An Overmodulated Recording of a Terrible Impression of Michael Jackson

Hey! Look! It's Michael Jackson! Wow!



And here's a picture of a fat woman with a trumpet:



Do you know what they're pointing at? Good for you. Have a nice weekend.

Fun with Search Queries

Note: items in bold print are genuine search queries the led people to this site. I have changed them only for purposes of capitalization. Oh, and I've basically stolen this idea from Ian of Wrapped Up Like a Douche fame. Please direct all mean-spirited e-hoaxes his way. Thank you.
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Somewhere, not far from here, Will Smith kisses an Albanian girl. She likes it. "Show me the world, Will," she tells him, "show me old people with shitty underpants. I want to see Cindy Williams urinating. I want to see a short woman standing beside Shaq O'Neal."

"I sure love titties!" responds the famous actor, grabbing one. "Especially ones like these kansas tits you've got. Why, I do believe you have the worlds longest tits."

"You can teach me so much, Fresh Prince," continues the Albanian girl. "For instance, I would like you to prove Nevada is not a wasteland historically. And then, you can tell me stories of boys wearing sweatpants or ones about straight werewolves fucking each other."

Will Smith chuckles. "Yeah, baby, I can do all that. Hey, you know this building we're sitting in front of?"

"Yes..."

"Zsa Zsa Gabor had an abortion right in that office, up there on the second floor."

"You always love to talk about Zsa Zsa Gabor unwanted pregnancies. Why is that?"

"You could just as easily ask, what ways does the woodlouse have to protect itself? The world is full of questions."

"Yes, it is full of questions, as well as testicle bashing videos and stories about pineapples."

"Jesus Christ, baby, did you just take the longest shit in the world inside your pants or something, because all of a sudden it smells like a Juarez massage parlor up in here."

"Maybe what you smell is the Pope."

"Hey! There is nothing funny about the Pope dying! I think I've had just enough of this. I'm going home to write some tetherball poetry and maybe go through my collection of funny Jimmy Buffet t-shirts."

"Fine. I have a date with Utah's sexiest man, anyway--and I just happen to be wearing my Greg Ostertag panties."

"Smell my black pussy, bitch!"

"I hate you, Will Smith. Fuck you, and fuck Ronnie Milsap!"

The end.

Well I Say It's My Birthday...

Oh yeah it's my birthday too, yeah.
Etc.

Anyway, my birthday present to me is: not writing anything right now. It fits beautifully. Thanks to all the well-wishers and such. You make it all worthwhile. Now fuck off.

Stooping to New Lows

I was in Beverly Hills this morning for reasons I need not go into, and as I was heading into the lot in which I'd left my car, an old man in a wheelchair asked if I could spare a little money. I thought about it for a few seconds before declining, telling him that I'd like to, but that things are kind of tough right now. "Well then," he said, and grabbed all the dollar bills in his cup and moved to hand them to me.

"Things aren't that tough," I said, unsure of whether he was fucking with me or making some sort of statement. He put all the bills but one back in his cup and pressed it into my hand. "Oh good," I said, "now I've got some money I can give you," and tried to hand it back to him. He refused, telling me to use it to pay for parking or something. I tried several times to give it back to him, but he wouldn't let me, and eventually it became clear that it would now be rude of me to give it back, so I thanked him and started to go. "Here, have another one," he said, holding out another dollar bill. "I can tell you have a good heart." I ran off without taking it.

Later, I used the dollar to purchase some rat poison, which I force-fed to a homeless man in West Hollywood. God bless irony.

Presumably, A Very Slow News Day

So... I went to this party Saturday night. I'm a little uneasy about saying anything, because I'm definitely fond of a bunch of the people who were there, but I found myself in a lot of conversations with people who wanted to talk about nothing but themselves (in all fairness, I did have a few conversations--the few good ones--in which I was the main subject being discussed). I'm sorry, but there are only so many times I can listen to people list their favorite bands before slinking away and driving home without saying goodbye (soory about that, by the way). I don't know. Maybe I'm old. The people there were mostly 24 or 25, which isn't that much younger than 30 and 362/365ths (by the time you read this, I will be 30 and 364/365ths), but I do feel like there's something of a generation gap. I mean, not one person I spoke to knew who the Dionne Quints were. And it's amazing how easy it is to derail a conversation about popular culture by saying something like, "So, did you see Houdini's latest?" or, "How 'bout that Rodgers and Hart!"

Meanwhile, the male-to-female ratio was something like 10,000:1, and every woman there was either married, engaged, in a serious relationship, or gay. Honestly, I tried to chat up this one girl, and she immediately wondered aloud where her girlfriend wandered off to. Which is probably for the best, as my conversational skills are not exactly at their peak; I found myself talking about driving a lot, and about where different neighborhoods are located, both of which subjects inevitably got me thinking about my job and made me depressed. Not that I find my job all that depressing, but I really don't like thinking about it. Seriously, the other day I had a dream about reading a map. It's no fun. A little more fun than FOX's "Kelsey Grammer Presents: The Sketch Show," maybe, but still not very fun.

Okay. Enough. Just one last thing: stay tuned in the coming weeks as this site takes a dramatic leap from the 20th century (where I still live) into the millionth century. A.D., motherfuckers. That's anno domini to all y'all Latin speakers. More as it occurs.