January 31, 2008
1. Does the song feature solos on each of the band's instruments?
2. Do each of the solos go on for five minutes or more?
3. Does it seem that the band members are trying to convince you of their awesome musical talent at the expense of such concepts as entertainment and enjoyment?
4. Does the song come with its own philosophy and graduate level course in which to enroll?
5. Is the song's title not related to the song's content in any discernible way?
6. Do the liner notes refer to the song not as a "song", but rather as a "movement"?
7. Does the song make you understand why some people choose - nay, feel painfully compelled - to be high while listening to it?
8. Is the song somehow wacky yet completely humorless?
9. Do the song's lyrics feature the odd nexus of unicorns and Ayn Rand?
10. Do you get the feeling that the song might have been written by unicorns and/or Ayn Rand?
11. Is the song's title listed in outline format?
12. Does the song actually stop, change directions, tempo and key and then commence repeatedly ramming its mythical head up its mystical asshole?
13. Does the song suck for a very long time?
January 30, 2008
2. Duran asked my sister out to prom in eleventh grade, but Duran showed up. When I was downstairs asking Duran what he thought he was doing, Duran came to door. There was a huge fight, and my sister ran to her room and cried for hours. At some point, Duran called the cops, and Duran ended up spending most of the night at the police station.
3. Duran never washes his hands after he uses the bathroom.
4. Duran has much better music tastes than Duran does. For example, Duran loves the dance-pop synthesizers of The The, while Duran prefers the more emotional, adult contemporary light-rock of Mister Mister.
5. Duran tells me how much he hates his girlfriend, and I've even seen him putting moves on Duran's girlfriend when Duran wasn't around.
6. Duran's mom once asked me if I've noticed anything strange about Duran. I thought, "Why is she asking me? I don't even hang out with Duran."
7. Duran is quite nosy. He spends way too much time worrying about Duran and not enough time worrying about Duran.
What can this exclamatory mark do for you and your persuasive prose?
Especially if COMBINED WITH ALL CAPS!
Did you see that?
Sorry. I mean...
Did you SEE that?!
Wow! It just works! There can be no dispute! The exclamation point is the ravenous, rabid wolf of the written word.
It represents the mist-shrouded swamplands of feral terror, especially if it hunts in packs!
Here come some more!
Aggghhhh... in formation even! Did you really have a chance against their volume, their tenacity, their savagery, their bluster and unreasonableness?
No. No, you didn't.
The exclamation point says what your words fail to on their own. It is a big, one-finger salute without the finger. A petulant "I'm not listening" spelled with one non-letter. Meaning you can never spell it wrongly. It can be used by anyone, in any situation, and it usually is.
Daring writers will even combine a hearty "Fuck you" with the conclusive, concussive fuck-you-again of the exclamation point!!
Daring mathematicians will denote the extremely awesome factoriality of a number like "N!" by adding the rhetorical, non-arithmetic flourish of a second mark. For example, 6!! is not the same as 120!; it merely indicates that six factorial equals fuckin' 120, man!
Don't let the feel-good charlatans and word merchants of literary theory convince you otherwise: the exclamation point remains a writer's most vital resource! It is the switchblade in the hand of the blind man - stab wildly, stab often and stab everything - because your words alone will never draw blood.
January 29, 2008
2. Your butt does not know how to drive a car, thought it is old enough to do so.
3. Your butt voted for George W. Bush. Twice. Making your butt an Ass.
4. Your butt can barely program in BASIC, and when it does, it has to do it barely.
5. Your butt's xylophone playing always lags about a half beat behind the trumpets. It's not supposed to!
6. At charades, your butt lacks an adequate knowledge of contemporary film to flesh out scenes.
7. Your butt mumbles when speaking, even when addressing the United Nations.
8. Your butt got lost in the mini-mall.
9. Your butt's understanding of Robert's Rules of Order is superficial at best, leading to many procedural gaffes during council meetings.
10. Your butt often clicks on e-mail attachments that promise to increase the size of its genitals, which is stupid on a couple different levels.
11. One time, on the witness stand, your butt mistakenly pled the Sixth.
January 27, 2008
Here's a few differences to look for when determining whether you are dealing with me or with God.
1. I am 6'4" and built like Kate Moss with larger breasts; God is 5'11" and too fond of whip cream to fit in all but the 'Husky Deity' line of clothing.
2. God hates when you stick your tongue in his ear. Me? Well, just give it a try.
3. God is all-seeing and all-knowing. I am all-sleeping and very good at Trivial Pursuit.
4. I can still run a six-minute mile. God tells everyone he can, and the morons believe him.
5. God is vengeful and wrathful. I am jealous and cranky.
6. I am in touch with my feminine side. God assumes he's a man, but has his doubts.
7. I have a tattoo of a flaming skull on my back. God's is on his butt.
8. God's robes flow behind him like curls of wind. Mine frequently pop open in front of cute women I see in the park.
9. I built my house on solid ground. God built his on faith, but he's still paying off the mortgage.
10. God is omnipotent. I once drove a Dodge Omni.
11. I care about humanity. God cares about humanity only when humanity cares about God, and only when he's not doing something important.
January 24, 2008
These demon teachers fail to realize that my children are Christian! If exposed to swearing, they will easily succumb to its seductive call and become Not Christian because they are gullible and naive and cannot be counted on to speak cleanly after such a heinous, literary assault.
Here are more reasons I'm relieved that the evangelical community is finally standing up to the bully that is public education:
1. Teachers have been getting away with free speech for far, far too long.
2. Swearing in books will almost certainly induce swearing in buses and in hallways.
3. Art, unlike religion, is about devious mind control.
4. Provides me with a convenient target on which to unleash my fears.
5. Will lead children to prurient dissection of frog naughty bits, then to rape and murder.
6. If my tax dollars can't be used to buy Bibles for public schools, then they shouldn't be used to buy any other books either.
7. Profanity equals immorality; it's no coincidence that it's called "Hell" - a known swear word.
8. Reminds me that any problems with my child are almost certainly linked to the bad influence of education.
9. My children will appreciate life so much more when I do the tiring work of closing their minds for them.
10. Wolves never hide in sheep's clothing: If someone doesn't swear, they are obviously a good person.
11. Seeing the world with the powerful simplicity of a third-grade, right-or-wrong morality really helps me zip through my day.
January 22, 2008
In fact, a metaphor isn't like anything at all.
It just is.
Being thus, it's plain to see that a metaphor can be anything at all, provided it isn't like anything else.
Which means, contrarily, that a metaphor can be a simile, but a simile can never be a metaphor.
You can have a simile used metaphorically in which case it is a metaphor and not like a simile at all.
You can't have a metaphor used like a simile; because it would then be a simile which is not a metaphor.
Got it? Good.
A metaphor can also be another metaphor as long as it resists the temptation to be like another metaphor.
A metaphor that is a metaphor for another metaphor is, itself, a meta-metaphor, but this does not mean that the meta-metaphor is like like the metaphor for which it is metaphorically representing.
It does mean that the meta-metaphor is a representation of the is which the metaphor it represents is representing metaphorically.
It is entirely possible, even given these parameters, that a metaphor could like something else.
A metaphor could even like a simile or another metaphor; it could not, however, like being like a simile or another metaphor.
You could have a metaphor that liked a metaphor that was a metaphor for liking something else.
You could even have a metaphor that liked a simile that was like liking something else entirely.
It is even possible to have a metaphor that like-liked a simile in a junior high sort of way; provided that the metaphor didn't like-like the simile like another metaphor did, because this would lead to fisticuffs and unclear literary distinctions.
Fighting among metaphors would be rare, of course. They are generally a likable bunch. Personally, I've never met a metaphor that I didn't like.
Metaphors, in that way, are unlike similes. Similes are like those jerks who always like to pretend that they like each other, like the phonies they like to be like.
January 18, 2008
You're connected, but not all the way. It's like drowning: sure, you're in the pool, but you ain't swimming.
If I were in charge of the hold messages of this world, they would all be in English - take that not-good understanderers of American!
Also, I would try to inject something extra special into them, which, unfortunately, was the same reason I was convicted the first couple times. Apparently, not everyone likes an extra special injection, especially that bitch of a judge who was hearing my case.
Enough of that old, silly, raging bitterness and hatred, and back to being on hold and the interminable, dull-witted, assurances of my importance to which I must listen. These messages are in need of rewording, reinterpreting and repeating every 30 seconds between snatches of fucking awful, easy-listening, smooth jazz. (Really, who decided "easy-listening" meant "shit"? Shit is hard-listening, period.)
Here are some of my reworkings for various hold messages:
1. Thank you for calling 911. Your call is very important to us. One of our courteous, professional agents will be with you shortly. If this is an emergency, please hang up now and call 911.
2. Hello and thank you for communicating with the Organization for Overstated Obviousness via a telecommunications device of some sort. You are listening to a recording. This recording is now going to tell you that no one can speak to you at this exact moment; so you must continue to listen to this recording until someone else from O.O.O. that is not this recording can talk to you. No one can speak to you at this exact moment; you must continue to listen to this recording until someone else who is not this recording can speak to you. This recording is still speaking to you, and you are listening. It will now repeat what it said previously only as a means to continue to remind you that you are listening to a recording and no one else at O.O.O. is yet available to speak to you. No one can speak to you at this exact moment; you must continue to listen to this recording until someone else who is not this recording can speak to you. This recording is still speaking to you, and you are listening. It will now repeat what it said previously only as a means to continue to remind you that you are listening to a recording and no one else at O.O.O. is yet available to speak to you. No one can speak to you at this exact moment; you must continue to listen to this recording until someone else who is not this recording can speak to you....
3. Wow! You've reached the Suicide Hotline! First thing you've done right in a while, I'll bet. Your call is very important to us, but you are not. Our funding is based on the number of calls received, and we've just counted yours as received. So, can you hang up now? We don't want to tie up the line in case someone important decides to call.
4. You've reached the American On Hold Association - we didn't make America, but we make America wait. You are now on hold. Thank you for allowing us to fulfill your telecommunication delay needs. Please hang up as soon as you have become appropriately frustrated.
5. Hello, and thank you for calling your mother. Your call is important to me, sweetie; unfortunately I am busy attending to many of your other needs. I will be with you as soon as possible. Perhaps, you can just sit there and think about all the horrible things you did while you're waiting.
6. Thank you for calling Dial-An-Addict. You're so awesome. You're just amazing. You're always there to help me. I love you so much. I'm so sorry for all the crap I've put you through, but I'm going to straighten up from here on out. I promise. It's so important to me to answer your call right now, but I can't. Seriously, though, don't worry about it. I'll be there really soon, and then I'll totally make it up to you. Honest.
7. Welcome to the collective existential subconscious. Your call is representative of humanity's dire need to connect. We are all alone, but no one can ever be alone. The need for human connection will always be there. Omnipresent. You, like every other human being, needs to connect to try to defy the ultimate unknown: death. Though you are terminable, your desperation will keep you on hold interminably.
8. Gee! Thanks for calling your liver. I'd love to take your call, but you're killing me down here! What was that you drank last night? That shit takes a lot of work to clear out, you know? So, don't distract me right now, or I'll get the stomach involved. Understand?
9. Minimalist Hotline. Important, but hold. Talk soon.
January 17, 2008
"No, Monkey! No!" - a new play definitely not for kids despite the whole monkey angle - by me, Brendon Etter
No, Monkey! No!
Setting: Bare stage
(Lights up. WOMAN enters, notices brown splotches on the opposite wall of the stage about seven feet off the floor, gets very upset.)
(MONKEY enters, this should be a man with a rudimentary monkey tail pinned to the seat of his pants, otherwise entirely human)
W: (pointing) Look at that!
W: The brown! The splotches!
M: Hey, don't look at me.
W: I'll look at you all I want! No, Monkey! No! You can't do that!
M: What? I...
W: I can't believe you did it again!
M: No, it...
W: I thought we had come to an understanding.
M: I didn't do it!
W: No, Monkey! No! Don't deny it!
W: Don't! You can't do that! You know that!
M: I know, but...
W: What are we going to do about this? I just repainted that wall from the last time.
M: Listen! I didn't do it! I know you don't believe me...
W: Who did then?
M: The cat.
W: We don't have a cat!
M: We had one.
W: Don't bring Kittysaurus into this!
W: Don't you dare!
M: I'm just saying the cat did it.
W: No, she didn't, Monkey! I painted those walls after Kittysaurus died.
W: Besides how could the cat get it seven feet off the ground?
M: It had explosive diarrhea.
W: Oh! Don't give me that!
M: It did!
W: Monkey! Just stop the lies, okay? (pause, she collects herself) You can't throw your shit everywhere. You just can't. We have a toilet. Use it. You were potty-trained at the zoo. You're a big monkey now.
M: You don't need to patronize me.
W: I feel like I have to because you're just not getting it. We've been through this before. I thought you understood.
M: I do. It was the cat.
W: Listen. Even if we still had a cat, and even if it was that cat, and even if that cat - (as a run-on, rapid fire sentence) that we no longer have because it died a horrible, horrible death that I wish you would stop reminding me of because I feel guilty enough about it already - had explosive diarrhea, it would not be seven feet off the ground!
M: (quietly) There's a reason for that.
W: Oh! The truth comes out now?
M: I was holding the cat above my...
W: Kittysaurus is dead, Monkey! Dead! Stop it! I killed her! You know how cruel it is for you to bring this up?
M: Stop blaming yourself! Kittysaurus ate what she wasn't supposed to eat.
W: I know, but...
M: She never should have been on the counter...
W: But, my baking...
M: Is God awful, and I never thought it would kill either, but Kittysaurus was a cat. She was curious. Too, too curious.
W: Her little kitty tummy.
M: Could not stand up to your Chocolate Brownie Surprise.
W: No... but I tried so hard.
M: (hugging Woman close) She never should have been on the counter.
W: You're right.
M: No place for kitties.
W: I'm still trying.
M: And I thought you were making progress.
W: (pulling away) What's that supposed to mean?
M: It's just...
M: I told you... that's not my feces on the wall.
W: Stop lying, Monkey! You know you throw your shit!
M: I admit I am powerless over poo-flinging.
W: Well, big congratulations on completing the first step of your recovery, but you’re obviously off the wagon now!
M: I am not. That is neither my feces, nor did I fling it.
W: Damn it, Monkey! We don't have a cat!
M: Have you even checked?
W: I know we don't have one!
M: Checked the wall, I mean.
M: (very sincere, affectionate) That’s really not my fecal matter.
W: Wait... you mean...
M: The Chocolate Brownie Surprise you made this morning.
W: (who has moved to the wall, sniffed, reached up, scraped some of the brown off the wall, and then tasted it) Ohhh, Monkey.
W: I'm so sorry. This doesn't taste like your poop at all.
M: Apology accepted.
W: (moving to hug Monkey, then stopping) Wait, how did it get on the wall though?
M: I... well...
M: Ummm... you've just been so depressed lately, with Kittysaurus dying, and then her little cremation ceremony...
W: That was as Kittysaurus wished.
M: Yes, we both know that, of course, but it was so hard on you.
W: She was a dear friend.
M: Yes, she was, but that was so long ago, and I thought that... well...
M: We needed to move on.
W: I've been getting better.
M: In my culture... in the Land of the Monkeys... for I am a monkey.
W: Yes, Monkey. I know.
M: In the Land of the Monkeys, we resolve our grief by taking the physical death onto ourselves.
M: Into ourselves, I should say.
W: Okay... (pause) and...
M: I was just so happy that you were going back to your baking.
W: My attempts at baking.
M: So last night, after you picked my nits, and went to bed, I took the adorable urn off the mantle...
W: Kittysaurus's final resting place?!
M: And mixed the ashes in with the sugar.
W: You what?!!
M: In my culture....
W: Fuck your culture! You sick, sick fuck!
M: Hey, I was acting according to my primate programming!
W: So my Chocolate Brownie... (shakes and recoils)
M: ...Surprise! I thought it would end your grief...
W: If I ate Kittysaurus?!
M: Well, her ashes. Was that so wrong?
W: (advancing on Monkey, hitting and crying) You're sick! You can't... I'm going to send you back to...
M: (shielding himself, overlapping her significantly) Wait! Wait! There's more! Wait!
W: What? You bury the goldfish in the butter?
M: (pause, as Monkey considers this) No. I thought you could use a new kitty.
M: So, you know that stray that has been living in the alley?
M: When you went to work, I brought her into the house.
W: I'm not sure I'm ready... wait, where is she?
M: In my room.
W: Let me go see her.
W: I could use a cat to pet right now.
M: Well... it wouldn't be a good idea.
M: This new kitty was also curious.
M: As kitties often are...
M: Too, too curious...
W: No, Monkey...
M: Yes, woman.
W: Don't say it!
M: I must! It is my duty as an honest monkey.
W: Fine! But, quickly.
M: She got on the counter...
W: The Chocolate Brownie...?
M: Kittysaurus Surprise, yes.
M: She seemed fine at first...
W: No! No!
M: Just a few bites I think, but...
W: No! Monkey, no!
M: She started mewling and retching...
W: Ohh no, Monkey! No!
M: I remembered that Kittysaurus couldn't get the sticky goop out of her little tummy...
W: Ohhh... Monkey...
M: (miming this as it happened) I picked up the kitty, with my thumbs on her tummy, and I held her above my head...
W: No... No...
M: ...and I tried to shake it out, and I was over by the wall...
M: ...but like I said, explosive diarrhea...
W: Did she make it?
M: Sadly, no.
W: And now?
M: We'll need to replace the ashes that you baked...
W: That seems only right.
W: I'll should build the tiny cremation pyre.
M: I'll get the body.
W: (looking at the splotches) It tasted like chocolate this time.
M: It wasn't in her little tummy for very long, I suppose.
W: Yeah. (long pause, they stare at the splotches) Seen any more cats in the area?
M: Getting pretty thin, but there's always another Kittysaurus, somewhere.
W: (shivering with erotic anticipation, becoming sultry, moving to Monkey) And you're so good at getting...(it should be obvious what she was going to say here)... cats.
M: I have to be; for I am Monkey. My species must prosper!
W: (straddling Monkey's leg, grinding on his thigh, highly aroused) Yes, it must! Fuck the cats! You must fuck the cats!
M: Now, now... we have a job to do.
W: (frustrated, pulling on him) Ohh... come on! The bedroom, Monkey, come on.
M: No. First, we burn the cat. Then, I burn your cat.
M: I am a Monkey of singular honor.
W: (cuddling into his chest) Ahh... I love our life.
M: We've got so much going for us.
W: (change in tone) Can I be Monkey next time?
M: No... I'm Monkey!
W: You've been Monkey for the last five Kittysauri.
M: (taking off his tail, handing it to her) Oh, alright, but then I'm making Angelfood Cake Surprise.
W: (laughs) Oh, that's truly awful!
M: Yes, it is.
W: Hey, we can use the whiskers as candles! It’s your birthday soon.
M: Yeah! (they rub noses and giggle) Lighter fluid's in the garage.
W: Great! Thanks, sweetie.
(parting ways, exiting opposite sides of the stage)
W: Hey, don't forget that cute little cremation shroud I knitted.
M: Of course, of course.
January 16, 2008
Setting: Bare stage.
(Lights up. MAN1 and MAN2 sit on front lip of stage, close together, looking off at the horizon.)
Man1: That's true enough.
1: Yeah, kinda cold.
1: Perfect though.
1: I'd rather have this temperature...
1: ...than a warmer one.
1: Keeps you alive.
2: It could.
1: Torpor, that's what they call it.
1: Heat makes you lazy.
1: You think so?
2: Yeah, it does.
1: But I don't get it.
1: How you can hate this.
2: Not the temperature.
2: I like the temperature.
1: Oh. (pause) Really?
1: But I thought...
2: I said I didn't like the sunset.
1: You like the temp though?
2: Yeah. Temp's fine.
1: I though you hated the temp.
2: You didn't listen.
1: Hey! No need to get personal.
2: You didn't.
1: Simple mistake is all.
1: So this sunset or...?
2: All sunsets.
2: Too final.
2: My opinion.
1: Yeah, but it's wrong.
2: Just an opinion.
1: A wrong opinion.
2: They just seem so final.
1: No, it's the down payment on tomorrow's sunrise.
2: It's a reminder of death.
2: The transition to nothingness.
2: The crush of darkness.
2: Removing the source of all life.
2: Pulling away from light.
2: The blackness of the grave.
2: Just my opinion.
2: I'm allowed that, right?
1: Yeah, but you're wrong.
2: No, I'm not.
1: You're a negative thinker.
2: No, I'm a realist.
1: Reality gets you in trouble.
2: Only from you.
1: Well, someone has to stand up for optimism.
2: Fine, but why did you stab me?
2: Just a couple minutes ago.
1: Ohhh.... that...
2: Yeah, that.
1: Stabbed you in the back?
1: Thought you meant why did I stab you in the leg last week...
2: No, we settled that.
1: ... or in the face at your wedding...
2: No, that one made sense...
1: ... or like that one time I stabbed you in the shoulder...
2: In ninth grade...
1: Yeah, that time.
2: No, I meant why did you stab me in the back a couple minutes ago?
1: Well, you were talking shit about the weather, and...
2: The sunset!
1: I thought you were talking about the temp.
2: No, the sunset!
1: Alright, the sunset!
1: That's like the weather.
2: No! It's the sunset!
1: Anyway, so I was confused.
2: Yeah, but you didn't need to stab me.
1: Well, someone's got to stand up for the weather.
1: And optimism.
2: I think you nicked an artery this time.
1: Hey now, let's keep it positive.
2: No, I really think...
1: Let's just let the sun set here...
2: (starting to droop and fade to the side) I hate... the sunset.
1: ... then we'll see about getting you some help.
2: Hate it.
1: We've covered that.
2: (all the way on his side, breathing becoming shallower) I do.
1: Down payment on tomorrow, man.
2: Too final.
1: Shhhhhh... just watch.
2. Too dark.
(2 is going completely limp, eyes closing, 1 notices)
1: Hey, keep your eyes open.
2: I can't...
1: Not with that attitude.
1: (looking out with hushed excitement) Hold on, hold on, this is the best part.
January 15, 2008
1. 1/666 is the Reciprocal Number of the Beast
2. X666 is the Power of the Beast
3. 6! 6! 6! is the Superbowl Halftime Number of the Beast (Jazz hands, everyone!)
4. 696 is the Number of the Beast enjoying itself a bit too much
5. 111 is the Number of the Anorexic Beast
6. 6... 6....... 6... is the Number of the Overly Dramatic Beast
7. "Dearest Mother,
How are you? Things are going well. Work is hell. I can handle the screams, but what is it about a piercing wail that just eats away at my darkly-tinctured soul? I thought I would just..."
is the Letter of the Beast
8. 00666 is the Spy Number of the Beast
9. 666-ish is the Number of the Poseur Beast
January 14, 2008
I mean, we all know what it is, of course.
I hope someone does.
If you do, could you let me know? Please. It would really help with this article.
It might have something to do with sex. That's what I've been told.
Here's what I know about this poorly-researched and certainly underfilmed phenomenon. It is estimated that, every day in America, nearly four and a half people have an orgasm! The same four and a half people every day.
With increased immigration into the country, we might see that average rise to five people per day, eliminating that messy half-person's orgasm.
Orgasms typically result from vigorous stimulation of the genitals, or from shoe shopping (women only).
No man will ever prime her pump like a prime pair of pumps. This explains why women spend so much time and effort on finding proper shoes: each new pair holds the possibility of sexual fulfillment, while each new man holds the impossibility of sexual fulfillment.
If we, as a society, ever hope to harness this mystical beast called "Orgasm" and understand its allure, we must find these four and a half people... somewhere.
Ask yourself: Have I seen anyone, or half of anyone, quivering uncontrollably, eyes rolling back in his or her head, releasing fluid from between the legs, moaning indiscernibly? Have you?
Caution: This person, or half-person, might be experiencing an orgasm or a state-sponsored electrocution. How can you tell the difference? Is the chair plugged in, or are you in Texas? Both correlate strongly with electrocution. Failing either one of these signs, you could always ask.
If the person is not being executed, then quickly call the medical authorities. Orgasm sufferers must receive immediate intervention from professionals or risk extensive, long-term damage to their underwear and other sensitive tissues.
Chafing is a traumatic, but very real, possibility in chronic cases.
Extensive chafing, if in the wild, could set an entire forest ablaze. I beg you, for the trees, find these people. Get them help. Do it out of concern, out of spite, out of love for the great outdoors, for whatever reason, but do it, and then do it again.
Do it! Do it!
Only you can prevent orgasm forest fires.
Thank you for understanding.
January 11, 2008
January 9, 2008
2. It's Scottish, and hating Scottish things is fun!
3. It snobbishly refuses to hang out with the Yeti.
4. It leaves slimy flipper prints all over your stuff.
5. It eats its own fart bubbles.
6. It was supposed to pick you up at six, but instead insisted on its old "I'm a prehistoric anomaly that doesn't know how to drive" routine.
7. Despite your years of training, it can still drink you under the table.
8. You're getting really tired of the self-obsessed, last-of-its-kind sob stories.
9. It's just letting its once-lovely figure go.
10. Really lording the whole vegetarian angle over you.
11. Insists on being reclassified from "amphibian" to the more politically correct, but annoying, "bihabitatal".
12. Smells like grog and decaying seaweed.
January 8, 2008
1. Most of the murder charges did not stick.
2. Changing my name to Brendon Notbush.
3. Sound fiscal policies like encouraging Americans to steal from rich foreigners more often.
4. Increasing sustainability through the development of the United States Strategic Used Paper Towel Reserve.
5. Doubling Constitutional rights on Two-for-Tuesdays.
6. I would speak with a different silly accent each month.
7. I am capable of both shaking it and moving it - invaluable in dance floor diplomacy.
8. I only ever sleep with one woman; her name is The United States of America, and she's a sexy, sexy bitch.
9. Three words: No more war-unless-my-poll-numbers-get-too-low.
10. Would reduce dependence on foreign oil by powering the smaller states with large packs of D batteries.
11. Respectable shooting percentage from beyond the arc.
12. Would end Middle East struggle by establishing a new, hybrid religion: Jislam.
January 7, 2008
Oh, hi there. You caught me thinking... So, new metaphors for "making love," itself a crafty metaphor, but, alas, one that has long since passed hackneyed and gone right on into full amputropism.
So, let's not spare the rod while beating around this bush, on with the new metaphors:
1. Fabricating Rapture
2. Amassing Mash
3. Affection Erection
4. Constructing Ardor
5. Synergizing Synchronization
6. Composing Doting
7. Adulation Formation
8. Tooling Zeal
9. Yielding Yieldings
10. Producing Procreatively
11. Mongering Fucks
12. Jilting Jiltedness
13. Seeding Breeding
14. Assembling Trembling
15. Originating Organisms Orgasmically
16. Rendering Rearendering
17. Giving Groping
18. Authoring Another
19. Hewing Screwing
January 5, 2008
1. Probably changing the name to either "Making Sterile Monogamous Love To Seven Women" or "Sex With Three And A Half Women" - which would decrease it's immorality by fifty per cent!
2. Taking out three of the four gang bang scenes.
3. No longer requiring audience members to renounce Christ as a condition for admission.
4. Constantly stopping the play to ask the audience to make suggestions for increasing its inspirational attributes.
5. Goat sacrifice scene will now be shown on video, not live.
6. Cameo appearance by Jesus right before the first intermission.
7. Two words: Cuddly-Wuddly bunnies.
8. Police on hand at all times to arrest anyone for thoughts or actions which reach a certain level on their Immoralometers.
9. Replacing most gratuitous sex with gratuitous violence.
10. All stage nudity will be tastefully digitized out.
11. Script being screened by the appropriate federal and state government agents.
12. Making it very difficult for people to see the show by not once telling them where they can purchase tickets.
(NB: This is satire. I do wish I could have worked bunnies into the play somewhere, though, especially cuddly-wuddly ones with the adorable little noses that twitch, and the soft ears, and...)
January 4, 2008
1. 999 is the Number of the Beast who Walks on Its Hands
2. -666 is the Number of the Pessimist Beast
3. 6666 is the Number of Papa Beast
4. 3 is the Number of Beastie Boys
5. 668 is the Number of the Beast after a big Thanksgiving dinner
6. .666 is the Number of the Beast of Lilliput
7. (666) is the Number of the Hidden Beast
8. 666-6666 is the Number of the Beast's Favorite Chinese Take-Out Restaurant
9. 766 is the Number of the Beast's Landlord, one floor directly above
10. 2x4 is the Lumber of the Beast
11. 666! is the Number of the Ego of the Beast
12. 696 is the Number of the Confused Beast
13. bbb is the Number of the Reverse Leet Beast
14. 777 is the Number of the Beast's Testicles
15. 333 is the Num of the Beast
16. ^^^ is the Number of the Shifty Beast
17. 6 is the Nicknumber of the Beast
18. 666i is the Number of the Imaginary Beast
19. 6666 6666 6666 6666 is the Credit Card Number of the Beast, it never expires (evil laugh, evil laugh)
20. 888 is the Number of the Well-Rounded Beast
21. ??? is the Unlisted Number of the Beast
January 1, 2008
2. Their carbon footprint is twice that of a human's, especially when they walk directly on carbon.
3. Still have not repaid all the money you loaned them several years ago.
4. Horrible parallel parkers.
5. Most are not officially licensed to urinate in public.
6. It's not so much that they eat shit; it's that they eat shit without even asking where it came from, or if it belongs to someone else.
7. Apparently, you are not allowed to just throw them out.
8. Most definitely do not taste like chicken.
9. You suspect that they do not really get your writing.
10. Don't call home when they know they'll be late.
11. No matter how many times you ask, no matter how much you are willing to pay, a dog will never teach you how to lick your own genitals.
12. Creepily loyal, almost clingy.
13. Still have not released to the CIA their top-secret database that is believed to contain the ass-sniff prints of many suspected terrierists.
14. They taunt physicists with their knowledge of speeding up time sevenfold.
15. Do they really "love you", or are they just saying that because they need you?
16. They bark loudly when you argue with them because they know they're losing.
17. Don't look good in even the sexiest of underwear.
18. Some canine ambassadors may not be bargaining in good faith with feline diplomats.
19. Are whores for meat.
20. Unable to make up their minds: they whine when you step on their tail, but they whine louder when you cut it off.
21. You would think their heightened sense of smell would convince them of their urgent need to shower or brush their teeth or put on some deodorant... something.
22. You suspect that, sometimes, they bark just to hear themselves bark.
23. They frequently forget to mow the lawn.
24. Lousy at croquet.
25. Not recyclable.