THE BLOG ABOUT MY ONE TRUE LOVE: ME!
I’ve said it before, and I’ll say it again. People who find the comics in The New Yorker funny deserve to be punched in the back of the head. I present to you this abject example of banality:
Seriously, fuck The New Yorker. Unless this is about that whole Haiti thing.
Continue reading ‘Explain To Me Why This Is Funny’
I am often asked, “Jimmy, who’s your best one, Bill Pullman or Bill Paxton?” The question, as often as I hear it, has become quite laughable, for I have come to the only logical solution.
I boldly respond, “Neither, for I choose the bastard son of the two Bills. I choose Olyphant.”
Could you imagine those two doin' it? I know right.
So I’m wicked hungover the other morning because I was up late the night before celebrating the big promotion I got at the office for how I handled the Fisher Account. Now, my morning routine after I’ve had one or three too many limoncellos, is to get on the onlines and check out my sites. After MILFhunter.com and wikipedia articles about Elephantiasis and Diane Arbus that somehow managed to meander to an article about the differences between Jewish and Islamic dietary laws, I go to CNN.com to check the latest headlines for oddities. If you don’t know what I’m talking about go to this link, because I don’t have time to go into it, and I feel like I’ve already babbled on and on without even getting to the point.
Oh, and there is a point.
The point is this little gem that I find tucked away near the end of their latest headlines:
Continue reading ‘This is How I’m Pathetic.’
This is Bradley W. Cavanaugh:
AKA Chad Sexington
Ol’ Brad is wanted in Wichita, Kansas for felony theft. Although the wanted poster doesn’t say, and I’m no Columbo, I have a pretty good idea what he has stolen.
This is basically nightmare fuel. I don't know where it's from. I used to have a bookmark to it, but the site hosting it took it down. But I found it again today (3:00 AM) while doing some researching (pornography). Now I will have it for. ev. er. Download it as you see fit, but I'm pretty sure seven days from seeing it, you die.
I drink. A lot. Take however much you drink, multiply it by a really high number — say, your age — and that should give you a modest idea of how many drinks I’ve had while writing this post. The other thing I do when I’m out drinking is pee, also a lot. In fact, I would say I spend as much time in the bathroom at a bar as I do drinking at a bar — more so if I include the time I spend in bar bathrooms not urinating, if you know what I mean (wink-wink). Seriously, I have a bladder like a gerbil.
So, anyways, when I’m in the middle of one of my marathon 2 minute sissies all I have to look at, other than my enormous manhood or the slightly less-than enormous manhood of the guy next to me, is those annoyingly cheesy 8.5″x11″ ads they put up on the wall above the urinal. I’m usually pretty trashed, so what goes through my head while I’m looking at these things is “Oh my god, Becky, these ads are so hilariously bad. I’m going to try to take a picture of these mistakes of targeted advertising with my camera phone without splashing urine everywhere and then post them on my flickrfacespacebookjournal.com account tomorrow when I wake up. Then, my friends friend people who were dumb enough to add me as a friend will see how motherfucking funny I am. And then, they will love me.”
What actually happens, however, is I wake up in the afternoon, upload the pictures, and realize, of the ones that aren’t totally blurry, I can’t remember why most of them were funny. Of all the pictures I take, about 1% maybe end up getting posted anywhere. Oh, and no one finds them funny. So, what I’m going to do now is post some of the rejects and try to figure out why I thought they were funny. This should go over really well.
Continue reading ‘Urinal Advertising’
