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Just a few of the names I'm considering using as aliases:
Coolio is the Zsa Zsa Gabor of the 21st century: He doesn't do shit but he's always hangin' around.
I ride the train every weekday. I reverse commute, so I'm usually the only dude in the car. And every morning, the same creepy conductor saunters over and stands expressionless, waitng for me to show him my monthly pass. I know who he is and he knows who I am. He knows damn well that I have a monthly pass. This used to piss me off, but now I play a game in my mind wherein he's the Vampire Lord, and I, the vampire killer, turn him away with my holy monthly-pass crucifix.
I hold the door open for you and you say "Thank you." No problem. I make it to the next set of doors and hold the door open for you again. This time you don't say anything. What the fuck is that?
My favorite salty bar snacks:
More films need to end like Midnight Express. You know, like, maybe 15 minutes into Julia Roberts' next film, someone could headbutt her character in the chest and impale HER head on a wooden peg. Roll credits.
The movie I'd like to see on the Lifetime television network: The 5-hour dramatic courtroom epic about a mentally retarded woman who inherits 12 billion dollars and blows the whole fucking wad on milk and packing foam.
The song "Loveshack" makes me need to set something on fire.
Right now is the quiet time before the new popsong is broadcast wall-to-wall nationwide and inside your skull for the very first time.
Talking toys are more interesting when the batteries are low.
Barry White should get a royalty check everytime a baby is conceived.
Just one time, I'd like to eat in a so-called "hip" restaurant which brags about how it serves only "the freshest and finest authentic Canadian cuisine."
Scene from a film that doesn't exist: In a dim, musky basement of a decrepit highrise, a creepy, little gray hand reaches out of a tiny hole from within a walled-off, cinderblock room. It opens its palm to reveal some surringes.
Billion-Dollar Idea: A television program that features bleeding, screaming, swearing robots that stomp the shit out of one another. Stick with me on this. You see, the point is not simply to win, but to win with the coolest, goriest, most bizarre robot imaginable. Try to picture The Presidents Hall of Fame at Disneyworld combined with Mardis Gras combined with Battlebots combined with the last 30 minutes of the film Dead Alive. Tune in and see an anatomically correct Abraham Lincoln use his hydrolic axe-fists to chop into a 15-foot tall, acid-belching robot mongoose.
I am absolutely convinced that somewhere in this world, there's a guy who has all of his bowel movements on videotape.
Greg Allman, for the love of God, cut your fucking hair!
Set
list from Stevie Wonder's recent benefit performance for people
with an adolescent sense of humor:
Scene from a film that doesn't exist: At the Greek restaurant, some ugly kid keeps peeking at our hero over the back of the booth. He gets tired of this distraction and suddenly tosses the rest of his coffee at the kid.
Sometimes the heat makes the make-up on a woman's face look like silly putty.
The music the couple purchased together matches their couch perfectly.
My all-time favorite themepark attractions:
I don't wanna spoil the magic, but I'd be interested to hear the story parents will have to cook up to explain Santa's Christmas Eve trek 500 years from now when all the kids and their families are spread throughout the entire friggin' solar system.
It would certainly be fascinating if George Thorogood was diagnosed with osteoporosis.
I don't believe in hell, but sometimes I wish I did. I totally sympathize with the dude who dreamed that shit up.
True story: I was eating some soup at a Panera Bread "cafe" when I noticed the following: the man over there was simultaneously talking on his cell phone and politely yet sternly complaining to the spanish-speaking employee about the abscence of the pickle he had requested. The soundtrack overhead which accompanied this drama was a smooth-jazz, muzak interpretation of Bob Marley's popular call to self-empowerment, "Get Up Stand Up."
Which of our three contestants do you think will win Marlon Brando's 11th Annual Celebrity Pie Eating Contest: Ann Wilson, Aretha Franklin, or Linda Ronstadt?
3 visions of hell which I find more terrifying than the Biblical description:
The trouble with people in the city using hands-free things with their cell phones is that I can no longer quickly distinguish between the people who are just walking around, making plans for the weekend and the people who are just plain fucking nuts.
I'd pay good money to see Lou Ferigno and Arnold Schwarzenegger faceoff in a spelling bee.
Remember back in the early days of Wheel of Fortune when a contestant would win a round, and then he or she would be forced to quickly blow the cash on a load of overpriced crap spinning around on the revolving platter of prizes? I used to watch and hope that some crazy person would get in there and jack around with all the prizes before the taping of the show: "Alright, Pat, let's see. I'll take the framed photo of Robin Gibb's dental records for $300, the palette of World War Two era canned corned beef for $1530, and... um... um... let's see... um... oh, and the dandruff-lined stocking cap from the Union Station lost and found for $750."
Teach the animals to scream and plead for their lives and the humans will stop eating them. |
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