarantino do it.

Also, I'm not travelling anywhere where hurricanes go in 2013.  If I die in something named Hurricane Lorenzo, I'll kill myself.

He was in Grease!  And also Mega Shark vs. Giant Octopus!


Thursday, September 2, 2010

Laugh, You Big Frikkin' Idiot

When I started writing these things a couple of years ago, my first post was sort of an explanation of this blog's name, Being the Comedian.  I just re-read that post, decided it sucked ass, and deleted it.  It wasn't a bad explanation, and it wasn't really incorrect, but it wasn't right, either.  So today, I'm going to do it right.

"Once you figure out what a joke everything is, being The Comedian's the only thing that makes sense."  

It's a line from Watchmen -- certainly one of the greatest graphic novels (it's not a comic book so fuck right off) ever published, and perhaps one of the greatest stories ever published.  If you haven't read it, then I guess I'll still be your friend -- but I won't respect you quite as much, and I might pee a little bit on your toilet seat the next time I'm at your house.  And I'll teach your kid to swear.  Not regular swearing, either -- the bad kind.  The kind I use when I see really ugly chicks with their boyfriends while I'm eating alone at Burger King.

Keeping it simple, Watchmen is about a group of superheroes who are not super in anyway -- no radioactive spiders bit them, and they didn't come from a far away planet so they could wear tights and have Nicholas Cage name his kid after them.  Picture a world where the authorities bring in system-sanctioned superheroes to take care of the bad guys......then picture the types of people who would be attracted to that work.  Yeah, some of them are going to be power-dicks.

Enter The Comedian, played by one Jeffrey Dean Morgan.

Pictured here, looking like he wants to (naughty verb) the ever-loving life out of me.

The Comedian plays a huge role in the entire story, but I'm not going to give it away here.  I still hold on to the hope that one day the government will be overthrown by nerds, and our new Nerd Lords will make reading Watchmen mandatory under threat of razor blade wedgies with vinegar chasers, so I don't want to wreck the ending for you.  The Comedian does some seriously dark shit.  He's needlessly violent, terribly cruel, and just overall kind of a great big douche sometimes.  He's also totally aware of how the world really works, and what he has to do to survive in it.  I don't mean physically survive (that's easy -- he just kills the hell out of things,) but rather, how to not go crazy in a world that seems hell-bent on turning our brains into festering maggot pies.  It's all in that one line: 

"Once you figure out what a joke everything is, being The Comedian's the only thing that makes sense." 

This is taking on a slightly serious tone.  Quick, look at this:

I didn't make this, so it's a complete coincidence this dog shares a name with one of my friends.  Srsly.
Throwing in that picture of Jeff the Farting Dog kind of makes my point: When shit gets bad, you need to laugh or you will eventually go bat-fucking-shit-fucking-insane.  I'm not saying you should lol at funerals (the blonde guy reading this right now going "Hey, bitch -- I do that!" gets a pass since it's involuntary in his case) but you can't let every bad thing settle into your head.  You have to go at it like you would if a fly landed in not-yet-set Jell-o, so you picked the fly out real fast, let the Jell-o set, and then fed it to your friends without telling them about the fly.  (That never happened, friends.  You can still eat Jell-o if I give it to you.  I'd pass on pudding, though, what with the whole "If a fly few into pudding, I wouldn't be able to see it and you'd likely end up eating it" thing.)  So, in this tedious metaphor, the Jell-o is your brain, the fly is something shitty that happened, and your finger is The Funny.  Gotta jam The Funny into the shitty to keep your friends from eating brains with flies in them.  Or something.  I don't know.  I'm lost.

Think of the worst thing you have ever seen or heard or read about on TV, on the radio, or in a newspaper.  Now think of the most tasteless comment that could ever be made about that thing.  I guarantee that when that story happened, somewhere in some newsroom in some part of the world, a reporter said that comment.  Out loud.  To other people.  And they all laughed.  Not because they're heartless, soulless baby-smashers, but because when a good chunk of your day involves stories about what Mr. McWelfare did to his three kids when he got mad at his wife for not handing him his beer with the label facing toward him the way the damn bitch knows she's supposed to, you have to laugh.  If you let every bad story just sit in the room and poison the air all around you, if you let it get in and process, if you let yourself start to feel what the people it happened to might have felt, it takes hold of you from the inside and squeezes every bit of joy out of you until all you want to do is cry.

So we're apparently going with an "Idiot Dogs" theme today to break up the tedium and depression.  Cool.
Listen, fucked-up shit is going to happen to all of us.  It happens to me, and sometimes (too often) I let it bug the hell out of me.  Can't be helped sometimes.  But more and more, when I feel like throwing flaming turds at who/whatever has tried to destroy my life on any given day, I force myself to stop and think about what The Comedian said:

"Once you figure out what a joke everything is, being The Comedian's the only thing that makes sense."  

I don't mean a joke like "Ha ha!  I have herpes!"  I mean the not-funny kind of joke.  Like, "I have herpes.  What a fucking joke."  Then you take that joke, and you make it funny by sneaking up on and kissing your enemies when you're in the middle of an outbreak and your mouth is covered in oozing pustules.  (Note: I do not have herpes.  I'm only using herpes as an example.  Please do not tell people I have herpes.  Also, if you're not sure how to spell 'pustules' and you decide to Google it, make sure you're on the regular Google page, and the Google Image page.  *shudder*)

That example is a wee bit extreme (and sick and demented and riddled with illegality and pus) but you get the idea, I think.  There are things you will never be able to laugh at, but there are a lot more that you don't realize you can laugh at.  Have compassion, but try not to hurt too much -- for yourself, or anyone else.  Care about what's going on in the world, but don't anoint yourself Bearer of All Burdens Far and Wide.  Cry or swear or punch the wall when something threatens to ruin your day, and then look up a picture of a dog who's about to find out why you shouldn't bite everything that comes near your face.


Wednesday, September 1, 2010

One of Those Ones That's Kind of Serious, But Also Has a Goat.



has exactly as much purpose on this Earth as I do.

I'm not saying that in a woe-is-me, self-wallowing way.  It's the opposite, really.  I was being all woe-is-me, self-wallowy because I'm confused at work and the boy I like doesn't like me back enough to make anything even remotely resembling an effort to find out how fucking amazing I am and I'm sometimes fairly certain I am the single most annoying person on the planet even though my friends say I'm not and also because I can't find my Phillips head screwdriver and I really need it for something.  So I did what I do sometimes when I feel like shit:  I looked up pictures of retarded goats on the Internet.  Retarded goats make me laugh, and he's my favourite.  I call him Goat.

Today, I was looking at Goat and laughing because LOOK AT HIS TONGUE!!!  Bahahahahaha!!! and I realized that Goat and I aren't all that different.

The similarities between Goat and I don't stop at our freakishly long tongues, either.  We both get up in the morning, do stuff throughout the day, then go to sleep at night.  Then we both do that the next day and the next day and the next day, until we die.  If Goat and I had never existed, the world probably wouldn't be all that much different than it is now.  Neither one of us has done anything miraculous or Earth-shattering.  Neither one of us has ever cured a disease or saved a life or written a book.  Neither Goat nor I know how to use a set of headphones without absent-mindedly wrapping the cord around the arm of our chair at work and tearing the headphone jack out of its little hole EVERY DAMN DAY.  Actually, you know what?  Goat probably CAN do that.  Goat: 1, Melanie: 0.

Goat and I both have jobs.  I do my job, Goat does his.  (Goat's job is to eat stuff and crap it out in Raisinette-form.  In my job, the crap comes out of my mouth.)

Goat and I both have lower-body urges toward the opposite gender.  Unlike Goat, I rarely act them out in the middle of a field in front of a group of kids spending the day at the petting zoo.

Goat and I both need the same things to live: oxygen ... food (I like burgers, Goat likes grass and - from the looks of him - the odd pot plant growing within reach of his pen) ... sleep.

Goat and I both want certain things to make life worth living: nice weather ... a warm, dry place to sleep ... other creatures like us to hang out with.

Goat and I both get sick, both get better, and both have ass-backwards days.  We both get bored, both have too much to do, and both occasionally get our faces jammed between fence rails (him literally, me metaphorically.  Except for one time when it was literally.)

And again, the world would not be all that different if Goat and I had never existed.

Except for one thing.

I like Goat.  He's silly and kinda cute and makes me laugh when I feel like a bag of smashed-up balls.  I don't think either one of us has a purpose in the grander scheme of things, or either one of us will ever do anything to make the whole world a different place, but I know that Goat did something for me today.  He made me realize that maybe we don't need people to tell us what we mean to them.  I've never even met Goat, so how could I explain to him how much he makes me laugh, or how he can make me feel better when I don't really feel like feeling better?

So I guess Goat has changed the world, a little bit.  Guess that means maybe I have, too.

If I can like a retarded goat with his head jammed in a fence who I've never actually laid eyes on and who probably smells like all of the shit, then it's not that hard to believe that people like me. I mean, hell -- I hardly smell like shit at all.

I know I'm not the only one who feels useless sometimes.  I have friends who feel the same way, and it sucks and it hurts and it makes you angry with yourself and everyone else and it's sad.  I just hope everyone who ever feels like that (including me) realizes that we're just like Goat: Yeah, we'll probably never change the world......but we're pretty fucking cool.  I know some people who are wonderful Goats in my life, and I hope that I'm a Goat to them.

It just occurred to me that picture of Goat has been on the Internet for a long time.  He's probably dead.