Tired

I'm not used to this "working." My sleep has been broken by frequent dreams, some of them about getting fired. The little money I have (at the moment, I have $-74 in my checking account, and all my credit cards are maxed out) goes to buying gas, which means I can't afford to eat lunch. My finger aches like a motherfucker every time I so much as touch anything, and there is something wrong with my knee. I am in considerable debt, and I need to buy a new spare tire. Also, the excema the periodically afflicts my elbow areas has resurfaced, much to my itchy chagrin. I've also not written anything particularly worthwhile in what feels like months.

Which, basically, is my round-about way of saying that I'm not writing anything worthwhile now. Tough titties, scumbags.

(If you'd like, though, feel free to donate every penny you have, via Paypal, to rob-at-funnsylvania.com. I'm sure he'd appreciate it.)

Undeserving of a Title

First of all, many apologies to those of you who've tried to call me the last few days, only to find my number (1-800-ROB-TALK) is no longer in service; sorry, but I had to change it after the flood of calls that followed the leaking of Paris Hilton's address book. It's a pain in the ass, but that's the price one pays for being in the inner circle of one of the world's dumbest hotel heiresses. Needles to say, that, plus the constant mudslides devestating ever inch of this rain-plagued region, have gotten the week off to a hectic start, one that won't abate any time soon, what with the Oscars coming up and me with six gowns still in the design stage (I'm sorry, Star Jones, but you are not a size 3).

What else? Oh yeah! I completely forgot to mention--I've been selected to serve on the Michael Jackson jury (I knew owning property in Santa Barbara would pay off)! You'd think I already have some funny stories to tell about what I've seen so far, but that's where you would be wrong. Which is not to say that I haven't seen some hilarious things, just that I don't have anything funny to say about them.

All right. It pains me to do this, but I am sleepy, so bye.

Tennis, anyone?

Ha ha! I tricked you. I have nothing to say about tennis--not now, anyway. In fact, it is too late for me to tell you much of anything now. Perhaps the following list of genuine search queries, etc., etc. will appease you. If not, so be it.

• a poem for celia cruz
• free erotic short stories about Arabs
• Sandy Duncan sucking penis
• worst jobs for fat people
• quaker oatmeal funny facts
• news about pineapples and mexico
• how to live down a terrible mistake that ruined my career
• pittsburgh pirates fucking rule
• chubby actor tom bosley gay
• hold your nighty up Sally, said her mother
• lebanese penis size secrets
• naughty Antonio
• whimsical sayings about rain
• david schwimmer one testicle
• "benny hill" racist evidence
• i fucked the mailman
• how can you tell a hermit crab if it is a boy or girl*
• story secret mama with her son when he fuck her pussy
• tickling tickle no please stop ticklish
• steve harvey's childhood
• he owed us money so we made him our bitch rape
• why you so angry cuttino mobley?

The winner, of course, is "naughty Antonio". Thanks for playing.


This picture has nothing to do with anything... Or does it?


* Very carefully?

Happy Birthday, Presidents!

I was going to write something about how all my heroes seem to be dying, but then I realized that it would fail on two counts: 1) it would not be funny, and 2) it would not involve Presidents' Day, the day in which everyone gets together and celebrated the lives of their favorite presidents. (When I was a kid, I thought Presidents' Day honorees included corporate presidents, like my favorite corporate president, Arthur Treacher's honcho, Jeffrey Bernstein. You can imagine the embarrassment that caused!)

Anyway, knowing now what Presidents' Day is really all about, I present to you a brief biographical sketch of my favorite US president of all time, Franklin Pierce.

Franklin Pierce was born in a log in 1804. This was a pretty big deal when he was elected president in 18-something. Everybody would say, "Why, that Franklin Pierce! What humble roots! You know, he was born in a log." Sadly, people stopped talking about when Lincoln became president, because they knew that telling the truth about Franklin Pierce would diminish Abe Lincoln's appeal with the working masses. Lincoln, though, was a big jerk, and was only popular because he was so handsome (back then, giant facial moles and weird-shaped heads were considered the height of fashion).

Franklin Pierce broke into politics as a young man, by murdering a prominent member of his city's (I forget which one--person and city) political machine, which was a pretty impressive machine for its time, but would be laughably rudimentary to us in this, the atomic age. After that, he was well on his way to participating in various governmental processes, none of which I am equipped to talk about. Suffice it to say, he must have been pretty good at it, because he eventually became president

While he was president, such things happened as the Gadsden Purchase and Bleeding Kansas, both of which names I recognize from my 11th grade American History class. He also did a very good job at helping to further muddy the waters of the slavery debate with various actions that alternately appeased and offended just about everybody. Despite the chaotic state of the country during his term in office, Franklin Pierce was resoundingly replaced as president by James Buchanan, considered by all reputable historians to be not only our worst president of all time, but also our gayest and most Pennsylvanian. Not long after that, the Civil War broke out, and America lost her innocence forever (we almost got it back, but then Lynyrd Skynyrd died in that plane crash).

And that is why Franklin Pierce is my favorite US president (except for Jeffrey Bernstein) of all time.

Figured I Should Say Something

Huh. Hunter Thompson killed himself. I'm eager to know why. If it's because he was washed up as a writer, than he probably should have done it some time in the '80s. I don't mean to be insensitive, because I was (for a time, anyway) a big fan, but I found that being a Hunter S. Thompson fan was a frustrating thing. I stopped reading his ESPN.com column a couple years ago; it was such lazy writing, so devoid of anything fresh, such clear evidence that excess had turned his brain to pudding. But I still held out hope that he still had it in him to write something good again. Oh well. Maybe he left a funnysuicide note.

Avenue of Seeing Stars (from pain)

In the previous entry, I cavalierly boasted that a day stuck in traffic was probably as bad as my new job would get. This did not seem like cavalier boasting at the time, but it turns out that it was.

Not long into the next day, I got a $65 parking ticket, meaning that I spent the bulk of my remaining workday hoping to break even (pay varies from day to day, and I will not know how much I've made on any given day until I see the itemized list that comes with each paycheck, the first of which I will not receive until March 5th). I was good and pissed about the parking ticket, because I was not the only person parked in the particular alley's fire lane with my blinkers going. Still, I realized nothing could be done about it, so I did not dwell on what, given my current fiscal status, amounts to something of a minor financial catastrophe, and instead continued with my job. I did well at it, too; I'm learning my way around, learning which roads to avoid, when to use the freeways, when to stick with surface roads, and all that goog, tedious shit. So, despite the steady rains and the aforementioned ticket and getting slighty confused a couple times on the outskirts of Culver City, the rest of my day went pretty well.

That is, it went well until my last delivery; I was pulling into a loading area on Avenue of the Stars in Century City, up along a curb, as directed by the security guard. It turned out, though, that what he'd told me wasn't to pull up against the curb, but to watch out for the curb. Let it suffice to say that, as soon as I dropped off whatever it was I was there to drop off, I went back to my car and got the spare tire out of my trunk. It took me a few minutes to figure out how to use the weird, German jack that came with my car, but soon enough the flat was off. I was just starting to put the spare on when the jack slipped and the car came crashing down. On my hand. I hopped around in pain for a minute or two, then called AAA.

There's really no punchline to this story. I went home and iced my hand. The next day, I went to a clinic and got it x-rayed. Thanks to my superhuman bone density, the alarming swelling in the lower half of my left index finger turned out to be nothing more than a painful contusion. It didn't even garner me any fun drugs, so the tediousness of my weekend lacked even a moderate narco-haze. At least I can take the splint off in the morning.