tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-67476817907322143872024-03-14T00:52:43.857-07:00Being the Comedian"Once you figure out what a joke everything is, being the Comedian's the only thing that makes sense."Unknownnoreply@blogger.comBlogger78125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6747681790732214387.post-86341191676836939462019-08-30T14:14:00.003-07:002019-08-30T14:18:30.715-07:00A Wiener Dog in Battle Gear, Fuzzy Strawberries, and GordThe last message my friend Gord sent me was a picture of a wiener dog wearing battle gear.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjBpdPZMeYuk9neoZn9z7oPdHo-XkvZcsNHNb8Rio_bwxYtl-3Ni5DZwT75z_2yXwbSqPgpwuZ-vwlcMUjC_HPBbLvb8dJwU6SAjDRTtKJ1t7JI_gabqkfZIs9Dkks5Ld9JjffOO2lwuXE/s1600/dog.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="600" data-original-width="480" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjBpdPZMeYuk9neoZn9z7oPdHo-XkvZcsNHNb8Rio_bwxYtl-3Ni5DZwT75z_2yXwbSqPgpwuZ-vwlcMUjC_HPBbLvb8dJwU6SAjDRTtKJ1t7JI_gabqkfZIs9Dkks5Ld9JjffOO2lwuXE/s320/dog.jpg" width="256" /></a></div>
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He sent it a couple of weeks before he died, but I didn't open it then. I only opened it today, a week after finding out he was gone. I remember getting the notification that he'd sent me a message, and I'm pretty sure I know what happened after that. I imagine it went something like this: "I have a message, but I'm at work/driving/watching something on TV (Gord would be fine with that reason) so I'll check it when I'm done." That would have been followed by any number of events, which led to me forgetting my friend had sent me a message. He thought I'd like to see a wiener dog wearing battle gear (he was right) and I got too busy and distracted by whatever dumb thing was going on that I couldn't be bothered to open it.<br />
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There were comments and conversations on Facebook posts after that (because that's just the easiest way to be friends with our friends now) but I wasted what turned out to be my last chance to have what passes for a personal conversation with a friend these days. All I needed to do was type the words "Thank you!" or make a dumb little smile emoji, but I guess I couldn't be bothered that day. Or the day after that, etc., etc. Because why did I need to? It's not like Gord was going anywhere -- I'd have plenty of chances to talk to him again. (Spoiler alert: Nope.) Now, I have to make peace with the fact that my friend is gone, and that maybe I didn't do the friend-stuff well enough when I had the chance.<br />
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And I'm worried I'm not doing the friend-stuff right now, either. There are things I could be doing to remember him properly, and I can't get my ass in gear to get them done.<br />
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">Gord had the kindest voice I've ever heard. This week, a friend sent me some audio files from when Gord was a reporter. I haven't been able to listen to them. It will be the first time I hear his voice, after the last time I really heard his voice. Whatever series of wires and circuits I have that passes for a brain isn't ready for that right now. So once again, I set my friend aside.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;"></span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;">There are little bits and pieces of Gord, here and there in my house. There are things I know I have, things he gave me, that I can't find. And honestly, I haven't looked too hard for them yet. I'm not ready to sit and cry over a folder filled with the X-Files mish-mash he'd known I would fawn over, or the email he'd printed out back when I was first hired in Ottawa, announcing my impending arrival in the CFRA newsroom. Those things are all in a box, and I will take them out eventually, but for now.....they're just another wiener dog in battle gear that I'm not ready to look at.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;"></span><br />
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I<i> feel</i> sad, but I don't want it to come out of me yet. Little bits sneak out at inconvenient times. When I'm at work. When I'm driving. When I'm trying to pick through boxes of strawberries at the grocery store, to find one that doesn't have a fuzzy berry in it. (It's a fact that they put one fuzzy strawberry in every box. Prove me wrong.) I want to miss my friend the right way......I just don't want to do it<i> yet.</i> So it stays in the inbox, and the notifications keep piling up. If there's a storage limit on the brain-version of Gmail, I'll be getting a notice from Google any day now to check my messages, and I guess then I'll finally get to it. That's probably going to be a bad day.</div>
<i></i><i></i><br />
I hope he knew he mattered to me, even when I wasn't good at showing it by, for example, <b>taking 30 seconds to open a fucking Facebook message that would end up being the last fucking Facebook message he ever sent me.</b> I hope he knows that I kept everything he ever gave me, laughed at every funny picture he ever sent me...even if I waited until after he was gone to look at that last one. I hope he knew that for the rest of my life, I will laugh about the time we merry bunch of bastards in the newsroom crammed a Ralph Wiggum doll into a photocopier, and the time he described a never-to-be-revealed-by-me hero as "an asshole."<br />
<i></i><i></i><br />
I hope I was as good a friend to Gord as he was to me, and I think that never knowing the answer to that question will always make me sad.Comedianhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14292320834221935616noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6747681790732214387.post-18704736956081617472018-11-07T16:25:00.001-08:002018-11-07T16:25:44.978-08:00Why I Sometimes Wish I Hadn’t Gone to Auschwitz <div dir="ltr" id="docs-internal-guid-a006523d-7fff-701a-44b0-8686e0a7e5c9" style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-ligatures: normal; font-variant-position: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">I sometimes wonder what has happened, over the years and decades and centuries, in the very spot I happen to be. When I’m standing in my kitchen, washing coffee rings out of one of my seemingly endless supply of Doctor Who mugs, am I standing in the same spot where a mother stood 50 years ago, washing the dishes from her child’s breakfast? When I’m standing by the river, looking over at trees in Gatineau, am I standing where an Indigenous man stood to catch fish hundreds of years ago? When I’m stopped at a red light, is my car in the very spot where some prehistoric Mega~bear got into an epic fight with a giant Dino~cat? (My knowledge of prehistoric species isn’t awesome.) I’ll never know, but it’s neat to think about.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-ligatures: normal; font-variant-position: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">I know I’ve definitely stood where people suffered, and where people died. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-ligatures: normal; font-variant-position: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">On November 7th, our Prime Minister apologized for Canada turning away the MS St. Louis in 1939. Over 900 Jewish people from Germany were on the ship, trying to find somewhere where they would be safe. Canada wouldn’t take them. They were sent away. The captain wouldn’t take them back to Germany, because he knew they would die if he did. He took them to other parts of Europe, where he hoped they would be ok. Some of them were. Some of them ended up back in Germany. Some of them were murdered in Auschwitz. Which means I might have stood where they stood when they suffered. Maybe I stood where they fell when they died.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-ligatures: normal; font-variant-position: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">I went to Auschwitz a few years ago. I’d wanted to go for a long time. Since then, there have been times when I have violently wished that I’d never gone. It hurts so much to know that my feet have been in the same spot as someone who was scared in a way that few of us can comprehend. I have walked on pathways that were the last place someone walked. In all likelihood, I have stood where someone took their last breath. </span><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 14.666666984558105px; white-space: pre-wrap;">Knowing that makes me feel a pain that I cannot describe. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; white-space: pre-wrap;">When I watched video of the apology in the House of Commons, when I watched NDP MP Guy Caron say 254 people could have been saved if Canada had said “yes” in 1939, I cried so hard my chest hurt. </span><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; white-space: pre-wrap;">And I kept crying, because I know there are people who would want that ship turned away if it showed up on our shores tomorrow.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-ligatures: normal; font-variant-position: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Some of the people who get turned away now, in Canada and all over the world, will die. A hundred years from now, someone will stand where they died. I think this will probably repeat until the sun explodes and eats the Earth, because very little of what I’ve seen of human behaviour lately has convinced me we’re any better now than we were when we turned that ship away in 1939.</span></div>
Comedianhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14292320834221935616noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6747681790732214387.post-77228163619689643392018-07-17T19:56:00.001-07:002018-07-17T20:02:27.689-07:00I Give Up HA HA JUST KIDDING NO I DON'T<p dir="ltr">Well, no. I kind of <b>do </b>give up, but in, like, a totally <i>good </i>way.</p>
<p dir="ltr">First, a little background. The Comedian has a teeny tiny little anger problem. Not the kind where I yell and scream and kick little woodland critters into brick walls. It's the kind where I become insanely angry about something, and then hold that anger in with so much force that if you plugged a toaster into my butt, I could make upwards of 15 pieces of toast before the power supply died. And then I'd get re-angry because you SHOVED A TOASTER PLUG INTO MY BUTT and the whole cycle would begin again. The world would just be full of toast and toaster plugs that smell like ass. No one wins.</p>
<p dir="ltr">The same thing happens when something makes me sad, and these days, lots of things make me sad. The list includes (but is not limited to):</p>
<p dir="ltr">- the engine light in my car<br>
- Orange Politician<br>
- we're killing the planet<br>
- PEOPLE HUNT SCHOOL CHILDREN NOW<br>
- being awful to humans with different melatonin levels is all the rage <br>
- memes about how cool Doug Ford is, but with many of the words spelled wrong<br>
- 'flossing' isn't a dance, guys<br>
- my feet hurt <br>
- everything seems kinda fucked</p>
<p dir="ltr">Several times a day, the words "I give up" fall out of my tooth-cave. I guess I never <i>actually </i>mean it, seeing as how I have yet to just fall over on the ground and wait for flowers to grow out of me, but there have been many times -- many <b>many </b>times -- when I have thought about getting in my car and driving away. However, if you refer to first item on the list above, you will see that is not a great option. No point running away if you'll probably only make it as far as the next area code. Also, I get a girl-salary, which means I can't afford very much gas. (Note to self - add 'girl-salaries' to the sadness list before you publish this blog post.)</p>
<p dir="ltr">So I can't run away. I can't fall over and die. I can't make people stop shooting children, or care that the Earth is being poisoned, or think twice about the poorly-spelled stupid thing their (I did that on purpose) about to share on Facebook, or stop taking giant old-man shits all over the place for the sake of proving he's the most stablest genius that ever done lived. I also can't fix car engines. I can't do shit. </p>
<p dir="ltr">And I can't be sad and angry all the time. </p>
<p dir="ltr">So, I will give up. But, as I said earlier, in a totally <i>good</i> way.</p>
<p dir="ltr">Orange Politican starts a trade war? Race war? Space war?  He might. Totally within the realm of possibility. I'll keep doin' what I do. Buying stuff I need, not hating people who don't look like me, not being in space. Easy enough. Me being sad or angry can't stop bad things from happening. Me buying something from a local store or smiling at someone who wears something different on her head than I do might improve someone's day. Me staying out of space saves me from going all Total Recall bug-eyes because I go outside and forget to bring my helmet.</p>
<p dir="ltr">Planet quickly being poisoned to shit? We can't stop being assholes and try to do something to fix it? Fine. I give up trying to convince you you're wrong and that you suck. I'll continue walking or biking when I can, I'll keep taking my reusable cups to Starbucks and my reusable bags to the grocery store and I'll keep dragging my green bin out to the curb on Tuesdays even though I'm pretty sure a raccoon lives inside it now. I'll do what I do because it makes me feel better, even if it doesn't really help. And hey -- by the time the planet says SCREW YOU HUMANS, HERE'S SOME RAIN MADE OF POISON DARTS, I'll already have died of natural causes or possibly from tripping while holding a pencil. It could easily go either way.</p>
<p dir="ltr">Some people and some things are always going to be terrible, to varying degrees. Maybe you share dumb memes about how Justin Trudeau's hair makes him incapable of doing anything, ever (please tell me you know that's fucking idiotic) or maybe you think it's a GREAT IDEA to arm teachers instead of FUCKING DOING SOMETHING about guns, or maybe you think I should probably have my mechanic check out my car. I don't care what you think, and I'm not fighting with you over it anymore. I'm not getting angry about it anymore. I'm not going to fight back tears anymore while I'm reading a story about the latest horrible thing people did to other people. And I have a CAA membership, so bring it on, car. Bring. It. On.</p>
<p dir="ltr">I think some of those things might be easier typed than done. We shall see. Maybe I'll fail utterly, and the world will be filled with butt-toast. Or maybe I'll give up exactly the way I want to, and I'll spend the rest of what I hope will be a long life enjoying the people around me and the places I go and the things I see and do, unburdened by the worry and the anger and the sadness.</p>
<p dir="ltr">Or maybe tomorrow I'll trip while carrying a pencil. Whatever.<br><br><br><br></p>
Comedianhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14292320834221935616noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6747681790732214387.post-42652524584885486562016-11-18T18:38:00.001-08:002016-11-18T18:38:09.391-08:00I Like Mustard and Also Have a Neat Scar: The Comedian Tries Dating on the InterwebsRecently, The Comedian has decided to give Internet dating sites a try, since I find meeting "real people" to be "difficult" and "annoying" and also because I "hate everyone" and don't want to hear about your "hopes and dreams" while you're able to "look me in the face" because then you will be able to see me "vomit."<br />
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Those of you who have partaken in Internet dating are likely familiar with the awkwardness of it all, starting with selecting the perfect photo to show that you are fun and outgoing, while also not looking very much like something dead that has been sitting in the sun for three days. Some of us are also paranoid about putting a picture of our face out there for any Tom, Dick, or Stabby McKillerson to see. To that end, I have decided to use a photo that highlights some of my better qualities -- but doesn't show my face-area -- in the form of this fun collage!<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgZvf0_jphmcbKWM3srvZtM8P2B0ECjL7gnzxyMzdbZU3H867CNujOIhMOvMJIJ3aYJd27nLjEuqpWDy_0KshoNNc2IHHv0V5a63qsSa_NmON1AmlPQf_pW4nmP9PuUr9kSmzAzwdJxW8k/s1600/20161118_205321-COLLAGE.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgZvf0_jphmcbKWM3srvZtM8P2B0ECjL7gnzxyMzdbZU3H867CNujOIhMOvMJIJ3aYJd27nLjEuqpWDy_0KshoNNc2IHHv0V5a63qsSa_NmON1AmlPQf_pW4nmP9PuUr9kSmzAzwdJxW8k/s320/20161118_205321-COLLAGE.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
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Top: A scar on my thumb that looks like a long-horn bull skull<br />
Bottom left: Some eggs I made (so potential suitors know I can cook)<br />
Bottom right: A birthmark on my leg that looks like a Pac Man with his mouth closed<br />
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<br />
Now that I've got the picture nailed down, it's on to the questionnaire thingie.<br />
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<br />
<u>The Comedian's Likes:</u><br />
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1. The feeling when you finally get to pee after a long car ride.<br />
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2. Mustard. There are different kinds, and my world really opened up after I found that out.<br />
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3. Listening to Christmas music with the 'mute' button on.<br />
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<u>The Comedian's Dislikes:</u><br />
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1. How when right after you shave one leg, you're expected to shave the other one. Because it's really hard to stand on one leg in the shower, and sometimes after I do one leg, I'm too tired to do the other one. So if we're on a date and you want to touch one of my legs, ask first and I'll put the one I've shaved closest to your hand.<br />
<br />
2. Your mom. And she won't like me, either. But you should absolutely stay in touch with her, because you'll need somewhere to live after we have that big fight about how I don't want to go camping or have your stupid kids, you hippie freak.<br />
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3. Explaining.<br />
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<u><br /></u>
<u>In The Comedian's Spare Time, She:</u><br />
<br />
1. Builds miniature models of women posed like they pose for Instagram pictures<br />
<br />
2. Builds miniature models of chiropractor clinics for the miniature Instagram women, because they all have severe spinal pain from standing around with their boobs shoved out like that.<br />
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3. Hates.<br />
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<u><br /></u>
<u><br /></u>
<u>Does The Comedian Want Kids? If So, How Many?</u><br />
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<br />
No. It's not that I don't like kids, it's just that I'm pretty sure anything that might grow inside me would catch fire once sunlight touched it, and I don't have apartment insurance, so if my kid burst into flames and my TV and PlayStation got wrecked, I'd have to pay out of my own pocket to replace them.<br />
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<u>Where Does The Comedian See Herself in Five Years?</u><br />
<br />
<br />
In that prison in China (or wherever) that Bruce Wayne was in in the movie Batman Begins, so I can be broken out by Liam Neeson, who will teach me how to exact my vengeance on the guy who parks in the spot next to me and never leaves me enough room to open my car door all the way. But then it will turn out that Liam Neeson wanted that guy dead ANYWAY, and also everyone else, and was just trying to use me to do his dirty work. So I'll kill him with a train. Sorry -- I won't KILL him, I just won't have to SAVE him, blah blah blah I like Batman and pizza and videos games so you should probably date me or whatever.<br />
<br />Comedianhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14292320834221935616noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6747681790732214387.post-91514242883384205592015-07-13T16:22:00.000-07:002015-07-13T16:22:54.392-07:00Give several shits, get several shits in returnI'm not necessarily the smartest thing that ever happened.<br />
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I can't do math to save my life.<br />
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I think the capital city of every east coast province is "Where Anne of Green Gables is From."<br />
<br />
I thought Gatineau was the French word for 'cake.'<br />
<br />
<br />
But there's one thing I have managed to piece together with my mathematically, geographically, and cake-challenged brain: <i>Most people don't give a shit about you as much as you give a shit about them.</i><br />
<i><br /></i>
<i><br /></i>
Now before we ----<br />
<br />
<br />
Holy shit. The Trivago guy is hot. Sorry. I hadn't seen that commercial yet. <b><i>WOW</i></b>.<br />
<br />
<br />
Right. So, before we send emergency personnel to my house to see if I'm about to take a bath with my toaster, I'm not. I don't even have a toaster. Bet you feel pretty stupid <i>now</i>, eh?<br />
<br />
I don't mean that in a whiny, woe-is-me, please-just-be-my-friend way. I mean it in that factual way that facts are meant. But if you're just going to sit there calling me a mopey bitch, then I guess I'll have to explain it. Even though it's not my fault you're dumb.<br />
<br />
<br />
Everybody cares about people. Maybe you care about 50 people. Or ten people. Or one people. However many isn't important. Who they are isn't important. Could be your husband or wife or friend or the guy who sits at the next desk at work or the chick at the gas station who seems to notice that a human person is trying to pay her for something or I guess one of your kids or something. Not the nose-picking one. The other one. The point is, you care about those people. You probably think about them once a day or whatever. You wonder how they're doing, what they're up to, if they ever got that weird tooth fixed.<br />
<br />
Here's the thing, though -- there's a good chance they're not wondering that same stuff about you. They likely don't give a shit if your tooth is still crooked (mine still are, by the way) or what you watched on TV today or if you did something interesting. They're probably not going to send you a text message asking if you're doing alright when something sucky happens, or come to your house when your boyfriend leaves you because you don't like camping. That actually happened to me, and I was really lucky -- someone came to my house to make sure I was ok. And that moves us along nicely to the next paragraph.<br />
<br />
Because, you see, every once in a while something really wonderful happens. You find yourself giving a shit about another person even when they're not around, and it turns out they give a shit about you when you're not around, too. It won't happen often -- and sometimes you'll <i>think </i>it happened, then you'll find out it didn't -- but it <i>will</i> happen.<br />
<br />
Over the last six months or so, I've been unlucky enough to find out I'd been wrong a bunch of times when I'd thought it happened. But I also found out that it had happened and I didn't even know it. I've even been kinda mad at myself a few times, because I didn't realize there were people out there wondering about me. I was too busy being all butthurt about the people who didn't wonder about me at all.<br />
<br />
If I'd just stepped away from all that "wah wah no one likes me wah wah" bullshit, I would have realized that I have a friend who I can message with for hours about video games who is also very good at cheering me up by giving me ideas of ways I can torture people through the postal system for my own amusement.<br />
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I would have realized there's a guy I know who not only gives me endless joy with his smart, funny Facebook posts, but can also say really nice, insightful things that always make me feel better when I'm sad. And who has introduced me to a totally cute, super-smart chick who helped me identify some mushrooms, which was incredibly important to me at the time. (Don't worry -- I didn't eat them. Yet.)<br />
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I would have (and now will) made more of an effort to drive a frigging hour (seriously -- it's not that far for Christ's sake) to hang out with someone who literally makes me laugh til I puke a little with some of the most insane, offensive, hilarious text messages I've ever seen.<br />
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I would have (and now will) try to spend more time with The Admiral. I mean, how can I seriously hope to fight the oncoming Cylon war without him? He's obviously the brains of the operation, and I'll fly into any battle he tells me to.<br />
<br />
Also -- Bingo. Bingo-Dude, we need to Bingo again soon. (That is not a euphemism. I'm just un-cool enough to get excited about Bingo.)<br />
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I've been lucky to have some incredibly amazing friends. From those two blonde ones in the suburbs with the hilarious kids to my hetero-lifemate and her wonderful husband headed out to the west coast, I've won some sort of friend lottery. I just wish I'd realized sooner that there were other people I was thinking about who were thinking about me, too.<br />
<br />
But I know that now. I know now that they give a shit, and when it comes to friends, it doesn't matter how many you have -- it only matters how hard you give a shit. And I give a shit <b>THE HARDEST.</b><br />
<br />
~~~~~Comedianhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14292320834221935616noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6747681790732214387.post-39939394338630252652015-06-10T15:08:00.000-07:002015-06-10T15:08:19.923-07:00I'm Going to Puke on Kristi's ShoesSometimes there are stories in the news about ridiculously old people who have been married for, like, 40 decades or whatever. And everyone is all "Oh my god! That's so awesome! Those geezers are so lucky!!!!!"<br />
<br />
I have literally never thought anything even remotely like that. I don't wish them any ill will, I just don't have the frame of reference to properly appreciate decades and decades of Geezer-Love. I assume that since they've been together since before spoken language was a thing, then they clearly must love each other. Or they're both just too lazy to kill each other or split up all their shit and go live somewhere else. So they can have their party and let their kids put pointy hats on their heads and blow those paper spit sacks that make a noise that sounds a really wet fart on a leather couch and live happily ever after. Yay for everyone.<br />
<br />
When I picture my future, I don't see me sitting on a bench with my old fart of a husband, feeding my dentures to ducks in the park. (That's what old people do, right? Feed teeth to ducks? Because they're senile? And they can take their teeth out? And they like ducks? I don't know much about old people.)<br />
<br />
I picture me sitting on a bench with my old fart of a best friend, whipping our dentures at the ducks' heads and saying that technically, we are biting the ducks. And calling the ducks assholes. And laughing because 'duck' rhymes with 'fuck.' And then teaching the word 'fuck' to little kids and telling them to say it around their parents A LOT.<br />
<br />
I guess I might not get to do that. But I also might. Who knows? Maybe someday we'll live in the same place again. Soon we won't, though. And I'm not sure what I'm suppose to say about that.<br />
<br />
Actually, I know exactly what I want to say, but I can't say it using words when she can see me, because I don't want that thing to happen when water comes out of my eye-holes. I don't care for that. Also -- and I cannot stress this enough, even if I used some sort of super-bold font that would cause permanent damage to your vision -- I really really REALLY don't ever want to make her feel bad.<br />
<br />
I want her to have fun in her new home. I want her to meet new people and do new things and see new stuff and just have a really awesome, fantastic time. Climb mountains and smoke weed for breakfast and get rained on all the time or whatever it is people do in B.C. (I know as much about B.C. as I do about the duck-feeding habits of old people, apparently.)<br />
<br />
I never want her to think I don't want her to have a good time, and that I'm not happy that she gets to do this exciting, new thing.<br />
<br />
And that's why I can't tell her how sad I am that she's leaving. That I'm not sure what I'll do when she's gone. There won't be anyone here anymore who will take me to Costco so I can get Snappeas or who will sit on a couch with me for six hours playing video games or who will come to my house in the middle of the night to check on me like she did that time my useless tit of an ex-boyfriend left.<br />
<br />
We're not going to be able to drive to Ogdensburg to buy the junk food that Americans get but we don't. (THANKS, Obama.) No more trips to Wild Wings to try to burn our faces off with chicken arms doused in gasoline and petrified hot pepper dust. We're never going to walk back to her place from Comiccon again.<br />
<br />
So how do I tell her that I don't want her to go, but that I also <i>want </i>her to go because it's going to be amazing for her? How do I tell her that I'm so happy that she gets to see new things and do new stuff, but that the thought of her not being a short drive away sucks more than the suckiest thing that ever sucked?<br />
<br />
The obvious answer is to give her an awesome present as she's leaving, then cry so hard I puke on her shoes.<br />
<br />
I think she'd like that.<br />
<br />
SMDC.Comedianhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14292320834221935616noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6747681790732214387.post-82384933728238828712015-01-06T18:41:00.000-08:002015-01-06T18:41:57.545-08:00What The Comedian Has Learned About Being Unemployed<b>Sleeping in stops being great after about a week. </b><br />
After a few years getting up at WHAT THE FUCK TIME IS THIS EVEN??????, I thought a silver lining from losing my job would be finally getting to sleep in. And it was amazing. For roughly a week. Now, if I sleep past eight o'clock, I feel like a disgusting pigperson coated in slime. My hair looks like someone put a cherry bomb in a bird's nest, and the inside of my mouth tastes like the outside of a turd. And probably also the inside of a turd. I can't imagine the taste of a turd changes much from one layer to the next.<br />
<br />
<b><br /></b>
<b>TV is 95% crap</b><br />
So. Much. Crap. I swear to god, there was more on TV when I was a kid and we had three channels and none of them would come in at the same time, so if we wanted to watch something else, we had to go outside and turn a giant frigging antenna that was on a two-storey-high post driven into the ground beside the house. BY HAND. And if it froze in the winter, you had to hit it with a hammer. WHEN I WAS A CHILD, CHANGING THE CHANNEL ON THE TV SOMETIMES INVOLVED A HAMMER. And yet, there was more on TV then than there is now.<br />
<br />
<b><br /></b>
<b>Laundry is a pretty easy thing to forget</b><br />
Now that I don't have to get dressed and leave my house every day, I have much less laundry to do. You'd think this would be a good thing. Wrong, shithead. Turns out that hardly ever having to do laundry has more or less deleted that particular chore from my brain. I have un-learned that doing laundry is a thing. Mostly I had been wearing pyjamas, and then forgot to wash all those pyjamas, so right now I mainly wear towels. I have lots of towels, so this should work for a few more weeks. Then I guess I'll have to start making sure the blinds are always closed.<br />
<br />
<b><br /></b>
<b>College is stupid</b><br />
Let me clarify: getting an education is not stupid. Getting an education that basically limits you to one job is kind of stupid. Getting an education that basically limits you to one job that is on the verge of going extinct is the educational equivalent of putting something that's on fire in your eyeholes: you shouldn't. You shouldn't do that.<br />
<br />
<b><br /></b>
<b>Being good at something doesn't mean shit</b><br />
So, you're pretty good at burping the alphabet? Awesome! You should do that for a living!<br />
<br />
Uh-oh -- someone just bought the alphabet. But they're a big company, so they probably have lots of money backing them, and they can make the alphabet even BIGGER and BETTER! And they've been working in alphabet-related stuff for a while, so they must know what they're doing. You're going to burp the alphabet for a long time and will be ever so successful!<br />
<br />
Doublefuck -- an even BIGGER company just bought the alphabet. But don't worry -- you'll be fine. I mean, yeah.....they didn't really own many alphabets before, but surely they made the buy because they appreciate what alphabets can do. And they will definitely appreciate your talent at alphabet-burping. Because you're good at it. Everyone tells you so. And being good at something <i>matters.</i><br />
<br />
It really doesn't.<br />
<br />
<b><br /></b>
<b>You think you know how angry you are capable of getting. You are wrong.</b><br />
It has been brought to my attention in the past that my ability to express the range of human emotions is as follows:<br />
<br />
Level One: "Everything's fine, nothing to get excited about, it's all good."<br />
<br />
Level Two: "I HATE EVERYTHING EVEN PURPLE BABY MINIATURE UNICORNS AND CHOCOLATE."<br />
<br />
Turns out there is a third level. I call that level IUHIEUXFH&^$%)(&YJW(*RKIWH.<br />
<br />
IUHIEUXFH&^$%)(&YJW(*RKIWH happens when words completely go away. It's exactly like when you're mad and stomping around and making random noises, but with 87% more rage, and the complete loss of any ability to think in words. IUHIEUXFH&^$%)(&YJW(*RKIWH can last for up to three days, and can make you kick stuff that you have to <i>really </i>go out of your way to kick. Things that are nowhere near foot-level. During one bout of IUHIEUXFH&^$%)(&YJW(*RKIWH, I kicked a plant. I had to take it down off a shelf and put it on the floor to do it, but I kicked that fucking plant. I kicked it right in the head. AND NOW THAT PLANT KNOWS WHO IS THE BOSS.<br />
<br />
Over the last couple of months, bouts of IUHIEUXFH&^$%)(&YJW(*RKIWH have been brought on by the following, in no particular order:<br />
<br />
- my dog staring at me<br />
- some snow that got inside my shoe<br />
- a mascara commercial<br />
- the existence of that Australian country singer Nicole Kidman is married to<br />
- not enough water being in my coffee maker<br />
- my list of People Who Need to be Punched, with absolutely none of the names crossed off yet<br />
- ants<br />
<br />
Most of the time I am relatively un-mad. I've managed to stay closer to the "Everything's fine, nothing to get excited about, it's all good" state of being since losing my job, with the occasional trip to "I HATE EVERYTHING EVEN PURPLE BABY MINIATURE UNICORNS AND CHOCOLATE" territory. But every once in a while, I get struck with a good dose of IUHIEUXFH&^$%)(&YJW(*RKIWH. And apparently then I have to kick the shit out of a plant.<br />
<br />
<br />
<b>Some people are very awesome. Other people are the human equivalent of that time you stepped in shit and couldn't get all the shit out of the tread of your shoe even if you dug at it with a stick and blasted it with a power-washer.</b><br />
Then you're always stuck with a bit of shit-smell whenever you wear those shoes in your car and turn the heat on near your feet. But then you drive to see one of the awesome people, and you forget about the shit smell for a while.<br />
<br />
Then you get a better job, and buy some new shoes.<br />
<br />
<br />
~~~<br />
<br />Comedianhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14292320834221935616noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6747681790732214387.post-45548932120833983182015-01-02T07:10:00.001-08:002015-01-02T07:10:25.927-08:00The Comedian's ResumeThe Comedian recently lost her job. It was Taylor Swift's fault. I know I blame her for a lot of things, but this time, that squinty-eyed weirdo really <i>is</i> the cause of The Comedian's problem. So now, I have to find a new job, or I won't be able to pay for Netflix anymore.<br />
<br />
But it turns out writing a resume for OTHER types of jobs when you've only done one thing for all your adult life is, like, <i>hard</i> and stuff. Here's what I have so far.........<br />
<br />
<br />
<span style="color: purple; font-size: large;">The Comedian</span><br />
123 House with a lot of Spiders Right Now for Some Reason<br />
(123) 456-7890<br />
<br />
<br />
<b>Objective:</b> To continue to live indoors and eat food<br />
<br />
<b>Education:</b> Must have been good, since I didn't finish paying for it until I was 30<br />
<br />
<b>Work Experience:</b> Yes<br />
<br />
<b>Skills and Abilities:</b> - I talk words good<br />
- Experience being yelled at for no reason by angry people<br />
- Can listen to the same fucking song eight times a day without<br />
crying<br />
- Can speak for up to five minutes at a time without swearing<br />
- Extensive experience pretending I don't think the Kardashians<br />
should all fall in a hole<br />
<br />
<b>References:</b> They'd just lie anyway, since they're sick of me asking them to be references, and they just wish I'd get a fucking job already and leave them alone.<br />
<br />Comedianhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14292320834221935616noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6747681790732214387.post-48352348048906995612014-08-12T09:53:00.000-07:002014-08-12T09:54:19.376-07:00In the Future, You Will Legally Have to Act Out Everything You See on Porn Sites: The Comedian's Obituary<span style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: arial; font-size: x-small;">Attention, future-people:</span><br />
<div style="color: #222222; font-family: arial; font-size: small;">
<br /></div>
<div style="color: #222222; font-family: arial; font-size: small;">
If you are reading this, I am dead. I died on (DATE) of (THING). I was either surrounded by loved ones or a bunch of weird pornographic publications.</div>
<div style="color: #222222; font-family: arial; font-size: small;">
<br /></div>
<div style="color: #222222; font-family: arial; font-size: small;">
If the thing I died of is one of those things that people hold fundraisers for, please leave me out of it. I think fundraisers are great, but as soon as someone figures out the password on my computer and sees my search history, you're not going to want my name associated with whatever it is you're trying to cure. It won't help. People who made donations years ago will probably ask for them back.</div>
<div style="color: #222222; font-family: arial; font-size: small;">
<br /></div>
<div style="color: #222222; font-family: arial; font-size: small;">
If the thing I died of is hilarious, please make horrible jokes about it. That's what I would have done if you died before I did.</div>
<div style="color: #222222; font-family: arial; font-size: small;">
<br /></div>
<div style="color: #222222; font-family: arial; font-size: small;">
If the thing I died from is NOT hilarious, please make fun of how lamely I died.</div>
<div style="color: #222222; font-family: arial; font-size: small;">
<br /></div>
<div style="color: #222222; font-family: arial; font-size: small;">
Since Viking Funerals are illegal, I want my body to go to one of those body farms where they bury carcasses in a field and teach dogs how to sniff them out. Before you bury me, though, please have someone dressed as David Caruso from 'CSI: Miami' stand over my body and say a not-very-clever quip while putting sunglasses on. Then kick him in the balls and tell him his mother was never proud of anything he did. Don't tell him you're going to do it, though -- I want it to be a surprise.</div>
<div style="color: #222222; font-family: arial; font-size: small;">
<br /></div>
<div style="color: #222222; font-family: arial; font-size: small;">
In lieu of everything, please don't do anything. Y'all did enough while I was here, and there's no reason for you to do a bunch of stuff that I'm not around for anyway. Go home, have a beer, and watch TV (or consume media in whatever way you future-people consume media.) I hope 'William Shatner's: Weird or What?' is still on. That's a great show.</div>
<div style="color: #222222; font-family: arial; font-size: small;">
<br /></div>
<div style="color: #222222; font-family: arial; font-size: small;">
Before you get on whatever social media you future-people use now to tell everyone how I was your best-good friend, please don't. At the time of this writing, there are about nine people on this planet who have any business doing that, and none of them are going to do that because they're not lame. I don't believe in ghosts, but if I'm wrong, I will come back and haunt the ever-loving shit out of you. It won't be one of those movie-hauntings than ends when the short lady with the munchkin voice comes and does stuff and then Carol Anne isn't inside the TV anymore and Coach from 'Coach' is all happy because his family is saved. It will be one of those hauntings that ends with you standing with your face in the corner in a dirty basement right before the witch eats you. </div>
<div style="color: #222222; font-family: arial; font-size: small;">
<br /></div>
<div style="color: #222222; font-family: arial; font-size: small;">
I'm not religious, so please don't do any religious stuff unless it makes you feel better. In which case, have at 'er. </div>
<div style="color: #222222; font-family: arial; font-size: small;">
<br /></div>
<div style="color: #222222; font-family: arial; font-size: small;">
I would like a headstone, and I want it to read <i>"I'm right behind you"</i> in teeny tiny letters so people have to get <b>really</b> close to read it. Hide one of those Hallowe'en doormats that screams when someone steps on it under some astroturf right in front of the headstone. Set up a video camera nearby.</div>
<div style="color: #222222; font-family: arial; font-size: small;">
<br /></div>
<div style="color: #222222; font-family: arial; font-size: small;">
That's all I got. And now that it's in writing AND on the Internet, you legally have to do everything you just read. That's not the way the law works as I write this, but I'm pretty sure in the future when you read this, that's <i>exactly </i>how the law will work. Anything you see or read online, you have to do. So you might want to stay off the really weird porn sites.</div>
<div style="color: #222222; font-family: arial; font-size: small;">
<br /></div>
<div style="color: #222222; font-family: arial; font-size: small;">
<br /></div>
<div style="color: #222222; font-family: arial; font-size: small;">
x x</div>
<div style="color: #222222; font-family: arial; font-size: small;">
<br /></div>
<div style="color: #222222; font-family: arial; font-size: small;">
-----</div>
<div style="color: #222222; font-family: arial; font-size: small;">
<br /></div>
<div style="color: #222222; font-family: arial; font-size: small;">
(That little dude with the x-eyes above this sentence is me, dead.)</div>
<div style="color: #222222; font-family: arial; font-size: small;">
<br /></div>
<div style="color: #222222; font-family: arial; font-size: small;">
<br /></div>
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<br /></div>
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<br /></div>
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<br /></div>
Comedianhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14292320834221935616noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6747681790732214387.post-22390778747277644112014-07-24T09:53:00.003-07:002014-07-24T09:53:42.887-07:00Drowned Squirrels, Porn*, and Grocery Tetris: Why My Uterus Should Not Matter to YouSometimes I really want yogurt, but I also don't want to move my jaw very much. So I buy that liquid-drinkable-yogurt that is probably mostly poison. A recent trip to the grocery store that included the purchase of the poison yogurt drink led to a discussion about my uterus. Sort of.<br />
<br />
SCENE<br />
<br />
The Comedian approaches checkout, places items on conveyor belt that always smells like onions and usually has hair stuck to it. The Comedian plays Grocery Tetris while Old Lady in front of her tries to remember how Interac works. (For the uninitiated, Grocery Tetris is an important game I play where I place all of my groceries in as little space as possible. If I don't do that, something horrible will happen, similar to how horrible things will happen if I buy even numbers of things or don't lock my car doors three times in a row.)<br />
<br />
Old Lady finally remembers four numbers, leaves with Ensure and every prune in the store.<br />
<br />
<br />
CASHIER: How are you today?<br />
<br />
THE COMEDIAN: Fine, thanks. How are you?<br />
<br />
CASHIER: It's Friday!<br />
<br />
***THE COMEDIAN does not kill woman for answering question with unrelated answer***<br />
<br />
CASHIER: (scans poison yogurt drink) Getting this for the kids?<br />
<br />
THE COMEDIAN: Nope. They're for me. I don't have any kids.<br />
<br />
***THE COMEDIAN immediately realizes she has made a horrible mistake***<br />
<br />
CASHIER: Oh well! There's still time!<br />
<br />
<br />
The rest of the conversation is unimportant. I also don't remember most of it, because I was thinking of really shitty things to say to the cashier. Most of them involved how she could fuck right off.<br />
<br />
Before I get the usual WHY DO YOU HATE KIDS?????? comments -- I don't. I like them just fine. I like lots of things. Horses. Swimming pools. Porn. But I don't want horses or swimming pools. I do not want to be responsible for keeping them alive or getting drowned squirrels out of them. I like horses and swimming pools better when they are other people's horses and swimming pools. And I like kids better when they are other people's kids.<br />
<br />
What pisses me off THE ABSOLUTE MOST is when people act like my life is missing something because I don't have kids. I guess technically they're right -- my life is missing the unhappiness I would feel if I had kids. Luckily, my life is also missing the unhappiness my non-existent kids would have if I had kids. Again -- I have no problem whatsoever with the existence of children. I know several children that I like an awful lot. I. Just. Don't. Want. To. Have. Any. And I'm sick as fuck of people who push their noses up my ass about it.<br />
<br />
How about we try something COMPLETELY FUCKED UP and assume that I'm living my life the way I want to, and that I'm perfectly happy with it? I don't have kids ON PURPOSE. I live by myself ON PURPOSE. I don't spend five hours ripping three eyebrow hairs out of my face to attract guys ON PURPOSE. (Side note: guys don't actually give a shit about your eyebrows really. As long as you have two of them and they're more or less in about the same place on either side of your face, you're good to go.)<br />
<br />
Perhaps those pushy, nosy shits could take a page from my mother's book. My mother is the one person who, as far as I'm concerned, is actually allowed to pick apart my life and try to move the pieces around to make it better.....but she doesn't do that, because she is not an asshole. Here, as far as I can tell, is my mom's thought process when it comes to my life:<br />
<br />
1. Is Daughter alive? Yes.<br />
2. Is Daughter in jail today? No.<br />
3. Does Daughter have tattoo on face? No.<br />
<br />
Conclusion: Daughter is fine. Leave Daughter alone.<br />
<br />
<br />
(*Perhaps be concerned that Daughter is apparently too lazy to chew yogurt.)<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
*I put PORN in the title because most of the people I know like things better if there's porn.<br />
~~~~~~~~~~~~<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />Comedianhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14292320834221935616noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6747681790732214387.post-31180051623475158612014-05-15T12:24:00.001-07:002014-05-15T12:30:22.731-07:00Why I Keep Bugging You to Give Me MoneyWell, not ME, exactly. The money isn't for me. The money is for Greg, and for Grady.<br />
<br />
In December, 2012, my friend Greg died after fighting cancer for three years.<br />
<br />
In June, 2013, his son Grady was born.<br />
<br />
Grady won't ever meet his dad. He didn't get the chance to know his dad while he was in this world, but I did. Greg's family did. Greg's friends did. A lot of what Grady learns about his dad he will learn from us.<br />
<br />
One of the things I want Grady to know about his dad is that Greg had an incredible way of bringing people together. Whether it was a bar on a Friday night after work (and then the following Saturday night....and sometimes the Sunday night) or a charity run on a hot Sunday afternoon in June, Greg could get people to come together. I didn't fully understand that until Greg got sick, and the coming-together became less frequent. He was a force that drew people together, and that is rare.<br />
<br />
I want Grady to know that.<br />
<br />
I want Grady to know that his father left such a mark on the people around him, that we kept doing something he really wanted us to do -- even after he was gone. We kept running on that one day every year that Grady won't get to celebrate the same way many of us do. I get to call my dad on Fathers' Day. I get to buy him a present. Grady doesn't get to do that.<br />
<br />
What he DOES get to do on Fathers's Day -- and what I hope he gets to do every year -- is see a group of people wearing T-shirts with his dad's nickname printed on them, running because Greg asked us to. Raising money to help fight cancer because Greg asked us to.<br />
<br />
I miss my friend. I don't want other people to miss <i>their </i>friends. I don't want other little boys to grow up without their daddies. If we keep doing this -- and if people keep donating -- then maybe Grady will grow up knowing that because of his dad, someone still gets to go out for a beer with their friends on Friday night (and Saturday.....and sometimes Sunday). Grady will be able to say that because of his dad, another little boy's dad is still with <i>him</i>.<br />
<br />
So that's why for the next month, I'll be asking over and over and over for money. If Grady can't have his dad here physically with him, then I'd like to make sure he gets to see that his dad helped change the world.<br />
<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiA0AaQO_FEqq7A1PzhAhJA6Sxy-lwPQurnD4GBIpuOGE2XfQlp9hcWmZINZx6H_HSufFZKDZSR-vds660JlR57dRxzL-0FuCEfNC-VumO8os7R9VUeWxG8XxfsL8WP5paN8IzANIVrOBI/s1600/greg.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiA0AaQO_FEqq7A1PzhAhJA6Sxy-lwPQurnD4GBIpuOGE2XfQlp9hcWmZINZx6H_HSufFZKDZSR-vds660JlR57dRxzL-0FuCEfNC-VumO8os7R9VUeWxG8XxfsL8WP5paN8IzANIVrOBI/s1600/greg.jpg" height="212" width="320" /></a></div>
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<br />
If you'd like to make a donation to Team Greggybear, you can do it here: <a href="https://www.runningroom.com/dashboard/donations/index.php?raceId=10525&eventId=31866&memberId=VTYHOFM3AGRSO1JmADM%3D&item=8&guest=1">Donate to Team Greggybear</a>Comedianhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14292320834221935616noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6747681790732214387.post-43146097737266771572013-06-26T15:52:00.000-07:002013-06-26T15:52:18.916-07:00Men Are Not Bad and I Would Like to Bang The DoctorI yelled at The News today. I do that between five and one thousand times a week now, because I'm getting old and getting old means you yell at your TV and get a weird hair that grows out of the same place on your face every couple weeks and eventually you get to smell like piss all the time and no one bothers to tell you because fuck it, she's 90 -- she's allowed to smell like piss if she wants to.<br />
<br />
(Side bar: Sometimes I yell at <i>commercials</i> for The News because in the commercials they play bits of old news about big stories that happened FUCKING WEEKS AGO but for a second I'm worried that the thing DIDN'T actually happen before and is just happening now, so maybe I foretold the thing that just happened. Then I remember it really did already happen, and I'm not psychic, and I'm glad because I don't think I'd be good at telling people a plane is going to crash into their house next week.)<br />
<br />
Today I yelled at The News because The News was talking to some people who were all happy that more women than men are graduating from post-secondary schools. That was Yell #1. Is it a fucking competition now? Is going to school a competition between men and women, and now WOMEN ARE WINNING!!! TAKE THAT, PEOPLE WITH TESTICLES!!!!! YOU THINK YOU'RE SO GREAT, WITH YOUR BALLS AND YOUR WIENERS AND YOUR ABILITY TO GROW PERVY MOUSTACHES, BUT NOW WE ARE BETTER THAN YOU!!!!!!!!!!<br />
<br />
Shut up. Fuck off. Go away. People are going to school and getting edumacations and jobs and all that stuff that enables them to eat name-brand food. That's great. Please don't turn it into some battle of the sexes bullshit.<br />
<br />
Yell #2 came when Some Fuckhead brought up the fact that women still tend to do "women-y" jobs and men tend to do "men-y" jobs. But mostly people who bring that up don't actually give a shit what men do. They're mad because more women aren't firefighters or mechanics or Bull Castration technicians or whatever the fuck. So? SO????? FUCKING SO?????<br />
<br />
When I was in high school, my school had an auto mechanics class. Anyone could take it. <i>Even girls</i>. And a few did. I didn't. Know why? Because I didn't fucking feel like it. Not because some big mean man told me I couldn't. Not because no one bothered to tell my stupid girl brain that I was also allowed to take that class. I knew I could take it, and I didn't want to, so I didn't.<br />
<br />
Women aren't fucking morons who need to be told that they are allowed to do the same jobs men do. We know that. Some of us do those jobs. Lots of us don't. That's neither a bad nor a good thing. It's just a thing. It's neutral. It's ambivalent. It's not worth getting your panties in a bunch.<br />
<br />
On a you-won't-think-it's-related-but-it-kinda-is note, there's been a bunch of pissing and moaning online recently about Doctor Who. If you're not familiar with the show, here's all you need to know for this particular parallel: The Doctor is an alien who has a really long lifespan, and every once in a while he regenerates and looks like a completely different person even though he's the same guy. The actor who's been playing The Doctor the last few years is leaving, so there's going to be a new Doctor. What will he look like? Will he be black? White? One of the many, many ethnicities we have in our world? Who knows. Could be. Doesn't matter to me one bit. What apparently DOES matter to some people is that The Doctor be a woman.<br />
<br />
NO.<br />
<br />
Here's the shallow Melanie-reason why: 87% of the reason I watch Doctor Who is because (so far) he's been played by hot actors who I would like to boink. Nothing against women, but I don't want to boink any of them except for Gillian Anderson because she's Scully and that would be awesome.<br />
<br />
The real reason, though? Because The Doctor is a dude. He is a guy. He is a man-alien, and that is OK. IT IS OK FOR SOMEONE TO BE A MAN.<br />
<br />
When I hear someone saying women are being held back because we aren't all mechanics or firefighters or Bull Castration Technicians, it pisses me off. We are NOT being held back. The jobs women predominantly do are good jobs. They are important jobs. If we want to do them, then shut up and let us do them. By saying we should be doing "man jobs," you're saying the jobs we're doing aren't good enough. Clearly, we must be doing "man jobs" in order to matter.<br />
<br />
When I hear someone saying 'not enough' women are doing jobs men predominantly do, it pisses me off. If more women do these jobs, does that somehow make the jobs more valid than if men are doing them? Are those jobs not worth as much to us right now because they're mainly done by men?<br />
<br />
Why does The Doctor <i>need</i> to be played by a woman? Why isn't it good enough that he's a man? Why will making him a woman make him better?<br />
<br />
It won't. Doesn't work like that. Doesn't work like that on TV shows, doesn't work like that in real life. Be a woman, and do what you want to do. Be a man, and do what you want to do.<br />
<br />
And if you don't like how I feel about it, you may blow me, even though I am not a man, and am technically un-blowable. <i>THAT'S</i> equality, fuckers.<br />
<br />
<br />
xxx<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />Comedianhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14292320834221935616noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6747681790732214387.post-80886242261887291722013-04-17T13:03:00.000-07:002013-04-17T13:03:29.639-07:00Goose Murder, Fucking Audis, and a World That Doesn't Totally SuckI live in a kinda shitty neighbourhood, completely surrounded by less-shitty -- and in some cases, frigging ridiculously nice -- neighbourhoods. When I go for a run, I can see everything from mansions full of diplomats to the Governor General's house to some guy smoking something brown through a hollowed-out Bic pen tube in the span of half an hour. That pen-thing is something I have actually seen TWICE during my ten years in Ottawa. Fucking TWICE.<br />
<br />
Anywho, today's run took me through Mansions Full of Diplomats Land -- a gorgeous stretch of road lined with huge homes and beautiful trees. I like running through there because it's quiet, and there's very little chance I'll get smoked by a little old lady in a big-ass Buick. Getting smoked by little old ladies in big-ass Buicks is tied for the 19th leading cause of death in my neighbourhood. The other 19th leading cause of death is goose murder.<br />
<br />
I keep running through Mansions Full of Diplomats Land despite being frequently treated by many of its residents like I'm a carrier for some sort of flesh-eating virus. In their defense, I <i>do</i> look pretty diseased when I run. Five minutes in, I'm basically comprised of sweat and desperation. I breathe like I have one of those hot dog whistles lodged in my throat. And I'm usually kind of singing/swearing under my breath just to remind myself that I'm still mostly alive.<br />
<br />
Still, that's hardly any excuse for that woman that told me I was running too close to her lawn. Or the uppity bitch who yelled at me because I scared her precious little snowflake of a dog. Or the jerkoffs in their Audis who honk their horns at me because I'm selfishly taking up .03% of the road they're trying to use. It's not my fault they don't have sidewalks there. I guess they're afraid sidewalks attract poor people or something. Poor people <i>do</i> seem to like walking places. Probably because they can't afford fucking Audis.<br />
<br />
About 15 minutes into a 45-minute run (so at this point, I look and sound like something furry and sweaty that got hit by a car but only a little bit, so it can still kind of run and make squeaky noises) I see a black sedan parked on the side of the road ahead of me. When there's no sidewalk, I run on the same side of the road as the traffic that's approaching me, so I can see the little old ladies in big-ass Buicks coming toward me, should they get lost on their way to the Orthopedic Shoe & Hard Candy Store and end up in Mansions Full of Diplomats Land. I can't always rely on the scent of Goldbond Medicated Powder to alert me to their presence.<br />
<br />
Because of the side of the road I'm on, I'm going to have to run right by Black Sedan Man. Based on previous experience, I assume he's not going to like me. He's not going to want me in his fancy neighbourhood, burning holes in his street as my poverty-sweat drips down like the acid of the unwashed masses.<br />
<br />
As I get closer, I see the window of the sedan go down. Well fuck. This fucker's going to yell at me. He's going to tell me to get off the road. To go home and wait for my welfare cheque to show up. (Joke's on him -- I'd probably make more if I <i>was</i> on welfare.)<br />
<br />
I could have swerved to the other side of the road to avoid the confrontation. Let him yell across the street at me and just ignore him. But fuck that -- I'm in a shitty mood, and I wouldn't mind getting into a screaming match with some rich asshole who thinks he's better than me in his fancy car with his fancy hair and his fancy clothes and probably some fancy fucking cat at home that has hair made of silk and can shit golden rainbow turds. A fight would feel good. A fight would feel GREAT, after two days of seeing nothing and reading nothing and reporting on nothing but some piece of shit (and/or pieces of shit) that blew up a little kid who just wanted to watch his daddy finish a marathon. He'd JUST HUGGED HIS DADDY, for fuck's sake. Now he's dead and his mom is hurt and his little sister is hurt and we're left living in a world that's full of fucking monsters and just generally sucks overall.<br />
<br />
I've seen enough to know that this world is fucked and it's just going to get worse. Every year -- every DAY -- it seems like things are getting more and more horrible. Whatever happens next, it's nothing good. It's nothing kind. It's going to be bullshit.<br />
<br />
I've had enough rotten experiences with people along this street to know that whatever this guy has to say, it's nothing good. It's nothing kind. It's going to be bullshit.<br />
<br />
As I get closer to his car with its open window, I make eye contact. I'm ready, fucker. I know exactly what to expect.<br />
<br />
He puts his hand out the window to give me a high-five.<br />
<br />
I high-fived him back. I said thank you. Then I ran for the next half hour in a state of almost-crying, because I had been so terribly, terribly wrong.<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />Comedianhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14292320834221935616noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6747681790732214387.post-35175657019615280192013-04-11T08:50:00.000-07:002013-04-11T08:52:04.753-07:00Still Waiting For A Facebook Ad About Weird PornsAn ad popped up on my Facebook feed today, telling me not to worry -- if I just follow this ONE SIMPLE TRICK AND NEVER GIVE UP I will not end up alone!!! Specifically, judging by the photo that accompanied the ad, I will be proposed to by a douchebag on a beach. I'm basing the Douchebag Assessment on the fact that he's wearing a suit on a beach and kneeling in flower petals, and those things seem douchey when you combine them.<br />
<br />
Now, I was under the impression that Facebook ads are somehow catered to the things I put on Facebook using algorithms and science and fucking unicorn magic or some damn thing. I'm not able to figure out how my status updates about McDonalds, porn, Cheerios and crying babies led Facebook Ad God to decide that I was concerned about being single. I can only assume that Facebook Ad God (who, upon realizing what it would be, will not be getting an acronym) uses the same formula as 95% of people who have ever or will ever speak to me:<b> She is single. She must be pretty sad about that.</b><br />
<br />
I'm fucking <i>not</i>.<br />
<br />
Before someone starts pissing down their leg and screaming about how I hate couples and it's because I'm jealous blah blah blah fuck off blah -- that's just not true. I don't give a shit. Are you in a relationship? OK. I don't give a shit. Are you not in a relationship? OK. I also don't give a shit. Did you once have an orgy with George Clooney, some midgets, and a guy in an Oscar Meyer Wiener costume? I would actually like very much to hear about that.<br />
<br />
I kinda wish the "You'll Find Somebody Someday" people would all get rampant gonorreah or something. Or big sores in their mouth that would prevent them from talking. They all have one thing in common: They all say "you'll find somebody someday!" even though at no point in the conversation did I say anything that would lead to them saying that. They're the Relationship Expert equivalent of the dummy that says "It's Friday!!!" when you ask him how he's doing. The response has nothing to do with what came before it. "Do you have a boyfriend?" "Nope." "You'll find somebody someday!" "Don't recall saying I fucking wanted to."<br />
<br />
Lucky for me, I have friends who understand that I'm perfectly happy being uncoupled. But for the rest of you, and for the sake of all people like me who aren't going to shrivel up and die in a puddle of Ben & Jerry's Oh God Why Won't He Love Me Chocolate Cherry Chunk while watching Bridget Jones' Diary and crying into my dog, here's a handy-dandy checklist I suggest you print off and carry in your fucking wallet In case you ever feel like saying something stupid. <br />
<br />
And yes -- these are actual things that actual people have actually said to me.<br />
<br />
<br />
1. Q: Why don't you have a girlfriend/boyfriend?<br />
<br />
A: Because no one wants to voluntarily love me after I show them where the pus comes from.<br />
<br />
2. Q: Don't you get lonely?<br />
<br />
A: Sometimes. But then I remember that living alone gives me the freedom to watch TV in my underwear and try to fart in time with the theme song for the 6 o'clock news without anyone judging me.<br />
<br />
3. Q: But you'll die alone! That's so sad!<br />
<br />
A: Fuck off.<br />
<br />
4. Q: Doesn't it make your friends uncomfortable when you're the only one there who's single and they're all there with their wives and husbands and stuff?<br />
<br />
A: No, because my friends aren't fucking stupid.<br />
<br />
<br />
5. Don't worry -- you'll meet Mr. Right someday!<br />
<br />
A: Wasn't he the guy who invented airplanes or some shit? I'm pretty sure he's dead.<br />
<br />
<br />
Stop it. Just fucking stop it.<br />
<br />
<br />
You can thank a stupid Facebook ad for this rambling bullshit. Hopefully they put up an ad soon about porn inspired by the TV show Anderson Live, because I have what some might call "too fucking much" to say about that.<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />Comedianhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14292320834221935616noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6747681790732214387.post-67266855859158663802013-02-20T15:52:00.001-08:002013-02-20T15:52:44.024-08:00Eats Q-Tips, Hates Dust Busters, Fears Her Own FartsI have a dog. She's pretty cute and most of the time I like her except for when she sits and stares at me like a fucking idiot. Right now she's on a blanket on the couch with me. She's not allowed on the couch by herself, because she likes to try to dig holes in things that aren't dirt (because of the thing where she is a fucking idiot.)<br />
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
I repeat: I. Like. My. Dog. I also understand that she is a dog. She is not people. I have seen her eat her own puke. I have watched her growl at her own tail. I have been witness to her licking her arsehole for the better part of an hour.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhTb4c2bSd1XKcSMNgFmTVs0qObLsdFB6fb7-RWHAhPPpgJL4NwCQel4I5UmgIF76yOj9SnBFJT33SMxZLjcmYt5l9Ong25xhtkmBua_4h0oPnPQd8D25EB7ZcMQ3g5RfopJwCGg018FKM/s1600/idiot.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="242" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhTb4c2bSd1XKcSMNgFmTVs0qObLsdFB6fb7-RWHAhPPpgJL4NwCQel4I5UmgIF76yOj9SnBFJT33SMxZLjcmYt5l9Ong25xhtkmBua_4h0oPnPQd8D25EB7ZcMQ3g5RfopJwCGg018FKM/s320/idiot.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">This is not the face of a thing that knows things. This is the face of a creature that thinks a demon lives in the Dust Buster. </td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
Today I screamed at my TV because some c-word in a dog food commercial said "He's not a dog! He's our biggest boy!" Really? You paid someone to cut your biggest boy's balls off? You let your biggest boy shit on your neighbour's front lawn (it's ok because they're just renters on welfare and you really wish the owners hadn't let them move in there. You have a <i>daughter</i>, for Christ's sake) then sneak off because you don't want to risk getting dog shit under your new gel nails? It must suck to be your <i>actual</i> children. Someone should call some sort of society that will take them away from you before they wake up in a cage with their reproductive organs missing.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
Ten minutes later, there was a commercial that referred to "pet parents." I'm a human person that feeds her and puts her shit in little black baggies which I'm piling into a mountain on my back step. (I call it Mount Kilimanshitpile. It's mostly frozen now, so now's the time to try to climb it.) What I am NOT is her parent. My dog's mother is dead. Her father tries to eat her face off any time she goes near him. </div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
AND YET ANOTHER FUCKING DOG FOOD COMMERCIAL, which appeals to your dog's "wolf spirit." My dog weighs ten pounds, and if her leash gets snagged on a somewhat hard piece of snow sticking out of the ground, she's rendered immobile until I rescue her. She sleeps inside pillowcases because she has no hair on her belly and she would otherwise freeze to death. Once she hid under the couch because I sneezed too many times. I'm not sure you could call that a "wolf spirit." Is there a "field mouse spirit?" I think that's the one she has. </div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
I don't have conversations with my dog. She seems to sort of understand certain words if she hears them enough times, but I'm not sure she's grasped full sentences yet. I'm hoping that one day we will be able to discuss the latest real estate developments, but right now mostly our conversations involve me saying "get the fuck out of the garbage" and her swallowing the yellow end of a used Q-Tip before I can get it away from her.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
I don't let my dog sit on my lap when I drive, because she is a terrible driver. Seriously. She hit and killed a guy, just like Laura Bush did.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
I don't buy Christmas presents for my dog. At first, that was because I thought she might be Jewish. I thought she might be Jewish because she'd never told me she wasn't, and I didn't want to risk offending her. Then I saw her eat a bacon treat, so now I don't buy her Christmas present because she's a dog.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
I don't buy my dog expensive food that will appeal to her wolf spirit. I buy my dog whatever dog food is on sale, the same way that I buy myself whatever people food is on sale.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
These things don't mean I don't like my dog. What these things DO mean is that I sometimes have to <i>explain</i> to people that I like my dog. Because apparently, in the eyes of some 'pet parents' and the companies that make dog food, by not treating my dog like a tiny person that thinks the mailman comes every day to kill her and just happens to be afraid of her own farts, I am a bad human.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
A majority of people are assholes and I don't like them. I like my dog. Which is why I treat her like a fucking dog.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
Comedianhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14292320834221935616noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6747681790732214387.post-50363734590817250282012-12-21T17:26:00.000-08:002012-12-21T17:26:43.511-08:00Retsin Burps and Eating Like a Duck<br />
I grew up with a lot of older relatives. I grew up in a really small place where everyone knew everyone and just about everyone was some level of old. I grew up on a farm, where the lifespan of the beings around you aren't exactly what you'd call 'lengthy.' I grew up around a lot old people and a lot of animals. I grew up looking at death as something that was sad, but also something that had to happen. Something that was supposed to happen. I would cry and I would feel the loss, but for as long as I can remember, I've always thought of it as something that happens to everyone -- so there is, in my mind, no reason to let it tear you apart.<br />
<br />
I don't know exactly what it is I'm feeling today, but I suspect it might be a little bit of tearing apart.<br />
<br />
<br />
Greg thought it was hilarious to pretend to eat like a duck. He'd cram food in his mouth, throw his head back, and sort of make duck-noises while everyone else in the newsroom laughed ... and wondered if maybe we should call mental health professionals.<br />
<br />
Greg would try to say "Retsin" when he burped. He said it sounded really funny, if you could do it. I've tried. I can't. But he could, and he was right -- it sounds really funny.<br />
<br />
<br />
I'm sitting on my couch, petting my idiot dog with my foot while I think about my friend eating like a duck and burping the word "Retsin" and thinking about how I don't get to see or hear those things again.<br />
<br />
Up until now, I knew death had to happen. I knew there was a reason. Someday, I will know those things again -- but I don't know them today.<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
Everything else I want to say is full of swearing. Stuff that other people have said is better:<br />
<br />
Did you tackle that trouble that came your way<br />
With a resolute heart and cheerful?<br />
Or hide your face from the light of day<br />
With a craven soul and fearful?<br />
Oh, a trouble's a ton, or a trouble's an ounce,<br />
Or a trouble is what you make it,<br />
And it isn't the fact that you're hurt that counts,<br />
But only how did you take it?<br />
<br />
You are beaten to earth? Well, well, what's that?<br />
Come up with a smiling face.<br />
It's nothing against you to fall down flat,<br />
But to lie there -- that's disgrace.<br />
The harder you're thrown, why the higher you bounce;<br />
Be proud of your blackened eye!<br />
It isn't the fact that you're licked that counts,<br />
It's how did you fight -- and why?<br />
<br />
And though you be done to the death, what then?<br />
If you battled the best you could,<br />
If you played your part in the world of men,<br />
Why, the Critic will call it good.<br />
Death comes with a crawl, or comes with a pounce,<br />
And whether he's slow or spry,<br />
It isn't the fact that you're dead that counts,<br />
But only how did you die?<br />
<br />
~ Edmund Vance Cooke<br />
<br />
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<br />Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6747681790732214387.post-48534146697704781902012-11-19T14:53:00.000-08:002012-11-19T14:53:09.815-08:00I WILL DESTROY ALL OF YOUR CHRISTMASTake a minute and go read the following link. It will tell you all about how I (yes - me, personally) am joining forces with Satan to ruin Christmas.<br /><br /><a href="http://www.alternet.org/pat-robertson-issues-dire-warning-about-atheists-stealing-christmas">DUMBASS</a> <br /><br />Now, let's go through this line by line, shall we? Because I want to call Pat Robertson and the dimwit who wrote this piece of junk arseholes, and I want to take as much time as possible. <br /><br /><b>"It's that time of year again, when atheists and Satan join forces to wage a war on Christmas." </b><br /><br />Interesting Atheist Fact #1: Not only do we not believe in any gods, we don't believe in any satans either, you arseholes. <br /><br /><b>"Somehow Christmas always survives, usually by the skin of its teeth, but that doesn't mean that the crusaders of modern American Christendom should lay down their weapons." </b><br /><br />Funny -- I've been alive for 33 years, and I remember nearly half of them, and I've yet to notice Christmas surviving only "by the skin of its teeth." Christmas seems to be doing OK, actually. Wait -- do you mean the whole "Happy Holidays" thing? That thing where not everyone says "Merry Christmas?" Oh. Good. Please, make that argument again. Make that argument about how what stores put in their ads or what Hallmark puts on their cards somehow makes Christmas cry. How weak is your faith that somebody not calling something what you call it somehow makes it mean less? You can't be very good 'crusaders of modern American Christendom' if two words being replaced by two other words wrecks your day, you arseholes. <br /><br /><b>"Robertson says, "The Grinch is trying to steal our holiday." The Grinch in question is atheists, and they will not be satisfied until they stamp out happiness itself." </b><br /><br />This is true. On behalf of all Atheists, might I just say "SCREW YOU, HAPPINESS!!!! NO ONE LIKES YOU." I hate everything, all the time. I'm even considering having surgery on the nerves in my face so I don't accidentally smile at something some day. Anyone who knows me will know that I never laugh, I have no friends, and I sometimes kick puppies in the face. YOU ARSEHOLES. <br /><br /><b>"The nation comes together, we sing Christmas carols, we give gifts to each other. We have lighted trees, and it's just a beautiful thing," says Robertson. "Atheists don't like our happiness, they don't want you to be happy, they want you to be miserable! They're miserable, so they want you to be miserable! So they want to steal your holiday away from you." </b><br /><br />Just....shut up. Shut up all the time. We are not miserable. We don't want everyone to be miserable. I like Christmas. There's lots of yummy food and presents and I get to spend time with my family and I decorate my house and I EVEN KNOW ALL THE WORDS TO ALL THE SONGS YOU ARSEHOLES. <br /><br />Buttholes like Pat Robertson and the thing that wrote that article give nice, non-jerkwad Christians a bad name. And MOST Christians are non-jerkwads. It's just too bad that dickheads like these two are the ones we hear from the most.<br /><br />Merry Christmas :)<div>
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<div>
~~~~~</div>
Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6747681790732214387.post-46085437509778292572012-10-22T11:46:00.001-07:002012-10-22T11:51:14.114-07:00TwuntsWARNING: This blog post contains coarse language. It is not intended for readers who are whiny and overly-sensitive. It is not available in Descriptive Video for the Visually Impaired, but I guess I could come to your house and describe me giving you the finger or making the Jerk-Off motion while I read it to you.<br />
<br />
Alrighty then. Let's move on.<br />
<br />
<br />
When I think about my friend Greg, I think about twunts. Don't know what a twunt is? Then watch this until about the 1:15 mark:<br />
<br />
<a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=xbXRVPE-wS0" target="_blank">Twunt</a><br />
<br />
This makes me think of Greg for two reasons. One: Because he is one of about three people I know who know what I'm talking about when I call someone a twunt. Two: Because I'm actually kinda surprised he didn't come up with that word before TV did.<br />
<br />
Some of you who read this will know that Greg is pretty sick. Cancer is trying to kick Greg in the balls. Greg is trying to kick it in the balls back. It's a big ball-kick fight that's been going on for a long time. But unlike most ball-kick fights, this one's not even a little bit fun to watch.<br />
<br />
Most of us have watched from a distance. We've kept up with what's going on with Greg by reading the things he writes for us on Facebook. Maybe once in a while we think we can comprehend a little bit of what it's like (I've been guilty of that) but today I learned that I definitely don't have a fucking clue. Today, the things Greg wrote described so explicitly what his life is like right now that for the first time while reading something he's written, I burst into tears. I cried because my friend is going through hell, and I cried because I was dumb enough to ever (even for a nano-second) think that I could understand it in any way.<br />
<br />
(I will be sporadically dosing this blog post with scenes from Rescue Me. It's easier for me to write if every once in a while I see something funny. Plus, Greg likes this show and might enjoy watching some of the best clips. Plus, I like to show off how funny it is, even though I had literally zero things to do with it being made)<br />
<br />
<a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=mNWryFVLmXI&feature=related">Who wants a dog?</a><br />
<br />
I could write a bunch of things here about how great Greg is and all the fun shit our group of friends has done, but I don't feel like it. We all know the fun shit we've done. Greg already knows I think he's great. I've told him many times. I've also told him many times that he's an arsehole, but he knows that I hardly ever meant it, except for the times when I did. I'm sure he's called me an arsehole, too. And I'm sure I deserved it.<br />
<br />
That, to me, says more about the quality of a friendship than all the hugs and kind words in the world. If you can tell someone they're being a fucking idiot and know that doing so won't be the end of your friendship, then you've surrounded yourself with the right people. Greg and I once had a fight over how Heath Ledger died and we didn't really talk to each other for about a month, but I knew that whole time that we were still friends. We each just had to take a few weeks to think about what a jackass the other was. Then it was all better. I've watched Greg and Jeff argue with each other while literally BOTH BEING ON THE SAME SIDE OF THE ARGUMENT, yet I knew the whole time that five minutes later they'd be joking around like total morons again. I usually don't like watching people argue, but it's so fucking funny to watch Greg when he gets wound up that I gladly make an exception when he's involved. I will watch wholeheartedly (probably with a feebed-out expression on my face because concentrating on the argument uses all my brain power and I turn into one of those mouth-breathers you see on the bus.)<br />
<br />
<a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=PRShhuKRo-8&feature=relmfu" target="_blank">What colour are YOUR balls?</a><br />
<br />
So, yeah. I got nuthin'. I read what Greg wrote today, and it fucking sucked. I wanted to write something under his post to make him feel better, but those words don't exist in my vocabulary. They never, ever will. My mindset has always been "If you can't say or do anything that will help, then don't say or do anything." I still believe that. I will always believe that. But it makes me so angry. Sometimes I want to be one of those people who can write about prayers or good vibes or whatever. Not because I believe in prayers or good vibes or whatever -- but because I envy the peace they get out of saying those things. I envy how it must feel to believe that no matter what happens, everything will work out how it's supposed to.<br />
<br />
<a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=gyv50yEHYXE" target="_blank">Is that cocaine?</a><br />
<br />
So I don't say anything. I think Greg knows that's not because I don't give a shit. I give <i>many </i>shits. I give <b><i>all </i></b>of the shits, in fact. I don't say anything, because Greg already knows what I'd say: This fucking sucks, and I fucking love you, you arsehole.<br />
<br />
<a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=zYdefvxRc9A&feature=related" target="_blank">Cockfarts</a><br />
<br />
<br />
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~<br />
<br />
<br />Unknownnoreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6747681790732214387.post-50682407923500106062012-09-25T16:27:00.000-07:002012-09-25T16:27:04.456-07:00Oh, F*** Off, CosmoFacts:<br />
<br />
1. Cosmopolitan Magazine is the dumbest thing to be printed on paper.<br />
<br />
2. I buy it every month.<br />
<br />
3. Even though I know it's complete shit.<br />
<br />
4. The whole time I'm reading it, I talk to it like it can hear me.<br />
<br />
5. All I ever say to it is "Oh, fuck off, Cosmo."<br />
<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj911NEAkAW8GDAZ3OuiCC8A80dTjdecKfXXQTpCLj6m-ibxUcHdlVDrqJFlIMqC7nBlc-rc-U63fEHQ_GXR9R3qZSyZYBaOIjN6XusjwnGJlvj1DdEgqo7WzzpCwk4bTGAs9a6dhplHgDS/s1600/cosmo1.jpg" imageanchor="1"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj911NEAkAW8GDAZ3OuiCC8A80dTjdecKfXXQTpCLj6m-ibxUcHdlVDrqJFlIMqC7nBlc-rc-U63fEHQ_GXR9R3qZSyZYBaOIjN6XusjwnGJlvj1DdEgqo7WzzpCwk4bTGAs9a6dhplHgDS/s320/cosmo1.jpg" width="190" /></a></div>
By this logic, people who come to my house will think I have a magical, evil car that can rebuild itself after running down my enemies.<br />
<br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgXEMqgIB2xM9-M02tR0gSMEVwaa5ELJ4XSlJfKEzY8GqRWDvPE3eVLXosfOl86vH326QXjecgueVrGYPsWq_S7dibu34mzpoaDb4RisgB2Su2EQeb6VXhfGu07Gl-L0TUTenY6C_9AL3cH/s1600/cosmo2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgXEMqgIB2xM9-M02tR0gSMEVwaa5ELJ4XSlJfKEzY8GqRWDvPE3eVLXosfOl86vH326QXjecgueVrGYPsWq_S7dibu34mzpoaDb4RisgB2Su2EQeb6VXhfGu07Gl-L0TUTenY6C_9AL3cH/s320/cosmo2.jpg" width="190" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">I can has bukake?</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
The irony of Kim Kardashian selling a perfume called "True Reflection" has explodered my brains. That dirty whore doesn't even know what her own face looks like anymore, under all that spackle.<br />
<br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhu68ZxUF3CvTaZ2E5EY2T9sxkBSQtw62hv3tqYHid479pI1g0C7bvXcaWSR6LryzGL-n-CC7UcXNYXrAPmIuDx5PRO3PpQDq9NysGRHaPGXqbzkZ5zGFu5tGX3_TnYqHK6ebW1aICw_8ZL/s1600/cosmo3.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhu68ZxUF3CvTaZ2E5EY2T9sxkBSQtw62hv3tqYHid479pI1g0C7bvXcaWSR6LryzGL-n-CC7UcXNYXrAPmIuDx5PRO3PpQDq9NysGRHaPGXqbzkZ5zGFu5tGX3_TnYqHK6ebW1aICw_8ZL/s320/cosmo3.jpg" width="190" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">We can all has bukake?<br /><br /></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
They spelled 'color' wrong. And they forgot to put the word 'whore' anywhere on that page. And how come that lady-wrestler China is selling nail polish?<br />
<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgXblypdF8k6ma5sQRHX6sAI2QE-xiGCCxEsTO0dj370xlTXoyZqIaYwnwDgBTDBX6cOsh3cLhYLVa0zCdyCYe0RY1QbLktFZKcGJOHLQLrSkGljqX0gLpdceGo2sSKEl0JZUyO3HxxQSe5/s1600/cosmo4.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgXblypdF8k6ma5sQRHX6sAI2QE-xiGCCxEsTO0dj370xlTXoyZqIaYwnwDgBTDBX6cOsh3cLhYLVa0zCdyCYe0RY1QbLktFZKcGJOHLQLrSkGljqX0gLpdceGo2sSKEl0JZUyO3HxxQSe5/s320/cosmo4.jpg" width="190" /></a></div>
<br />
<br />
There's no such thing as a 'British accent,' you stupid assholes.<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiNPPkyfW6nAG6g427OeQD6sGjeo9QJPf7V0vm6Qv2Mi1RQ5ZEniQYfYvzeOc6_Olg_nFpOGkwxWfoSNyVu5lZ6dlBPHFthxicPdDeBZx4V7QT9d2kcAPMwtxnKicCGcSCjdqCAHDlKwG0O/s1600/cosmo5.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="190" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiNPPkyfW6nAG6g427OeQD6sGjeo9QJPf7V0vm6Qv2Mi1RQ5ZEniQYfYvzeOc6_Olg_nFpOGkwxWfoSNyVu5lZ6dlBPHFthxicPdDeBZx4V7QT9d2kcAPMwtxnKicCGcSCjdqCAHDlKwG0O/s320/cosmo5.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
<br />
<br />
Maybe because he's covering up a fucking burp?<br />
<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiO-2bqAr2MHHJkSONwYa406dmoPNygbVKnAJvu7pwLVSsFK_g7lCBNVTsV8VuqRqoJNZHdUTTlfKMJClgpaAik-wSevawiHjahLjaqzUWbAz0tKBnMn3JbskXebZ47bfvlq7ttkKZL3ar_/s1600/cosmo6.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="190" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiO-2bqAr2MHHJkSONwYa406dmoPNygbVKnAJvu7pwLVSsFK_g7lCBNVTsV8VuqRqoJNZHdUTTlfKMJClgpaAik-wSevawiHjahLjaqzUWbAz0tKBnMn3JbskXebZ47bfvlq7ttkKZL3ar_/s320/cosmo6.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
<br />
<br />
Yeah. He's probably the one raping people.<br />
<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh4SpTZTTWk-oHZ6eMDnT8z_WRMImU28VdH0v__9MCYIP8AW7VEZeuqzBBsK7o-Vm6UCqtA7YDaz7x3AsbAECsv9omGwpNABMBEdmmFmGio4IZvYS5g3Ppd5lTTP9woExv7B2pnHd3UNRv0/s1600/cosmo7.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh4SpTZTTWk-oHZ6eMDnT8z_WRMImU28VdH0v__9MCYIP8AW7VEZeuqzBBsK7o-Vm6UCqtA7YDaz7x3AsbAECsv9omGwpNABMBEdmmFmGio4IZvYS5g3Ppd5lTTP9woExv7B2pnHd3UNRv0/s320/cosmo7.jpg" width="190" /></a></div>
<br />
Wait -- no. There he is.<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6747681790732214387.post-25865123072741287522012-07-04T13:13:00.000-07:002012-07-04T13:13:25.225-07:00BOOBS!!!Dear Everyone,<br />
<br />
Boobs are not bad.<br />
<br />
Sincerely,<br />
The Comedian<br />
<br />
<br />
---------------<br />
<br />
Recently, I saw a post on Facebook about an underpants ad, and how the underpants ad was bad because it implied women were possessions or something. To me, it mostly implied underpants. Nice underpants. Underpants I proceeded to look for at the store named in the ad, but could not find.<br />
<br />
I don't know how exactly underpants = women as a possession or as less than men or as merely a thing that boobs are attached to. I didn't actually put all that much thought into it (because I was busy being mad that I could not find the underpants.)<br />
<br />
Then today, I really started thinking about it again. I even went so far as to act out an underpants ad myself, and while I <i>did </i>feel like I'd done permanent mental damage to my dog and possibly one of the neighbour-kids tall enough to see in the window, I did <i>not </i>feel like a possession of any kind. I just felt like a person wearing underpants.<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
</div>
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgcN5j8lOPYx1OTQpI1DUCsTuT-qRAh0zlBlw93IGkgt-rEoLnrDHqh3LJFz7Kp4TY6KUJfR0GPC1mzPeEwceIyP1l013eJ1geRsC-cp92CUzjlmuy3fAbqSOHn3YTBytdauj4NTDz4AfXE/s1600/blog1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgcN5j8lOPYx1OTQpI1DUCsTuT-qRAh0zlBlw93IGkgt-rEoLnrDHqh3LJFz7Kp4TY6KUJfR0GPC1mzPeEwceIyP1l013eJ1geRsC-cp92CUzjlmuy3fAbqSOHn3YTBytdauj4NTDz4AfXE/s320/blog1.jpg" width="232" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">What I <i>believed </i>I looked like.<br /><br /></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg0HJbwfB3tobISAlyjRIeeXQ7E4Cb7cE1Jg7n-cK1SoMS2XWen-VeQS02g_cDkvG8BZUVaOpebB1mC6irrN3hMm8puwnTRFrT-bwevHlNXFXucMkYkuRjXrpfbVpMwqZzdIwX-UGGz2sxu/s1600/blog2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg0HJbwfB3tobISAlyjRIeeXQ7E4Cb7cE1Jg7n-cK1SoMS2XWen-VeQS02g_cDkvG8BZUVaOpebB1mC6irrN3hMm8puwnTRFrT-bwevHlNXFXucMkYkuRjXrpfbVpMwqZzdIwX-UGGz2sxu/s1600/blog2.jpg" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">What I probably <i>actually </i>looked like.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
<br />
Of course, this has inevitably led me to question society and religion and politics and why that store advertised underpants then didn't have the underpants <b>IN THEIR STUPID STORE</b> when I went in to buy them.<br />
<br />
Mostly, it makes me wonder why exactly we don't like naked stuff. Obviously, that's not directed at everyone. Most of my friends are rather partial to naked stuff. Some of us have spent untold hours discussing naked stuff. At any given moment, there is a 97% chance I am only five seconds away from thinking about naked stuff. Hell -- one of the things that keeps me from walking in front of a truck some days is the knowledge that I can do a Google image search for "Chris Meloni naked" and will, in fact, get to see Chris Meloni naked.<br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgyBig2HagM898lQ6w1jkANQu9ZEXS34vXLAyjnidgCMn8EhaodBEZ7OEVz29GfWlh0T5eet13Mw92dcNqIkIXjTJWIzvFkzwT3FmU1wOVGPT1s0FuGjlFxHtnva0ixLHvzTky7A8enbIIe/s1600/blog3.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="239" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgyBig2HagM898lQ6w1jkANQu9ZEXS34vXLAyjnidgCMn8EhaodBEZ7OEVz29GfWlh0T5eet13Mw92dcNqIkIXjTJWIzvFkzwT3FmU1wOVGPT1s0FuGjlFxHtnva0ixLHvzTky7A8enbIIe/s320/blog3.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">I erred on the side of caution and picked a cropped version, but trust me -- there's wiener down there. Lots of wiener.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
When I look at that picture, I certainly don't think of Chris Meloni as a possession. I think of Chris Meloni as someone who is probably fun to have a shower with.<br />
<br />
Likewise, when I look at THIS picture, I don't think of her as a possession. I think of her as someone who is wearing a bra that costs more than my car.<br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjJ39-5oiDhrohv2Cl0LqYavkrkkyeVcl2q3ih8-pt0y0GaxCfVahfYY9y3Lz0QjZyheT0mUM-EzwSQWFs_0BrsDh0G366n2zh8chMecfZPMZKZPq5YskQhQBr8JSj1oNWPZVxKvRzRWg0W/s1600/blog4.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjJ39-5oiDhrohv2Cl0LqYavkrkkyeVcl2q3ih8-pt0y0GaxCfVahfYY9y3Lz0QjZyheT0mUM-EzwSQWFs_0BrsDh0G366n2zh8chMecfZPMZKZPq5YskQhQBr8JSj1oNWPZVxKvRzRWg0W/s320/blog4.jpg" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">And also perhaps as someone who is about to go thermo-nuclear and annihilate us all with her radioactive ladybits.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
And I highly doubt anyone looks at THIS ad and feels sorry for David Beckham because he's being treated as a possession. They probably feel sorry for him because apparently a badger climbed into his underpants and has decided that's where it's going to live now.<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi_F5D_S5aiwBbYdQ57bGekhe61-kfnNPvBeYZrMT29pbxHVUChVnIGG1ejXFc6BArkACJpWcEDh0F-SiVZRkSwrWK0_YK0XwYRGUSHsgmI-pmVYA6-70O3CqM5cSiW2guptGv8MtOQSpVC/s1600/blog5.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="237" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi_F5D_S5aiwBbYdQ57bGekhe61-kfnNPvBeYZrMT29pbxHVUChVnIGG1ejXFc6BArkACJpWcEDh0F-SiVZRkSwrWK0_YK0XwYRGUSHsgmI-pmVYA6-70O3CqM5cSiW2guptGv8MtOQSpVC/s320/blog5.jpeg" width="320" /></a></div>
<br />
<br />
My point is this: Boobs are not bad. Weenuses are not bad. Ladybits are not bad (unless they are glowing, in which case FUCKING RUN.)<br />
<br />
Obviously, we should probably not dance about flopping our bits-and-bites in public, but I feel like every time someone says something along the lines of "OH GOD -- NUDITY! MY EYES ARE BURNING AND MY SOUL IS FALLING OUT MY ASSHOLE FROM SEEING SOMETHING SO TERRIBLE," then we are further convinced that naked is bad. In some cases, naked IS bad. And sometimes illegal. But mostly, naked is just naked. Instead of looking at an underpants ad and thinking "That poor woman," maybe we should be thinking "Holy shit, that chick is making a frigging fortune by wearing underpants. Lucky bitch. I wear underpants just about every other day, and I don't make <i>shit </i>for it."<br />
<br />
When people -- <i>especially </i>women -- make a big deal about how showcasing the female body is taking power away from women, THEY are taking power away from women. They're suggesting that a woman is so fragile a creature, that the mere sight of her body will launch her backward through time and space, to a world where she will no longer be allowed to vote.<br />
<br />
Please shut the fuck up, You People Who Say That Crap. I could walk around with tassles scotch-taped to my nerps and feathers sticking out of my butt like the world's most awesome rooster, and I'd still be exactly as powerful as I was before I did it. In fact, I'd probably make some new friends and people would buy me presents and stuff.Unknownnoreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6747681790732214387.post-57617919870066866692012-02-09T14:57:00.000-08:002012-02-09T14:57:09.574-08:00Piss.Had a good talk with a good friend last night about how if you don't laugh at life, you'll lose your mind because so many big chunks of life suck stinky ass. It came up because this particular friend is a grand fucking MASTER of saying the most inappropriate thing you can thing of in any given situation, and I fucking <b><i>love </i></b>that. The most terriblest things you can think of, he can still make you laugh over <i>some </i>part them. Because you <i>have </i>to. You can't do that around just anyone, though. Has to be the right people. <i>Your </i>people. And I only really care to spend time with those people. If you do that around the wrong people......well........<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi28qCR_PIF3oP6CZSuxZgPca5idVmcri5wBkWYVkcyBwPx76FCoRccYnM5lAoavEmGqKGr4QfnJS9e336M04eqV3uIlaonAoB4BvnQoJWz2sqpZfeUxAx9khi4Z1nNbJfx9V_TRGyCvpVw/s1600/appalled.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi28qCR_PIF3oP6CZSuxZgPca5idVmcri5wBkWYVkcyBwPx76FCoRccYnM5lAoavEmGqKGr4QfnJS9e336M04eqV3uIlaonAoB4BvnQoJWz2sqpZfeUxAx9khi4Z1nNbJfx9V_TRGyCvpVw/s320/appalled.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br />
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Today has been an epic shit stain of a day.<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiAvevwYv4zS9heNE0dLlJTiPJ1P94-P4y1frFXumCrWFjfJhT8p4j9gnL12kFbFEjkgeHeOmSuIedTwgZ2v3O4vFWLFRk0IsVkptVIBrBJZ4s5VeQzcYtnl3iSeuK14wsyd9j__dg3h_11/s1600/stain.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="318" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiAvevwYv4zS9heNE0dLlJTiPJ1P94-P4y1frFXumCrWFjfJhT8p4j9gnL12kFbFEjkgeHeOmSuIedTwgZ2v3O4vFWLFRk0IsVkptVIBrBJZ4s5VeQzcYtnl3iSeuK14wsyd9j__dg3h_11/s320/stain.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br />
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And the people I care about and who care about me -- you are the piss that will blast that shit stain away.<br />
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Does laughing fix everything? No, dumbass. Of course it doesn't. If you answered "yes," then you're stupid. But laughing can keep us going, even if we're only running on fumes. It can keep us from sitting and stewing and thinking about the Absolute Worst Things (like ABBA reuniting, or the dead Bee Gees coming back to life.) Laughing keeps us from becoming sad, boring, lifeless people. That's why all of George Lopez's friends do nothing but mope and yawn and cry.<br />
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiIyReFzehJ0khPYhGve93bk0ebxU36DSTndLGe4X0ug8m37SEu3Hd5kbCgX0fi5re9F96CL11so9FTm3q6kodMRzB2IIGxzj_fGJdl9fZKOgGNykHmK38FiBUIzkRdnUnaQlSn7ySqRl2u/s1600/lopez.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiIyReFzehJ0khPYhGve93bk0ebxU36DSTndLGe4X0ug8m37SEu3Hd5kbCgX0fi5re9F96CL11so9FTm3q6kodMRzB2IIGxzj_fGJdl9fZKOgGNykHmK38FiBUIzkRdnUnaQlSn7ySqRl2u/s320/lopez.jpg" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Because he's not funny. About anything. Ever.</td></tr>
</tbody></table><br />
Is it OK to laugh in someone's face if their pet hamster dies or they get nose-blood on their favourite shirt? Again -- no. And again -- if you answered "yes," you're no longer allowed to be in charge of anything. Not even putting milk on your cereal or walking places. But if giggling far, far away and behind their back about how their nose-blood dried in a Rorschach-like pattern resembling a smooshed boob makes your day even a little less fucked, then I say go for it. And try to only surround yourself with people who would do the same thing far, far away and behind <i>your </i>back, because people who can laugh at shitty things are people who get that life can suck, but living doesn't have to. Those people will make your life better. I know that's a true-fact because I <i>know </i>those people, and they <i>have </i>made my life better.<br />
<br />
So on this shit stain of a day, I thank you all for being the piss in my life that blasts the shit stain away. I hope I can be even half the piss that you are to me.<br />
<br />
<br />
~~~~~Unknownnoreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6747681790732214387.post-61944615531961110172012-02-01T14:15:00.000-08:002012-02-01T14:15:53.930-08:00A Pterodactyl Face in Your What-Not: The Comedian Helps You Survive Awkward SituationsThe Comedian has spent approximately her whole entire life deftly trying to survive awkward situations. It seems only fair that I use this forum (now read by nearly ten people on a semi-irregular basis) to help you do the same.<br />
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Of the hundreds of awkward situations I have found myself in, I can proudly say I have made it through almost one of them completely unscathed. Therefore, I am well-equipped to tell you what to do. If you disagree with that, you can sit your ass on a spike.<br />
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Awkward Situation #1: You are alone in a room. Someone else walks in. It is blatantly obvious that you have just farted.<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiYlIusPZWKAr3LsVlckPt5C1_yBwowHqwNkqNRKjcDtXMO1k0uWpv6ymedITLiFYyWY8ZvUmK-KwVHpNPfTmxtAwHDfpkItyZezeu7XdGWamqqUstiirR7E0566H_NRvxLlU03Vsq3Bulj/s1600/fart.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiYlIusPZWKAr3LsVlckPt5C1_yBwowHqwNkqNRKjcDtXMO1k0uWpv6ymedITLiFYyWY8ZvUmK-KwVHpNPfTmxtAwHDfpkItyZezeu7XdGWamqqUstiirR7E0566H_NRvxLlU03Vsq3Bulj/s320/fart.jpg" width="208" /></a></div><br />
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The Comedian's Advice: Just fucking fart again. Make it special. Point your hand in the air like a disco dancer and clench your ass cheeks so it sounds like a firecracker going off in an empty storage locker. Then spin around like a dog trying to eat its tail, yelling "I WANNA SMELL IT WHILE IT'S FRESH! I WANNA SMELL IT WHILE IT'S FRESH!"<br />
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Awkward Situation #2: You believe you are alone with a friend, talking about how a different friend smells like the inside of a rain boot, but a rain boot with shit in it. Suddenly, your friend goes silent. Your heart drops as you realize Shit Boot is <i>right behind you.</i><br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiQnaY_3azlQTw_wN44qhhKYULKyjlT9MsnK3LZxEEczfMUVEEJn_INVm11KXr35qjxn-HdqE-qaoJzPPSpFfpFUk_sddsppdPNl7nPoW95ArHMIjUGCNnV1Pe2hdGFr6dU4foUvJW3EwSm/s1600/behind.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiQnaY_3azlQTw_wN44qhhKYULKyjlT9MsnK3LZxEEczfMUVEEJn_INVm11KXr35qjxn-HdqE-qaoJzPPSpFfpFUk_sddsppdPNl7nPoW95ArHMIjUGCNnV1Pe2hdGFr6dU4foUvJW3EwSm/s320/behind.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br />
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The Comedian's Advice: Tilt your head slightly and go slack-jawed. Adopt a blank stare. Slowly turn around until you're facing Shit Boot. Stand up, slowly walk toward her (shuffle a little, like a zombie) and punch her in the throat. Run away.<br />
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Awkward Situation #3: You send an email to your friends, featuring this picture:<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiffi1aELRTfWbozXonS40CuGfRxDTBdZ5e13DrXT99YHGLHxJu7c-XtyWXH5CO42dI0pHR6XWBnvK27wFE7gUixkhQalgUnvd7zV-fyFZAo9n9GVkC8La92CxJeSgphd72XXiXWFAid6xV/s1600/sucki.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiffi1aELRTfWbozXonS40CuGfRxDTBdZ5e13DrXT99YHGLHxJu7c-XtyWXH5CO42dI0pHR6XWBnvK27wFE7gUixkhQalgUnvd7zV-fyFZAo9n9GVkC8La92CxJeSgphd72XXiXWFAid6xV/s320/sucki.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br />
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Immediately upon hitting "send," you realize you managed to somehow send the email to your boss, because you are apparently an enormous fucking idiot.<br />
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The Comedian's Advice: Do nothing. Your boss will think it's pretty funny, unless he sucks. In fact, send more. See if you can find some with racial slurs or hilarious captions under sick children . When you next see your boss, wait until he's within yelling distance, and holler "HEY! BOSS! DID YOU LIKE THAT PICTURE OF THE INSIDE OF A GOAT'S ASS THAT I SENT YOU?" He'll think that's pretty cool, and you'll probably get a raise or something.<br />
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Awkward Situation #4: You are a dude. You are in a public bathroom, 'draining the lizard' or 'taking a leak' or 'expelling urine from your urethra' or whatever slang terms you immature, filthy pigs are using these days. You're sort of not paying attention, looking around, waiting to be done pissing into a porcelain drinking fountain with a big blue breath mint in it, when you realize you are full-on staring at the pork sword of the guy whizzing beside you.<br />
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjwWvP0kGF9ewnAuL7ygGsDvksYWfzwSQKLpXam1Th5q3_XsER_7RD5OLEkyyl6bfBmkgFbKX9XPawpbq-oo08Q4d-tUaEfAnjFLeKz3K-PBm534-B57JH3UO13LGq4PaXHbBGw_6Rhh_Bf/s1600/kitten.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjwWvP0kGF9ewnAuL7ygGsDvksYWfzwSQKLpXam1Th5q3_XsER_7RD5OLEkyyl6bfBmkgFbKX9XPawpbq-oo08Q4d-tUaEfAnjFLeKz3K-PBm534-B57JH3UO13LGq4PaXHbBGw_6Rhh_Bf/s320/kitten.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">I saw something really bad when I did a Google Image search for "urinal pervert" so I would like to look at this kitten instead.</td></tr>
</tbody></table><br />
The Comedian's Advice: Go ahead. Touch it.<br />
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<br />
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Awkward Situation #5: You are a woman. Once a year, you have to go to the doctor, where he will stick a cold metal pterodactyl face in your What-Not.<br />
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiJl60hIhMmV3mJnnhtI__DIy-rxwJ32UL-A50GXGDNDDSUJDVt8odDc_U6iXETCvOW-cXmNixeytFvHBIOJcRrY2PPPk_O-d6jSvZTVApfE-6tSay8ZMsUMX6wtSBunke-HIqdqLGEmAEi/s1600/ptero.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiJl60hIhMmV3mJnnhtI__DIy-rxwJ32UL-A50GXGDNDDSUJDVt8odDc_U6iXETCvOW-cXmNixeytFvHBIOJcRrY2PPPk_O-d6jSvZTVApfE-6tSay8ZMsUMX6wtSBunke-HIqdqLGEmAEi/s1600/ptero.jpg" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">This. In your What-Not.</td></tr>
</tbody></table><br />
The Comedian's Advice: Prior to the Pterodactyl Appointment (or 'Pterodactyling' as I believe it's not called in the medical community) decorate your inner thighs with Spongebob Squarepants Bandaids. I suggest using them to spell out "HI, DOCTOR!" He's going to laugh so hard when he sees it. Hopefully, he'll laugh before he does the thing he's going to do with the pterodactyl face, because if he starts laughing after and his hands get all jerky and stuff, he will hollow you out like you're a screaming watermelon made of meat.<br />
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjzh6AoFVOaVPNc8wF70xFpPJkgkzw6zqskw6ifSbqvvPfLmNybhyHjGgwjGam0CMoVEAUBKJJXXhWboPYMqbKjD-oWUp8Zy06WOzHnszHc2CtUsIdpDSFQ8aIOENlmjvxGyBmQhFmj9bKQ/s1600/melon.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="244" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjzh6AoFVOaVPNc8wF70xFpPJkgkzw6zqskw6ifSbqvvPfLmNybhyHjGgwjGam0CMoVEAUBKJJXXhWboPYMqbKjD-oWUp8Zy06WOzHnszHc2CtUsIdpDSFQ8aIOENlmjvxGyBmQhFmj9bKQ/s320/melon.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">This, minus the teeth and plus the hemmoraging</td></tr>
</tbody></table><br />
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~~~~~Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6747681790732214387.post-75751023797282711872012-01-12T13:29:00.000-08:002012-01-12T13:29:16.870-08:00Shit That's True.If you say "I seen" or "youse guys," and you're not kidding, then you're a fucking idiot.<br />
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It does not matter how many times you forward an email or click 'like,' because that kid in that picture in that hospital with tubes coming out of its nose is probably photo-shopped and isn't even dying of anything, and if it <i>was</i> dying of something, emails and likes probably wouldn't cure it. But thank you for passing it on, thus alerting me to the fact that I don't ever want you to be near me, you phenomenal moron.<br />
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Dogs don't give a shit when it's their birthday.<br />
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgQCeXCDv2sJDfiyyUsEZ9Cm7nIB2maQOr56iFmHk3MAPuckyAl5h8Xu5Jug70IEAo5j_oYPHwWx0EYd5P2dLyknEynIazZ14jShHpbQGsr2aQRgqHHaupf6cZzP2r4Lyh0DIMSESMOwsWL/s1600/birthday-dog.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgQCeXCDv2sJDfiyyUsEZ9Cm7nIB2maQOr56iFmHk3MAPuckyAl5h8Xu5Jug70IEAo5j_oYPHwWx0EYd5P2dLyknEynIazZ14jShHpbQGsr2aQRgqHHaupf6cZzP2r4Lyh0DIMSESMOwsWL/s1600/birthday-dog.jpg" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">High as <i>fuck</i>.</td></tr>
</tbody></table><br />
You know that music you like? The stuff that literally <i>no one else you know</i> has ever even heard of? And mostly it's some bitch whining and then doing something weird like rapping, but backwards and in Spanish and while crying? And you have to go to some dank, lonely back corner of an independent music store to find it? And the only three people who ever go back there are you, some emo twerp and the dude who vaccuums the store once a month but instead of vaccuuming just jerks off onto Miley Cyrus CDs? And <i>you </i>don't even really like it, but you think it makes you cool because you like something that no one else likes? You can go ahead and never send me links to Youtube videos of that shit ever again.<br />
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Wearing deodorant does not hurt.<br />
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Ed Hardy won't ever be cool again.<br />
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiJR7KOthHml8Nv66uHt3b7tUnfUWia3uRQarE4aB8uJS4DyUzO0mD-YfB7B8ZXxTxZ2Ol77yCszAcd9Yb1fFBE_jSf7yOCjVYHAG0XvfF2amEGPhfHdIkl8G4qRuxnnof-RxvnNrFlKMoY/s1600/Jon-Gosselin-Ed-Hardy_240.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiJR7KOthHml8Nv66uHt3b7tUnfUWia3uRQarE4aB8uJS4DyUzO0mD-YfB7B8ZXxTxZ2Ol77yCszAcd9Yb1fFBE_jSf7yOCjVYHAG0XvfF2amEGPhfHdIkl8G4qRuxnnof-RxvnNrFlKMoY/s1600/Jon-Gosselin-Ed-Hardy_240.jpg" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Thanks a lot, cockface.</td></tr>
</tbody></table><br />
Telling me about how awesome the Beatles were won't change my mind. I will not suddenly go "Holy shit! You're right! I didn't see it before, but now that you've said 'the Beatles were awesome' at least seventeen times, I suddenly <i>get </i>it! How could I have not realized this before??? Now I<i> </i>think they were super duper!"<br />
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Same goes for Seinfeld. Seriously -- me not liking the things you like doesn't make the things you like die.<br />
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If this guy is ever a guest star on any crime drama, then he's the guy who did it:<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh9Fruka51c_d8t1DJXtCd9TkSJqRg4k9TydPrAWtkmaLwKZ6yIVvciVX0pVbKWVnghtnZfOvR5sH0ML9Ef1c7edAm4cXiNflWXTYCtCn0NPyfuJeaKRAOxkOcobXBSB4kLy7wSDMyWUYuX/s1600/John+Billingsley-2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh9Fruka51c_d8t1DJXtCd9TkSJqRg4k9TydPrAWtkmaLwKZ6yIVvciVX0pVbKWVnghtnZfOvR5sH0ML9Ef1c7edAm4cXiNflWXTYCtCn0NPyfuJeaKRAOxkOcobXBSB4kLy7wSDMyWUYuX/s320/John+Billingsley-2.jpg" width="244" /></a></div><br />
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And if this guy's ever the star of a show (See: Criminal Minds, Dead Like Me, Chicago Hope) don't fucking bother getting attached:<br />
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiW-w7g-xw3CI5lU7oFHKlud-W5CAunebeeZ2DKmYT2k-XKfPpQ8NZfya_fmzZIvEXViEVCzLVI505ZPLPmPdhIo44MjoAnOjeAokpfNFKe6xPwpLMOUv7ri2plKdOQya4Hrfp2uHgJsO5e/s1600/mandy-patinkin-01.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiW-w7g-xw3CI5lU7oFHKlud-W5CAunebeeZ2DKmYT2k-XKfPpQ8NZfya_fmzZIvEXViEVCzLVI505ZPLPmPdhIo44MjoAnOjeAokpfNFKe6xPwpLMOUv7ri2plKdOQya4Hrfp2uHgJsO5e/s320/mandy-patinkin-01.jpg" width="218" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Hello. My name is Inigo Montoya. I'm on your TV show. Prepare for me to be a bitch and leave.</td></tr>
</tbody></table><br />
Tom Cruise is three and a half feet tall.<br />
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Psychics do not exist.<br />
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Seals probably don't even feel it when you club them.Unknownnoreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6747681790732214387.post-26700715566039309932012-01-06T17:07:00.000-08:002012-01-06T17:09:02.646-08:00I'm Tired But Not Really and TV is Being StupidWARNING: I didn't get much sleep last night but I'm not tired and I'm maybe crazy now so if nothing I type here makes sense, go fuck yourself because I don't care what you think.<br />
<br />
This is about things I saw on TV today and how stupid they were.<br />
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Stupid Thing on TV #1: Life insurance commercial. "If you don't want your loved ones to be burdened by the cost of planting your dead ass in the ground, blah blah blah as little as 7 cents a day, blah blah blargle schmargle fuck kaplooey buy our life insurance you don't have to have a medical or get even one finger put up your bum by a doctor."<br />
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<br />
Dear My Loved Ones,<br />
<br />
Please do not burden yourself by planting my dead ass in the ground. Go ahead and torch me and put my ashes in a little urn or tin or coffee cup or whatever. I won't care, because of how dead I'll be. This will enable me to save as little as 7 cents a day on a stupid life insurance policy that I don't want and even if I <i>did</i> want one, I'd get the one where a doctor put a finger up my bum.<br />
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Stupid Thing on TV #2: Sarah McLachlan singing about dead dogs or something.<br />
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Dear Sarah McLachlin,<br />
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Every time I see you singing about dead dogs or something, I use a black Sharpie to make a little line on a picture of you. Once the picture of you is completely covered in lines, I'm going to go out and kick one puppy for every line. Please shut the fuck up forever.<br />
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Stupid Thing on TV #3: Eggie, I think it's called. It's a little round thing that you boil eggs in, because apparently that's too fucking hard for people now.<br />
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Dear People Who Buy the Eggie (if that is, in fact, what it's called),<br />
<br />
Please die before you have a chance to breed.<br />
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Stupid Thing on TV #4: Some message that said I had to press the "Select" button to make my TV go.<br />
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Dear TV,<br />
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I already pressed one button to make you be on. I should not have to press another button to make you go. Don't be so fucking lazy, TV.<br />
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<br />
Stupid Thing on TV #5: For a dollar a day, I can feed a kid.<br />
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Dear Commercial About That Kid-Thing,<br />
<br />
I go to the cheap-ass grocery store that never gets cleaned and where they don't have bags so you have to put your groceries in old banana boxes that probably have Black Widow Spiders in them, but it still costs me waaaaaaaay more than a dollar. Can you tell me which grocery store <i>you </i>shop at so I can go there instead?Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6747681790732214387.post-70188103666255287452011-05-09T13:44:00.000-07:002011-05-09T13:44:02.183-07:00Because Why Not<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><br />
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Because I felt like it.<br />
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No, not really.<br />
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Why U no fuck off and die?<br />
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More likely than not.<br />
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No thanks. I'm good.<br />
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Whatever. The fuck. I want to.<br />
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I might be dumb, but at least I'm happy.<br />
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I'm sorry -- are you getting exasperated? Perhaps you should bugger off, then.<br />
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I don't..........care.<br />
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</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">That it seemed like a good idea at the time. Actually, it <i><b>still </b></i>seems like a good idea. If given the chance, knowing what I know now, I am certain I would go back in time and do it the fuck again. Twice.</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;"><br />
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Church.<br />
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Fuck no.<br />
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Your mom.<br />
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I don't see how that's relevant.<br />
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~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0