Celebrity Logic Baffles Me.

I get that Britney wants a perfume. And Jessica wants a clothing line. But Bono designing advanced consumer electronics? At least those two nitwits know something about smelling good and dressing well (I assume, at least in the case of Jessica, although Brit is trying, bless her little trashy heart). But now Bono thinks he can revolutionize mobile technology.

How exactly would that work? If he’s following his musical career path the phone would be really cool and interesting at the start, but then become ridiculous and ostentatious as time went on. It would most certainly suffer from “feature-bloat” as have U2′s live shows, going from little local pubs to bizarre spectacles of televised egomaniacal gluttony. And then it would start pretending to be more than a phone. It would want to meet with other devices, espousing personal beliefs and philosophies that no one asked to hear. And while it might be doing good work, the stench of crass commercialism would permeate all its doings. Eventually, you’d realize it’s not the phone you bought initially, or even want to use anymore, since there are other, more groundbreaking devices, and this one just pisses you off when you look at it.

And you’ll go on to something else, but it’ll still be yapping away in your old gadget drawer, in a futile effort to remain relevant, using the guise of humanitarianism to cloak more sinister corporate and political desires. Or something like that.

A Quick Thought On A Saturday Morning

Why the hell does Comedy Central, a network that, by its own admission, is devoted to making me laugh, at its commercial breaks show the longest, most depressing, soul-blackening “starving African child” money-beg adverts?

Think about it. I tuned in because my life is painful and depressing enough. Granted, I’m not an idiot, things could be so much worse, believe me, I know. I’m never ungrateful for what I have, and as I get older, in fact, have become even more aware of how much worse it could be. But on a Saturday morning, when I throw on your channel to watch some funny things, don’t – DON’T – break away from a funny show to tell me the story of “Alex”, whose parents were both killed, and who has to, at the age of twelve, take care of his FOUR younger brothers. DON’T tell me how he fears for the future of his family, and how he often doesn’t eat food for himself, but rather gives it to his younger siblings.

It’s my weekend. If I wanted to feel bad about myself, I’d think of all the time I’ve wasted drinking myself into a stupor and all the missed opportunities I passed up in favor of killing the brain cells the good lord gave me. Show me some damned comedy, COMEDY Central.

Unless you’re planning on changing your name to “Blindside Central”. In which case these choices of commercials will fit in perfectly well with your other planned programming. Which, I assume will include shows about people winning large sums of money only to be told that they will be hunted like animals in order to claim it, and many others.

My Brain Hurts.

Right now, I want to drive a spike through my brain. Like a big, rusty railroad pin. I feel like the last few weeks and months have done nothing to establish my sanity, but have made great inroads to erode my ability to suppress “the urges”. And by “the urges”, picture Jack Nicholson in The Shining. Yeah. So we’re on the same page now.

First off, I’m getting married. Which should be awesome. But you know what? There’s a reason I never host parties. It’s because I hate thinking about all the crap that happens when you’re in charge of arranging a party. And a wedding is HUGE MOTHERFUCKIN’ PARTY. Don’t get me wrong: I love my little girl so much it makes my head hurt, but this whole process is not for me. I can’t wait until we’re just married and I can be like “Yeah, that was cool”.

Then, there’s the house. Trying to buy one, everyone says I should, now’s the time, etc. Problem is, I don’t have all this money that you need to buy a house. And the few houses I can afford are not really doing it for me. And I don’t know if you heard, but our entire country is in the toilet financially. And by toilet, I mean “Hell toilet”. And by “Hell toilet”, I mean Satan is taking a hearty beer-and-taco dump on everything everyone touches. I even have good credit, and yet, this whole endeavor is terrifying. Again, should be exciting; in actuality, fear is gripping my yambag like a Gitmo interrogator, and squeezing a little harder each day.

It turns out that a fitting parallel for how this financial horseshit is all being resolved is that AIG is suing the government for trying to take away the money that it stole outright. I mean, I suppose they feel a little slighted by this whole thing, with everyone being so mean to them. Poor AIG. Hey, you know what? Maybe if you didn’t fist-fuck the country with a glove full of honey and broken glass like Tong Po in Kickboxer, we wouldn’t be so angry. People are out for blood now, and they’re not backing down. It was suggested that the offending execs commit suicide themselves, as in Japanese culture, but that would indicate that they feel a crushing amount of shame for what they did, and were not able to go on living. Clearly, they feel fine, and the hookers and blow and helicopters and rugs made of failed mortgages and homeless people speak to that end.

And I’m sorry, really I am, but when I see The Big O joking and jerking around on Jay Leno, it makes me think that he’s not taking this shit as seriously as he should. I know it’s a big problem. I know it’s going to take a long time to clean up. But from everything I’ve been hearing, it feels like we’re going fucking BACKWARDS. And that’s not a good message to be sending. He’s upholding Bush-era policies, promising change, and then insulting retards. (PS: we all know retards can’t bowl. It’s not a secret. Give the guy a break. If they could, the PBA would be a LOT more interesting.) But seriously, he needs to buckle the hell down and stop cracking wise. FDR wouldn’t have done this kind of shit, and neither should he.

Then(!), there’s the RIDICULOUS rash of plane-related accidents lately. I mean, COME ON. I’ve been flying my whole life, and as a student of logic, I know numbers are always in my favor, but FOR FUCK’S SAKE! Planes are falling out of the sky like fucking Duck Hunt birds! Only there’s no funny little dog snickering at you and grabbing them to reward your expert marksmanship. No, it’s a scary fireball of anxiety and karmic retribution. I’m seriously asking myself what the hell do I need to travel for? I can see everything I need to with Google Earth, right? If I drink enough, and play ethnic music while looking at street view in other countries, it’s almost the same, right?

Basically, it’s a bad time to be on Earth right now, and there’s not a goddamned thing we can do about it. I think the only thing left for this go-around would be full-scale alien invasion. And at this point, it would be an improvement. At the very least, we could stop thinking about all this crap for a while, and start thinking about living like Anne Frank.

Fight or flight, bitches.

The Utter Indignity Of Defeat

And by that, I simply mean the defeat of my attempt to have a totally rad summer. I am debating putting all of my stuff in a red bandanna and tying it to a small stick and running away, sitcom kid style. But I have way too much crap to fit in a bandanna, and as far as I know, hobos don’t get the best wi-fi signals, so I may re-think that strategy. I did, however, succumb to the ego-crippling wonder that is the iPhone, even after ranting and raving about how sick of it I was last year. I just need to face facts – never say never, and I’m a big, fat hypocrite. What-evs. It’s fucking awesome, even with all the shit wrong with it, so you can go and make a call on your crappy free cell phone that you’ve been rocking since 2002, because I am awesome.

And a sheep.

But an awesome sheep.

Anyway, here are some pictures I found this morning. Naturally, they’re retarded.

No. 1:

Is she upset because of Barney himself, or because Barney just ate some unfortunate person whose terrified face, locked in death’s icy grip is peering out from that purple bastard’s gaping, evil maw?

No. 2:

You know, I did not know that Wayne Newton was actually a Vietnamese transsexual.

No.3:

Former Community College students “Shelly Switchblade” and “Alice Apocalypse” share a drink and talk about macroeconomics.

No. 4:

Note to self: remember that the best way to coax an unwilling animal into a river of sewage is to gain 85 pounds, strip completely naked, and entice it by yanking its face toward my exposed junk, while an assistant slaps its ass.

Some Photos I Saw Yesterday, Or The Day Before

I can’t figure this out. Is she about to faint, but needs to use the bathroom or she’ll make a mess all over the court? Is the woman behind her hugging her or offering marionette-like assistance in her tenuous situation? Either way, that girl does not look pleased. I imagine because she had the opportunity to pee earlier, but was like, “nah, I’ll be fine, what-ev” and now she’s all about to pee all over herself. Or something. Yeah, looks like a case of Missed Pee Regret. Often seen on long car trips.

That is a ridiculously large fish. My question is, in going out for something like that, were sandals really the best footwear choice? I would think his feet are going to smell like fish ass for a while after that little trip. Seriously.

Hi. I’m grasping at whatever fleeting shards of fame’s icy handshake I possibly can, because I don’t want to disappear and become a Trivial Pursuit answer. My girlfriend (?!) “leaked” a “sex tape” recently, and boy was I “pissed”! See? I’m still relevant! All kinds of big (hey!) stars have sex tapes, right? Right? Also, I have little tiny sausage penis fingers.

I don’t know what the hell this lady is so mad about, but the look on the girl’s face says it all. Grandma, fuck right off before I take your AARP card and choke you with it.

Now this… this is really something. Where does one begin when asking questions about this picture? I honestly can’t even form a single coherent thought because my brain is so busy trying to comprehend the fact that a picture like this actually exists with no sense of irony attached to it. This one can be like an open-ended question on a test: you look at the picture and provide the context for it. I’ll get the ball rolling.

And in an instant, Barry knew that this might be his one and only moment to shine. He had meticulously applied his makeup that night, just as he always did, always to be passed over for more svelte, style-conscious roller dancers at the Sandusky Skateporium. But no one could have accounted for mass-pileup of twisted ankles and shattered hopes that occurred on the dance floor at the conclusion of Detroit Rock City. In the gleam of the ambulance lights, (that, really, sort of blended in to the flashing lights inside the rink anyway) Barry calmly and proudly strutted to the center of the floor and began his routine as the first, glistening guitar strands of Magic Man filled the room. Suddenly, he was alone, and knew what he had to do. It was time to show Downtown Sandusky just what Barry LeFevre had been up to all summer. It was time to make Linda sorry that she had ever left him for Brad and his T-Top. A single flashbulb erupted, and everything faded into a swirl of blond wig and legend…