A Recording of a Pot Calling a Kettle Black

Here is another audio thing, one that manages to be rambling, yet still somehow cohesive. I hope you enjoy it. (Also, if you listen carefully enough, you can hear the microwave letting me know that my "Bowl Appetit!" fettuccine alfredo was ready.)

That aside, here's what some critics had to say about the new FOX sitcom, "Life on a Stick":

Look out, "That '80s Show"--"Life on a Stick" is about to surpass you as the most redundant thing to air on the same channel as "That '70s Show" since "That '90s Show"!
- Preston Coalcuts, Jupililly (MO) Harbinger-Regime

"Life on a Stick"? More like, "Laughs on a Stick!!!!"
- Lewanna Halperdoo, Kansaltucky (NH) Ambuscade & Fruiterer

If Shakespeare were alive today, he'd happily pass the torch to the writers of "Life on a Stick." He'd also be, like, a thousand years old.
- Dr. Lorenz Rimpus, Obstetrics Review

I haven't laughed this hard since last week's episode of "Yes, Dear"!
- Petunia Trunkles, Minnehohoho (KS) Chronicle-Gazette-Times-Dispatch & Courier

I fell off a horse three months ago and can no longer process visual information.
- Christopher Flang, Deathtrap City (WY) Antagonist-Harumph

There are probably more, but it doesn't seem worth the effort to find them.

I Know Where 'The Punisher' Lives

Estoy muy esleepy ahora, entonces solamente el following, brief, cosa:

Whilst aking the rounds today, I followed a delivery to the stately mansion of TV "star" Katey Sagal by delivering a small package to a rather shoddy apartment in a relatively non-exculsive part of town. The deliveree's name (first initial, last name) was right there, on the buzzer thing at the front door, and it matched with the name on the package--a name I not only recognized, but cherished. I dialed the code for his apartment, and a person who didn't sound like I expected answered. He somewhat reluctantly buzzed me in and I went up to the fourth floor and knocked on his door. He told me to wait, and I used the time to laugh at myself for thinking that the person who lived in this decent-but-not-demonstrably-nicer-than-my-building building could actually be the same person so beloved by fans of the cinema. But then the door opened and, sure enough, the square-headed man before me was none other than Ivan Drago himself, the greatest Swedish thespian since Gustavus Adolphus, and legitimate MIT Fulbright Scholar, Sir Dolph Lundgren. He signed my manifest and I smiled a big, ugly smile of recognition at him, to which he responded by looking kind of sad. I still haven't decided how I feel about all this.

(A quick visit to IMDB shows that Mr. Lundgren continues to work steadily, and is currently directing his second feature. It should, however, be noted that his recent films include: The Defender, The Controller, Retrograde, Direct Action, Detention, Hidden Agenda, Captured, The Last Patrol, Storm Catcher, Bride of Dragons, Sweepers, The Minion, Blackjack, The Peacekeeper, Hidden Assassin, and my favorite, Silent Trigger.)

Katey Sagal's husband, a
TV writer whose name
I forgot the instant I went
to a different website

Wonk-a Wonk-a!

Some days, it is impossible not to be proud to be an American, ruled by the greatest government a country could hope to have. While other countries' politicians bitch and moan about greenhouse gasses and the overabundance of Pakistanis, our politicians deal with real issues, like the right to be forced to live in a vegetative state, and what we can do to make sure Barry Bonds stops hitting so many homeruns. It's quite uplifting, really. Better yet is a new bill being whispered about in the hallways of the Hart Senate Office Building, the one currently being drafted by a certain Utah legislator and his Kansan cohort. I speak, of course, of the Hatch-Brownback Bill which, among other things, would make it illegal for minors to defecate, and would allocate tens of millions of dollars (primarily in the form of tax incentives) toward promoting and encouraging defecation abstinence ('crapstinence', in Capital Hill parlance). Says an enthusiastic Senator Brownback (R-KS), "If it's something we're not comfortable talking about, is it really something we should be comfortable doing? That's the question you have to ask yourself." Too right, Senator!

While the proposed bill has garnered some early (and guarded) approprabation from even some of the staunchest Senate Democrats, expect a strong fight from such heavyweights as Ted Kennedy (D-MA) and Barbara Mikulski (D-MD), not to mention serious resistance from the powerful and deep-pocketed feces lobby.

So there you have it: the definitive answer as to why I seldom write about politics.

Mas Fun with Etc.

I'm too excited by the prospect of the upcoming debut of "Life on a Stick" to think straight. Therefore, the following search query thing:

What's up with retarded old people, with their elderly pubic hair and their Harry Truman boxer shorts? And what's the deal with all these vitiligo millionaires parading around like they're the 11 to 12 year old kid who was eaten whole by a shark? There was one in particular, a guy who lived on my block, who was especially horrible. Ugh, I can just picture him now--with that stupid mustache he looked like Burt Reynolds or something, and always talking on and on like some kind of shit geyser, spewing out nonsense like, "I want to fuck Scott Peterson" and "I feel like a boy with parents downstairs seeking free porn and blowjobs." Fucking drama queen, thinking he's all big like some sort of Pygmy sex symbol.

Meanwhile, the papers are all abuzz with such headlines as "Sweden Veterinarians See Rise In Anal" and "Sweaty Austrian Bodybuilder Elected Governor." Is it any wonder that our streets are overrun with pet perverts and paralyzed cuckolds? With so much to worry about, how am I supposed to find the time to fuck my hungry wife, she of the world's longest pussy (though, frankly, I think big labias are gross)? Hell, I barely have the time to whack it to the big Popeye cock photo I have hanging up in my cubicle or the picture of Kerry being butt fucked I keep in my wallet. In this rush-rush-rush age of crazy fiber optic shit and Oliver Cromwell desktop themes and Japanese porn vomit spa baths, how are we supposed to find time for the ones we love? How can civilization maintain when one can't read the classified ads without seeing things like "Italian gay dog seeking male trainer"?

Ah, hell. It's exhausting to think about it. At least there's one thing we can always rely on: Everybody Loves Appalachia.