The Tooth Fairy is getting the great big cavity-filled shaft

Every year for about a month or so, Santa Claus gets his own seat in front of the food court at the mall. So does the Easter Bunny. It seems like any two-bit hack who brings children some kind of piddly shit can receive star treatment at the mall.

So why, then, do you never see the Tooth Fairy?

Is it because she doesn't have her own bullshit holiday? Is it because she's a woman trapped under the glass ceiling? Or is the Pope holding her down because he's angry that she hasn't sold out to his struggling little cult yet?

Whatever the reason, it's wrong, especially here in the United States. The Tooth Fairy serves as the primary means of income for millions of people, primarily children. In a capitalist society such as ours, she should be revered as a goddess.

By the way, sweatshops that employ children only exist in countries that won't provide the Tooth Fairy with a temporary work visa. Without the option of exchanging teeth for currency, their children have nowhere else to turn if they want to make five dollars a month. It's true, look it up. Wikipedia would not lie to you.

Scott Colby says it's time to show the Tooth Fairy some love. Imitation is the sincerest form of flattery, as proven by the Santas and Bunnies at the mall. It's time for the Tooth Fairy to set up shop in front of the food court, exchanging $1 for teeth while simultaneously selling Polaroids for $5 a pop (thanks Scott Alexander for the shrewd business plan).

The Book of Theo, Psalm 18

...and lo, the Savior hath been tempted by the devil from the big city and he hath given in.
The heavens weep.

But lo, the joke is on the devil from the city! For he shall be undone by his lust for appearances!
The luxurious locks shall fall from the savior's head like the leaves in autumn, and his power shall fall with it.

And the Big Father will collect those locks and tape them to the head of Mark Loretta, and he shall regain the powers of the savior!

While weakened, the fallen savior remains a force. But even his power shall be overwhelmed by the rocket's glare, made red once again, and all shall be good and plentiful.

Digital Cable is Killing Television

Constant time spent loading a new level or area is a perpetual complaint of those losers who have nothing better to do than play video games. So why is it acceptable for cable television?

Why can't Scott Colby instantly change the channel from the Natasha Bedingfield video on VH1 to the episode of American Idol on Fox instantaneously, rather than have to risk Kelly Clarkson walking into the room asking why he changed the channel because she noticed the loading time? She has been suspicious enough as it is lately.

And loading time is generally something that has gone away with progressive generations of technology, not gotten worse. Computers don't take nearly as long to boot or start programs as they used to, despite a huge increase in complexity. Viewers weren't treated to a black screen back in the 50's. Television is going backwards.

"But Scott Colby," you say, "this is a damn stupid thing to write about, especially in a blog that has won as many awards as yours. It's a second and a half, two at the most! Why are you wasting my time with this drivel?" You obviously haven't thought this through. Scott Colby has, though, which is why he is an internet celebrity and you are just a peon in dire need of a John Basedow video or two.

Ever try to flip through all 130 of your digital cable channels? Scott Colby has. Channel surfing, which used to be a wonderful experience, has become extraordinarily annoying due to load times. The point of channel surfing is to traverse channels as quickly as possible until you find something semi-interesting. Most people outside of Alabama would never, ever intentionally put on the History channel to watch a documentary about the rifle; a channel surfer, however would land on that program because he would catch a glimpse of the washed-up-but-still-a-hot-chick host displaying the effects of various rifles on various types of melons while wearing hot pants, and he would be mildly entertained for at least three minutes before moving on. But with the advent of loading times in digital cable, more and more channel surfers are skipping more and more channels that they do not expect to broadcast anything worthwhile. These people miss out on moments like watching Donna D'Errico blow the hell out of a casaba with a .12 gauge, and those are moments that they'll never get back. Loading times are causing people to miss out on the true joys of television, the little moments, and that is a damn shame.

The Liberals Hate Festivus

Cities, towns, and universities across the country proudly display Christmas trees, mangers, and the occasional menorah, and yet there isn't a single aluminum pole to be seen. Each of those displays of holiday cheer also included a lighting ceremony, but none of those featured the mayor or president challenging citizens to Feats of Strength. I opened the Wal Mart holiday circular the other day and excitedly flipped to the hardware page, but there were no aluminum poles to be found. I sent my baby's mama's daughter to school the other day, and she got detention for Airing her Grievances to the teacher. The beliefs of the rest of us are being trampled by institutions far and wide, from the government to the schools to Corporate America. Damn liberals. Somebody call Jesse Jackson!

Scott Colby demands a trade

You read that correctly. I am sick of I Stole Your Lunch. The hours are too long, the working conditions are abominable, and all the bulleted lists are giving me a hernia. Trade me. Now.

I'm serious. You want to know how serious? I put the Best Toaster Ever up for sale on EBay, sold all my stock in the Foggy Goggle, and rolled Kelly Clarkson out of the shower curtain and told her to take a hike. How serious am I? Damn serious.

I demand to be sent somewhere warm, with an ocean view and better background templates, preferably close to Natash Bedingfield.

Do it now, or I will make your life a living hell. I won't show up. And when the media comes looking for me, I'll go outside and do squat thrusts in my driveway while answering questions. You will not be happy when you see me on the 10 o'clock news telling Amalia Badadadadadada all about how I've been mistreated.

Or maybe I will slap a Mike Brilla mask on your face so Starla will beat the shit out of you.

So trade me. Right now. I don't care that I signed a long term deal worth more money than you'll ever see. I'm Scott fuckin Colby, and I want out. And I get what I want.

Oh, the things I would do if I weren't a lazy shit

• Update this stupid blog more. No, screw that. I would transform I Stole Your Lunch from a humble purveyor of stupid prose into the nation's top multimedia extravaganza, complete with pictures for the illiterate and phishing scams for those people who should have their blue e taken away from them, thus allowing me to completely pwn respected news outlets like CNN, MSNBC, and Inside Edition.
• Learn to play "Iron Man" on the oboe in B flat.
• Develop a suitably powerful and obnoxious alternative to the bulleted list.
• Come up with a better excuse to tell Kelly Clarkson than "I was washing my hair" when she inquires where I was during the four hours I spent romancing Natasha Bedingfield Friday night. No dancing stereos were harmed during the writing of this entry, although I was extremely tempted to kick a few when she wasn't looking.
• Purchase a large amount of cottage cheese and use it to construct a shrine to the Best Toaster Ever in the back seat of Raul's automobile.
• Find something more constructive to do, like roll your mom up in the shower curtain.
  

ISYL EULA

It's come to my attention that I need to post more, especially if I would like to continue breathing. I don't doubt that the individuals who almost got Reagan would have no problem shooting at and merely wounding me, thus giving me a severe case of Alzheimer's disease and ruining my career as a professional gold digger. It would not do me well to forget exactly how much money Kelly Clarkson is worth. The often I ask, the more suspicious she becomes...

That said, my corporate contacts have brought to my attention that everyone on the Interweb is a criminal who is out to steal my intellectual property for their own vile uses. I Stole Your Lunch is a powerful piece of Americana which, in the wrong hands, could be used to generate trillions of dollars that may never get the opportunity to nestle in the soothing warmth of Scott Colby's wallet beside the 3x5 color glossy of the Best Toaster Ever, and that would just be a downright shame.

But you villains shall not succeed! I have been informed by my buddies at the top of Corporate America that there is one and only one sure fire way to protect that which is rightfully mine, even from dastardly old ladies, fiendish children, and murderous puppy dogs. Feast your beady criminal eyes upon the I Stole Your Lunch End User License Agreement!

-----

I Stole Your Lunch is Copyright 2005 me. All Rights Reserved, bitch. This blog may not, in whole or in any part, be copied, reproduced, transmitted, translated, teleported, eaten, painted, glued, breathed on, ported to Java, read as a bedtime story, or used as a wiping apparatus for any body part without the expression written consent, in writing, from me, and don't hold your breath for that to happen.

You are granted a limited license to use this crummy blog. The blog may be used or copied in accordance with the terms of that license as described in the following paragraphs, which apparently are not legally binding unless they are typed in all caps.

I. YOU MAY READ THIS BLOG, BUT ONLY WHEN YOU ARE CONNECTED TO THE INTERWEB. FAILURE TO CONNECT TO SAID INTERWEB BEFORE READING SAID BLOG WILL RESULT IN YOUR RIGHT TO READ THIS BLOG BEING REVOKED UNTIL YOU RECONNECT TO SAID INTERWEB.

II. THIS BLOG MAY OCCASIONALLY INVITE YOU TO PULL SCOTT COLBY'S FINGER, KISS SCOTT COLBY'S ASS, OR LICK THE FLOOR AT SCOTT COLBY'S FEET. NONCOMPLIANCE LEADS TO AN IMMEDIATE TERMINATION OF THAT GMAIL ACCOUNT YOU SIGNED UP FOR BECAUSE YOU THOUGHT IT WAS COOL THAT YOU'VE NEVER ACTUALLY USED.

III. ANYTIME THIS BLOG BECOMES INCREDIBLY STUPID, SUCH AS DURING END USER LICENSE AGREEMENTS, THE READER IS REQUIRED TO ACCEPT THE FACT THAT HE OR SHE BROUGHT THIS ON HIMSELF BY ENCOURAGING THE MORON RESPONSIBLE.

IV. THE WORD MOIST MUST NEVER BE USED TO DESCRIBE THIS BLOG. DOING SO MAY LEAD TO AN EXTREME CASE OF LEAKAGE.

V. BY READING THIS BLOG, THE READER ACKNOWLEDGES THAT HE HAS NOTHING BETTER TO DO, PROBABLY NEVER WILL HAVE ANYTHING BETTER TO DO, AND DESPERATELY NEEDS TO FIND A HOBBY (I STOLE YOUR LUNCH RECOMMENDS MACRAME OR PLAYING CHICKEN WITH THE T) OR ACQUIRING A SPOUSE, THROUGH THE MAIL IF NECESSARY (I STOLE YOUR LUNCH RECOMMENDS BULGARIANS).

VI. EXFOLIATION OF ANY KIND IS PROHIBITED WHILE READING THIS BLOG.

VII. IF YOU AIN'T NO PUNK, HOLLA WE WANT PRENUP. IF YOU IS A PUNK, GET YO WHACK ASS TO THE FOGGY GOGGLE WHERE IT BELONGS.

VIII. I STOLE YOUR LUNCH AND ITS SUBSIDIARIES ARE NOT RESPONSIBLE FOR INJURIES, PHYSICAL OR OTHERWISE, CAUSED BY EXCESSIVE USE OF BULLETED LISTS.

-----

That's it. Click here to accept the agreement and donate $5000 of your grandmother's money to the Buy Scott Colby a Chateau fund. And no, that's not DRM you see installing in the background; that's the I Stole Your Lunch consumer protection system. It's good for you. It makes your computer happy. Don't even think about trying to get rid of it.

Stupid criminals. I hope you all rot in prison.

More Stupid Red Sox

The resignation of GM Theo Epstein has left Red Sox Nation feeling a bit verklempt. Take a casual stroll through downtown Boston and you'll undoubtedly see dozens of jersey clad morons standing out on their window ledge, contemplating the jump that will end the pain of Theo's departure.

I Stole Your Lunch is here to assure you that everything is going to be all right. Come down off the ledge...unless you have a mullet and/or a two-strand combover, then you may feel free to jump. In fact, it's encouraged. And aim for the sidewalk, not the dumpster.

Guess what, boys - Theo was good, but he wasn't great. Look at this way: Ramirez, Lowe, Pedro, Varitek, Trot, Damon, Mirabelli, and Wakefied were all added to the team by Dan Duquette. Theo brought in Schilling, Foulke, Papi, Billy Mueller, Millar, and Cabrera. Anyone really think Duquette wasn't a shrewd enough operator to have signed at least four out of those six in Theo's place?

Now look at it this way: Pedro, Cabrera, Dave Roberts, and Lowe, some of the team's biggest influences last postseason, wound up in different uniforms. Granted Lowe pitched like he never made it out of tee ball, but Pedro was absolute filth, Cabrera was a spark for a strong Angels team, and Roberts was replaced as the fourth outfielder/pinch runner extraordinaire by the dynamic Adams, Stern and Hyzdu.

Add to that this previous season's "big" acquisitions. Edgar Renteria couldn't hit his own body weight or make a play on a ball that wasn't hit right at him, and even that was a bit of an iffy proposition. Boomer pitched ok, but not great, mostly because the bars close three hours earlier in Boston than they do in New York and thus he was unable to consistently meet his daily alcohol requirements. And one of the Devil Rays clunked Clement so hard he thought he was pitching for the Cubs again and thus was supposed to do stupid things, like lose. This year's team was a slight downgrade from last year's.

So what does all that mean? Bring back Dan Duquette? Wrong answer.

Bear with me for a second as I launch into a rant that at first glance has nothing to do with the open GM job. Trust me, I'm going somewhere.

It all boils down to luck. Any moron with a $130 million payroll can build a team good enough to get to the playoffs. Because the season is so long, statistical analysis can accurately predict a player's usefulness 95% of the time, barring injuries, roids, or a surprise appearance by Steve Ballmer's pit stains. However, because of the relative abruptness of the postseason, and the heightened pressure that comes with it, statistics and probability go out the proverbial window like Raphael Palmeiro's awesome fake mustache in a strong breeze.

This theory can be summed up in two words: the Braves.

The Braves have won about 30 bazillion regular season games dating back to the early nineties, and they've got only one championship to show for it. The Braves consistently win their division, yet several teams with weaker regular season records and three teams who finished in second place in their division but were better than all the other losers in their league have won the Fall Classic.

The postseason does not make sense. The playoffs are to the regular season what quantum theory is to relativity.

To win a championship, a team needs to be constructed to win the playoffs, not compile the most victories over the course of 162 games.

And to win a championship in today's expanded playoff format, a team needs a little something extra. It needs a scrappy manager. It needs a bunch of underrated kids coming seemingly out of nowhere. It needs a group of veterans who can't not win. It needs a bloody sock, and an asshole who would plunk the Babe, a man who doesn't know how to screw up a game changing opportunity, and an ancient curse that has foiled all who've tried to end it.

That's why the other Sox won the World Series and ours didn't. Chicago had Crazy Ozzie; a pair of angry Cubans out to prove they were just as good as they'd been billed when the Coast Guard rescued them from their respective rafts despite being jettisoned by the Empire; an underrated first baseman in a contract year looking to make his mark and thus his fortune on the national stage; a whackjob who refuses to let his kids watch the Flintstones because dinosaurs are blasphemy; and the backing of a whole city tortured by over two hundred years of ineptitude (don't tell me Cubs fans didn't just give up and start rooting for the White Sox).

What did the Red Sox have? Big Papi and a whiny baby who wanted to take his bat and his MP3 player sunglasses somewhere with fewer talk radio shows. They didn't have attitude, and they didn't have heart.

My point is that championships are won by players, not numbers. Sure, Theo's sabermetric wheeling and dealing happened to be a part of a championship team, but strip that team of its personalities, and it doesn't make it out of the first round. Theo's team won because of a lucky biproduct of his approach, not because of his approach itself.

Which is a thing the next GM needs to understand if the Sox are to win again. A team needs leaders, it needs characters, and it needs personalities. Otherwise no one cares, not even the players themselves.

Scott Colby for President of the Internet!!!

Those of you who try to escape the dreary repulsiveness of the fact that you still live in your mama's basement by spending the majority of your time browsing the Intarweb know by now that there is a fierce battle over who will control the future of said Intarweb.

For those of you who spend your time pursuing more "productive" activities, like watching television or making lifesize paper mache models of Roy Orbison, hear this: there is a fierce battle over who will control the future of the blue e on your screen that creates the magic tunnel that takes your computer machine to www.foxwoods.com so you can see how many wampum points you have and when the next monster truck pull is.

The combatants: ICANN, a US government agency that's controlled the delegation of domain names since Al Gore invented the Internet; and the United Nations, that rascally bunch of nations with visions of world domination (but in a happy way).

So who gets control over the domain names? The United States, which is rapidly denigrating into a nation of fat ass yahoos with more "morales" than guns and more guns than brains? Or the United Nations, which couldn't Google its way out of a paper bag?

Neither!

What the Internet needs is an independent third party leader, free of the strangling bureaucracy, cronyism, and general not-so-fresh feeling of those two bloated organizations, a leader with the vision and the courage to strap a saddle to the bucking bronc that is the Internet and ride it until it has to be shot and carted off to the glue factory.

That leader would be none other than Scott Colby. Go ahead, he dares you to come up with someone better. Can't do it, can you? Kelly Clarkson is disappointed in you for even trying, you ungrateful loser. Look at all the (semi)quality entertainment Scott Colby has provided you with on his stupid blog. Shame on you!

Regardless, this entry's required bulleted list will outline Scott Colby's campaign platform to become President of the Internet:

• Scott Colby will create a new 12 step program for recovering users of Internet Explorer.
• pr0n, warez, and sploits for everybody! omg, teh w00tness!
• Microsoft CEO Steve Ballmer will no longer be able to use his AOL account (yes, he got sucked in by that shiny disc they sent him in the mail, and even this guy's not dumb enough to use Hotmail) simply by entering his password. Instead, his computer will require him to recreate his infamous "Dance, Monkeyboy!" performance (http://video.google.com/videoplay?docid=-3446931931514285011) every time he wants to log in.
• Al Gore will finally be enshrined in the Internet Hall of Fame.
• Anyone with a mullet who applies for a domain name will be granted a site in the new ".walmartian" top level domain.
  
• Bulleted lists will become illegal.
• Mr T and his van will be dispatched to deal with any spammers by dumping several metric tons of real canned spam on said spammer's front lawn. By the way, T also works birthday parties and bar mitzvahs. Cheap.
• This will be your new homepage.

As you can see, the Internet would obviously be a much better place if Scott Colby were in charge. As usual, he has thought of everything!

More bad things to give trick-or-treaters

Due to popular demand, I Stole Your Lunch's annual guide to Halloween is back 364 days early! Internet celebrities like Scott Colby can set their own schedules.

So here are more things you should not, under any circumstances, give to anyone who knocks on your door Halloween night:

• Suppositories.
• A swift kick in the ass.
• Your garage door opener and a schedule of times you will not be home.
  
• Grandma's walker.
• Sparkle toothpaste.
• A bulleted list.
• The Little Scientist's First Meth Lab Kit.
• A photoshopped image of the trick-or-treater's mom cavorting half naked through the living room while Benny the mail man sits and watches from the recliner with a smarmy smile on his face and a cigar in his hand.
• Samples of bodily fluids.
• Ibuproferen.
• A three-pack of sponges.
• Fitness Made Simple featuring John Basedow.
• A free paternity test courtesy of the Maury Povich show.
• USB nose hair clippers (firewire is better).
• Tickets to Neverland Ranch.
• An Apple Lisa.
• One crouton.
• Shards of your shattered hopes and dreams.

There. It's done. And hopefully it will not happen again until next year. Or at least November, when the list of bad things to put in the Thanksgiving stuffing is born.

Trick or treat, smell my feet, give me something good to eat

Giving out candy is a good thing. Unfortunately for the human race, there's always that one individual on the block who insists on handing out something different. That's right, Scott Colby is talking to you. Loser.

So if you do feel the need to be different, if you can't bring yourself to follow the crowd and hand out Kit Kats and Dum Dums like the rest of the world, here's a list of other very viable Halloween options.

• Nips - Mainly because forties won't fit inside a plastic pumpkin.
• Draft of a prenuptual agreement - Real friends protect each other from golddiggers (thanks Kanye).
• Ring dings.
• Cufflinks - Give your neighborhood the gift of bling.
• 3 x5 wallet shots of Scott Colby's toaster.
• Coupon for a free Happy Ending (at Friendly's you perv).
• Individually wrapped donuts.
• Wampum points.
• Anything your roommate owns that was purchased at Banana Republic.
• T tokens.
• Official "I Stole Your Lunch" apparel.
  
• Viagra- To raise the dead.
  

If you thought that list sucked, just wait - there's more! Without any further ado, here is Scott Colby's list of bad things to give trick-or-treaters.

• Matches.
• A subpoena.
• Your dog.
• Ammunition.
• Autographed photos of Brigitte Nielsen.
• Tickets to a cruise with the Minnesota Vikings.
• Your social security number.
• Pot holders.
• Kelly Clarkson's phone number (you don't want her, she makes way too much money for you).
• A shoe wedgie.
• Chicken soup.
• Your car keys.
• Land mines.
• The URL of this blog.

It's over. Go home.

Spreadin the good word

On his way to work this morning, Scott Colby was treated to an interesting performance by a rather unique individual. He's still not sure exactly what that performance was: the reading of a communist manifesto, an announced premonition of oncoming doom, a manic recital of abstract poetry, or some new kind of infomercial. Perhaps it was none of the above. Perhaps it was all of the above, with a little Jim Beam mixed in for good measure.

Regardless of what it was, I Stole Your Lunch is going to dissect it in an effort to help those poor souls subjected to it find some reason to continue living.

Short and stocky, yet otherwise relatively nondescript, the young man boarded the D Line at the Fenway stop. He immediately addressed his eager crowd, his showmanship readily apparent from his first bellow. "Does anyone have a dollar?" One hundred pairs of eyes rolled in perfect synchrony. Here was just another bum hunting for a bit of spare change when he should've been hunting for a job at Wal Mart.

But then he announced he was looking for a handout, but a trade. "My seal for your seal, my code for your code." A brave woman did as he asked so he would shut the fuck up. But he wasn't dissuaded. "Break the code down by fours, then build it back up, and see how much you have to give."

Four, by the way, is an incredibly powerful number. It's the number of yachts in Kelly Clarkson's backyard. She is going to give Scott Colby all of them so he can be the admiral of his own fleet.

He proceeded to announce that "The women will turn the red back to pink." Pink, as anyone who's anyone will tell you (or as anyone who watches Oprah but isn't necessarily anyone at all will tell you), is the new black. Therefore, it is I Stole Your Lunch's expert opinion that this particular gentleman is a former Banana Republic employee disgruntled with their new fall line, which features a significant amount of lumber jack style flannel. He's obviously predicting that the ladies will not enjoy the lumberjack look, and thus all the whipped men out there will avoid the Banana Repo like it was the Foggy Goggle, thus forcing the once mighty fashion giant to bring in a new line of pink turtlenecks, which the speaker obviously preferred.

He disembarked at Hynes, leaving the stunned crowd begging for more. After all, what audience could possibly be more receptive than a hundred or so men and women pressed much too tightly together that early in the morning.

Bleh, stop reading this crap and go do something useful with your life, like making a hefty donation to the Buy Scott Colby a Chateau Fund.

Stupid Red Sox

To no one's big surprise, they lost. Any of you blogonauts who don't follow the team are probably shaking your heads, your mullets flapping in the breeze, wondering what people like me have to complain about. After all, they won the whole shebang last year, didn't they?

Yes, but this is Boston. Any season that doesn't end with a champagne bath and a Duck Boat parade is considered a failure. The feeling is a bit stronger for the Sox, but it's there for all the other local teams too. Hell, if Boston had its own Special Olympics team, and that team failed to take the most medals, there wouldn't be any hugs. There wouldn't be any "You did your best, so you're all winners." It would just be a bunch of jerks calling in talk radio to yell about how sone kid didn't give one hundred and ten percent or how the coach never should've put little Timmy in the backstroke when he's obviously better in the butterfly.

This is not a fun time of the year. The local media is going to spend the next three months dissecting this team's collapse. Was it Graffanino's error? Johnny's arm? Tito's refusal to sit guys who aren't contributing? The lobotomy Manny's parents must've gotten him for his eighth birthday?

None of the above. It was my stupid ass room mate.

See, he works for the Red Sox. He changes Johnny Pesky's diapers. He combs Johnny's hair 500 times every three hours to eliminate knots. He cuts the crust off Lucchino's sandwiches. He buys Jack Daniels for Millar. The chalk on Trot's hat? He's in charge of rubbing it in. His official job title is Bitch.

And he's a...

You know what, sit down first.

He's a Yankees fan.

That's right. Through my room mate, the Evil Empire has unfettered access to Fenway Park.

For now, Scott Colby is going to protect his identity. He enjoys the fact that "Raul" is paying one third of the rent. He can forgive the occasional discretion, especially since the Yankees don't stand a chance of getting past the Angels.

So "Raul" is now the Mata Hari of the Major Leagues. He introduced the ghost of Bill Buckner to Tony Graffanino. He replaced Millar's whiskey with sparkling cider. He spent an evening arm wrestling with Damon to weaken his already damaged shoulder. He kidnapped Matt Clement's hamster. He put Pesky in diapers that were two sizes too small.

"Raul" should be strung up from the flagpole by his toes. Or packed into a box with a bunch of dead skunks and shipped back to George Steinbrenner. Or locked in the Foggy Goggle for a week and a half.

Luckily, the Red Sox job isn't necessarily permanent. If you are an entrepreneur with an opening in your up and coming company (unfortunately, if you're reading this, you're probably not), please cowboy up and offer it to "Raul." Scott Colby will take you for a ride in Kelly Clarkson's yacht. He'll even make you waffles with the Best Toaster Ever.

Did I mention the toaster is black?

That makes it look dangerous, like it was wearing a leather jacket.

Hypothetical situation:

Let's say you sign a lease with a landlord. Let's say the landlord is going through a divorce. Let's say his wife, who lives in the building, produces the results of a civil case against her husband, which states that she has the right to collect rent from the tenants on the property you've lease from her husband. Who the fuck do you pay?

In typical scolbified fashion, I Stole Your Lunch has devised several solutions to your hypothetical problem, because without I Stole Your Lunch, you'd be set adrift upon a constantly shifting sea of doubt and uncertainty. It would be kind of like that feeling you would get were you to wake up next to a girl you brought home from the bar the night before, only to realize in the dim morning light that there's no way in hell she's 18, never mind 21. And her father's the local mafia boss.

Solution #1: Put both their names on the check. This way, they can fight over it themselves. Make sure the "for" line reads "To douche bags, for being douche bags."

Solution #2: Bury the check in a secret location. Draw two maps to said location. Give one to the husband, one to the wife. First one to find it gets the rent.

Solution #2A: Utilize Solution #2 on September 18, which happens to be International Talk Like a Pirate Day. The rent check can now legally be referred to as "booty," the prospective landlords as "scalawags," "scurvy scoundrels," or "douche bags of the sea." This way everyone can get in on the holiday spirit! Ship ahoy!

Solution #3: Stare at the sexy toaster.

Solution #4: Contact your local hax0r. Have him hack into the bank accounts of said douche bags to make it look like both had received rent checks from you. Pay him in Mountain Dew, Cheetos, and Xena: Warrior Princess pornographic fan fiction. Then kick him in the balls for calling himself a hax0r.

Solution #5: Ladder match in a steel cage. Yes, Scott Colby watched wrestling the other night. Yes, he's slightly embarrassed, but he also slightly doesn't give a crap what you think of his viewing habits. Hulk Hogan would approve.

Solution #6: Turn both douche bags in to the RIAA for sharing illegal copies of Kenny G's latest CD.

Solution #7: Scour the writings of the wise men and women on Blogger until you find something that looks like a good idea. Everyone knows that blogonauts are a font of legal advice.

Solution #8: Fake your own death. Dead people don't pay rent. This also provides the opportunity to strategically "haunt" said douche bags. A small investment in white face paint and a chain or two can go a long way. If you make a really, really good ghost, you may even cause said douche bags to once again embrace the Christmas spirit. But don't be surprised if the cable company still manages to track you down.

Solution #9: Go back to your home planet. That would be URANUS! HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA!

Solution #10: Kill the rest of the twelve pack and write a dumb blog about it.

I Stole Your Lunch sincerely hopes one of these solutions works for you. Try them singularly, or, if you like to live dangerously, in various combinations. And no matter how bad it gets, just remember: some day, you may have tenants that you can screw over too. Hooray!

The Best $20 Scott Colby has ever spent

Oh no! Where did the daily updates go? The horror!

Scott Colby was busy. He couldn't stop staring at his awesome new toaster.

If this toaster was a band, it would be Def Leppard, and they'd be playing "Pour Some Sugar on Me."

If you saw it, you would understand. This toaster is on point.

If this toaster was on reality television, it definitely would not be Flava Flav.

It's sleek, it's black, and it's got three buttons. Three. One for regular, one for bagels (if you're a hippy), and one for frozen delicacies. How much did you pay for that one button toaster? $40? Someone got ripped off, and it wasn't Scott Colby.

If this toaster was a woman, it would be Kelly Clarkson. But not normal Kelly Clarkson. It would be Kelly Clarkson at the end of the VMA's, after she'd been drenched by the rain.

This toaster is all the good things in the world rolled into one. Scott Colby now carries a photograph of it in his wallet.

If you saw this toaster, you would understand.

Opening Ceremonies of the Foggy Gogglympics

You can't wait, can you? Scott Colby can smell your anticipation. Or maybe that's the green stuff growing between your toes. Whatever it is, it smells like comedy.

Prepare yourselves for a spectacle of titanic proportions. The Foggy Gogglympics begin with the Running of the Buffalo Women, an event so violent, so earth-shaking, that it's been banned in 37 states, 12 countries, and the International House of Pancakes. Only the bravest souls dare participate, and flattenings are quite common. Luckily, the route will be manned with the Goggle's crack team of coked out hipsters with giant spatulas prepared scrape up the casualties.

This could be the worst post ever.

On a happier note, Scott Colby would like to thank Kelly Clarkson for not being a buffalo woman. Some day she will be his baby's mama. His name will be Cadillac.

The wisest words ever spoken to Scott Colby

Forgive Scott Colby if something is misspelled in this one. There are a variety of factors at work right now.

So tonight was a friend's party, and since said party was not in Brookline, it required a cab ride home. After Justin "I'm the only person who's ever posted on I Stole Your Lunch except Josh Moody's sister under a fake name" Ragsdale got out of said cab, Scott Colby entered into a conversation with the driver of said cab.

Turns out the driver was a graduate of the electrical engineering program at WIT way back in the bell-bottom glory days of 1978. The discussion quickly turned to how Scott Colby had encountered very few WIT graduates who were actually doing what they had gone to school for, and how it was all about how one grabbed the opportunities presented, not how one had gone to school. The cabbie agreed.

Upon exiting the cab, the driver said, "Keep reaching for those opportunities. And don't get married."

Werd.

Comments

Scott Colby is too tuckered out to entertain your asses tonight. He insists that you entertain him instead by leaving your stupid comments in his stupid blog. Leave him some love. Leave him some hate. And if your name is Kelly Clarkson, leave a phone number so Scott Colby can have his people get in touch with your people.

Announcing the first ever Foggy Gogglympics

Ladies and gentlemen, children of all ages, the sporting event of the century looms is about to shatter your expectations of what athletic competition is meant to be. From the fine minds that brought us White Trash Wednesday and the Foggy Fishbowl, I Stole Your Lunch presents to you the Foggy Gogglympics, a sporting competition that will put even the much vaunted Special Olympics to shame! The Gogglympics will feature competitors from over 36 countries that aren't allowed into the real olympics competing through 22 extreme events!

Although many details for the event remain to be worked out, the expert governing committee of 15 homeless people and one possum has worked out one initial detail, the mascot. Beulah is a 568 pound buffalo woman in hot pants and a tube top. Her mascara slathered come hither eyes beckon the casual spectator and the hardcore fan. She wears the five rings of the Olympics around her pinky finger because that is the only part of her body they can actually fit around. What a mascot!

Stay tuned for more information on events and athletes. After all, the Foggy Gogglympics are a great way for Scott Colby to fulfill his promise of one update a day without really trying!

The D-Line is a death trap

That's right, you read it first right here at I Stole Your Lunch. Scott Colby has once again scooped all those "real" journalists, including Susan Warnick, Geraldo, that douche bag on Crossfire who always wears the stupid bowties, and even Amalia Badadadadadadada. The D-Line is inherently NOT safe. Responsible parents should not allow their children to ride this train of doom.

The trains on the D-Line have not been reinforced against the unstoppable force of nature, the buffalo woman.

Scott Colby experienced this phenomenon first hand today. A pair of buffalo women, whose incredible girth marked them as high ranking individuals within their species' cast system, sat down in the seats in front of Scott Colby. Those particular seats did not particularly enjoy their predicament, and with every successive station, their groans of protest became louder and more desperate, and they began to fail against the huge amount of mass they were attempting to support. By the time the buffalo women departed, the backs of their seats were almost in Scott Colby's lap. He did not approve.

This problem is a huge oversight on the part of the MBTA. The D-Line is considered by many experts to be the line that most resembles a twinkie. Many buffalo women have been seen boarding the train, only to look around angrily and moan "But where's the cream filling?" It is speculated that the green trains are mistaken for special edition St. Patrick's Day twinkies, the sweetest Twinkies on the planet. Combine that with the fact that the D-Line passes directly beneath the twisted bowels of the buffalo women's favorite mating ground, the Foggy Goggle, and you've got one heck of a recipe for disaster.

People in California know that an earthquake is inevitably going to hit, so their houses are reinforced accordingly. The denizens of the midwest build storm shelters in which they can hide from rampaging tornadoes. The MBTA knows the buffalo women are going to make the D-Line part of their daily migration, and yet they do nothing to protect the other passengers. This is ridiculous. Chuck Norris would not allow this shit to happen.

After faithfully listening to Scott Colby's heartfelt rant about this topic, Kelly Clarkson announced that she will be performing three shows at Ai Tains to promote awareness of the tragedy waiting to befall us. She's so wonderful...*sigh*...

Scott Colby told you these daily updates were going to suck, and it appears he was right.

Public transportation is a-ok

This is a space in which Scott Colby could give you another completely bullshit list like he did yesterday, but today is going to be different. Today's post is based on reality.

On this fine September day, Scott Colby took the D-Line home from work. He was joined by two peculiar individuals. One was the woman who sat down next to him and enjoyed tearing up the Christian Science Monitor. The other was a total lush brown bagging it down the Green Line.

We'll start with the lush, since he was obviously the main attraction. If he thought for one moment that his flimsy paper bag disguised his bottle of booze as possibly being something wholesome, like Vitamin Water or Flintstones Vitamins, he was poorly mistaken. The man smelled like a still. He attempted to make conversation with everyone on the train, and failed miserably each and every time.

Meanwhile, the woman next to Scott Colby angrily browsed the pages of the Christian Science Monitor. She didn't stop to read any articles. When she was done with an edition, she would tear it into thirty-seconds (in half three times), store the shreds in her back pack, and retrieve another edition from her back pack. Lather, rinse, repeat.

Upon reaching the Hynes Convention Center Stop, the lush gleefully shouted to the entire train that he'd spotted a hooker in the station, and that he had $5o in his pocket, and then he departed the train in search of sweet lovin'. Scott Colby was tempted to ask him what a hooker would be doing in the Hynes stop at 6 pm, but then he realized the lush would probably say she was going to work, so Scott Colby kept his dumb trap shut.

Scott Colby and the shredding woman both disembarked at the Brookline Village stop. She has not been seen since.

Proof that public transportation is stranger than fiction.

Gold digging is in the air

Everybody knows Kelly Clarkson is destined to one day be Scott Colby's betrothed. Here are the top 10 reasons why.

10. She likes a guy who knows how to solder who also knows how to spell solder, a rare find indeed.
9. She understands and recognizes that Hulkamania will never die.
8. I Stole Your Lunch says so, and I Stole Your Lunch Never lies.
7. She can leap a buffalo chick in a single bound.
6. She is really a secret government agent using Scott Colby to get closer to his friend, wanted criminal Mr. Petersen, aka Josh Moody.
5. Since you've been gone, she can breathe for the first time.
4. She is attracted to employees of non-profit institutions.
3. Making this crap up is tough. Maybe it should've only been the top seven reasons.
2. Jennifer Garner married that doofus Ben Affleck and is having his child and even though Scott Colby is 97.62% sure he can convince her to divorce Ben Affleck and marry him instead, that would make him at least partially responsible for raising the spawn of Ben Affleck, a horrible role Scott Colby would not wish on anyone, not even the proprietor of the Foggy Goggle.
1. Those moon men she won the other night will look damn good in the captain's cabin of the yacht Scott Colby is going to buy with her money.

That being said, Scott Colby demands that Kelly Clarkson immediately returns to brunette status, lest he be forced to ditch her and have Gwen Stefani pay for his lavish lifestyle instead. That shit would just be bananas.

Important Announcement!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

That's right, I didn't forget about all you noble readers who've spent the past month continuously clicking the refresh button just in case Scott Colby decided to get off his lazy ass and update his stupid blog. It's been almost a month since his last update, a long, lonely, heart wrenching month painfully devoid of Scott Colby's sweet prose. How empty your lives must've been!

But just like every crappy "superstar" on VH1 whom you thought you'd seen the last of twelve years ago, Scott Colby's back. And to you, his adoring public, he makes a solemn vow, one he will never break unless he doesn't particularly feel like doing it anymore or if he falls into a large sum of money and rides the pope mobile off into the sunset.

Every day, there will be new content on I Stole Your Lunch!

Unfortunately, Scott Colby cannot guarantee the quality of such content, because he is prone to writer's block and fits of fiery indifference. The only thing he can promise is that there will always be something in this space that wasn't there yesterday.

Consider yourself scolbified.

One step for man, one giant waddle for fat asses

Few things are more American than the good old television dinner. What could better portray our way of life than a cornucopia of artificial food loaded with so many chemicals it could potentially retain its relative freshness for the entire duration of a fifty-year nuclear war? Every time you take a bite of Hungryman All White Meat Boneless Fried Chicken, you swallow a little of patriotism.

The dominant force in the world of television dinners is and always has been the dessert. Let's face it: the only way to get any normal person to eat beans or brocolli or anything that grows out of the dirt or on a tree is by promising something sweet afterwards. Corn doesn't sell television dinners, and neither do stupid looking mascots who claim to be extreme. Brownies sell television dinners.

Microwave brownie technology has come a long way since its inception in a secret Siberian lab in 1968. The communists were light years ahead when it came to frozen dinner technology, a fact which made the American government extremely nervous. Our own scientists, despite working day and night on the problem at Area 51, had yet to progress past cherry cobbler. With more and more of the world's population forsaking good, wholesome food to instead fill their pieholes with crap, whoever controlled the world's frozen food industry could potentially control the world. Cherry cobbler, unfortunately, did not stand a chance against brownies.

Luckily for the world's capitalist pigs, the commies decided against unleashing their new discovery right away. They feared a possible backlash against such a powerful technology, planning instead to gradually increase the quality of existing frozen dinner brownies. The team of scientists was put inside a giant microwave and nuked to death, and then the one remaining brownie was moved to another lab in North Vietnam.

Tricky Dick Nixon saw his opportunity, and he took it. The Vietnam war was nothing more than a front to steal the Russian technology, and steal it we did. This theft eventually lead to the dissolution of the Soviet Union as the public grew sick of eating cherry cobbler with their microwave meatloaf and overthrew the commie regime, paving the way for imported television dinners with real brownies.

Though a powerful technology, it's proven extremely difficult to harness. The first releases in the early 80's had a bad habit of going up in flames. This didn't dissuade the consumer, who was gladly willing to risk burning down his double wide if there was even a slight chance he could experience the delight which is a frozen dinner brownie. Gradually the mixture was diluted with a solution of water and mercury, changing from a solid to an amorphous glob. Success rates nearly doubled, and sales tripled.

And that's all I have to say about that.

Urgent Breaking News Flash!!!!!!!!

Sox honor favorite Yankee with renaming of recent real estate purchase

Boston, MA – In an historic move of good faith, the Boston Red Sox have offered an olive branch of brotherhood to their hated rivals, the New York Yankees, in the form of a popular local hot spot.

In last week's blockbuster mega deal, the team acquired the Fenway area property home to the Ramrod, a favorite destination of men wearing assless chaps. It has been speculated that the ownership group led by John Henry would knock down the building and build a hot dog stand in its place, but today's press conference with chief Henry bootlicker Larry Lucchino revealed a different set of plans.

"The Boston Red Sox have no plans to close the Ramrod," Lucchino announced. "Instead, we're going to use it as a peace offering to end the hostility between Red Sox Nation and the Evil Empire."

The club will be renamed the A-Rod, in honor of everybody's favorite ball slapping Yankees third baseman. "We couldn't think of a single symbol to better represent one of the Bronx Bombers than this particular venue," Lucchino explained. "It was Theo's idea, and Henry and I just loved it."

The Sox GM could be seen snickering in the corner of the press room during Lucchino's announcement, but he declined all requests for interviews.

Reaction amongst the locals, known to be opinionated assholes, has been mixed.

"A-Rod sucks!" exclaimed Ben Affleck, whom many might remember as an out-of-work actor turned professional bandwagon jumper who latched on to the team just in time for their World Series run, similar to how he latched on to Jennifers Lopez and Garner at the beginning of their mainstream popularity.

However, a survey of men shopping in Banana Republic found that the majority of that demographic approves. 85% of those polled favored the name change, many citing the need to further modify and trendify the club while also removing the stigma that could only befall a place named Ramrod.

It remains to be seen how the Bombers will react to this peace offering. A-Rod himself could not be reached for comment, but Yankees shortstop Derek Jeter answered his teammate's phone.

"Jethuth Chritht," Mr. Jeter exclaimed before hanging up.

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This has been an urgent breaking news flash. You may now remove the tinfoil helmet you thought would keep me from stealing your thoughts.

There's a Bigfuckinhole in the Parking Lot

It looks like fun. I got out my little pink plastic shovel and asked the fat man in the hard hat if I could help dig. He passed wind in my general direction and told me to get my little pansy ass back to Mass Art.

Heart broken, I returned to my dorm room and cried myself to sleep on my SpongeBob bedsheet. I did not go to class the next morning. I hear I missed a riveting lecture in Science Fiction class on why dogs like to roll in smelly shit. Instead I grabbed the telescope I usually use to spy on semi-hot (ok, maybe a step or two above ugly) girls in Baker Hall and aimed it at the bigfuckinhole. Even from that distance, it still looked like fun. I thought I could hear my little pink plastic shovel crying.

I thought to myself, "What would Chuck Norris do?"

But drop kicking the backhoe seemed like a bad idea. So I thought, "What would Scott Colby do?"

And that was the answer. I travelled the depths of 610 to the lair of the buffalo women, where I traded a keg of Twinkie filling for two dozen free passes to the Foggy Goggle. I then distributed those passes to the construction workers. I win.

This is probably the dumbest thing I've ever written. But for half a second there, it kept me entertained.

The New Season of I Stole Your Lunch Begins with a Bang!

Hey hey hey! I Stole Your Lunch is stuck in an endless loop of reruns no longer! Untie that noose, put away the sleeping pills, and pull the ten gauge out of your ass...the world is a happy place once more!

Kind of.

I've been in good old West Brookfield for the past week and a half, so I've spent A LOT of time staring at the television. And when I say A LOT, I mean A LOT. I've worked a permanent butt groove into the couch, and I can't quite seem to seperate the remote control from my hand. Makes it a bit difficult to type, but at least I'll never lose the buttons again. To make matters worse, in all that time I haven't seen a single episode of Strange Love. I do believe I'm going through a Flava Flav withdrawal. Instead, they've been showing that stupid, stupid movie where that ugly girl from Saved by the Bell gets naked and sticks out her huge teeth so she looks like a blond donkey suffering from extraordinarily painful hemorhoids. Why, VH1? Why?!?!?!?!?!?!?!?!?!?!?!?!?!?!?!?!?

But I digress. In my hours upon hours upon hours upon hours of staring at the boob tube (which is a total misnomer, because there's not enough boob and waaaaaaay too much tube), I've noticed a much more annoying phenomenon.

Every other commercial has something to do with Star Wars.

I'm not talking about commercials that are actually for Revenge of the Sith, and in no way am I hatin on the movie yo. If I wasn't excited to see it, they'd kick me out of computer science. Hmmm, maybe I should start hatin on the movie yo...

The commercials that are bothering me are the endless tie ins, most of which involve Darth Vader. A note to the hardworking (yeah, right) men and women in the advertising community: evil bastards like Darth Vader generally do not make good pitch men. We're not talking about your average evil bastard, either. We're talking about Space Hitler. Darth Vader is not a nice person, and eating anything he tells you to buy should sound like a really, really good way to make that one way trip to the emergency ward you've always dreamed about. If James Earl Jones were dead, he'd be rolling in his grave every time Darth Vader popped on television to sell a slurpy. As it is, my sources tell me he's been a bit gassy lately, and that commercial is probably why (and not because he's been drinking too many slurpies, dumb ass).

And then I made the mistake of flipping the channel to MTV the other day. Good Charlotte was performing what was probably the worst song ever on a Star Wars themed stage set up on the perfectly manicured grounds of George Lucas's Skywalker Ranch. Darth Vader stood behind the retarded drummer, raising his hands whenever the song reached a crescendo, or the closest thing to a crescendo that particular song could've reached. I've never hated television so much in my life, except whenever I see a John Basedow commercial or Pimp My Ride.

You've got to hand it to Lucas's marketing boys, though. Everybody on the planet knows Revenge of the Sith is about to hit theatres. Hell, if Helen Keller were alive, she'd probably be standing in line for tickets, albeit facing the wrong way. Yeah, I'm an ass.

Who Wants to Make a Buttload of Cash?

No, I'm not ripping off stupid Regis's stupid game show. Nor am I going to wait for someone to answer the above question with an emphatic "Ooooh! Me! Me! I want to be filthy stinking rich!" just so I can shoot them down with a nasty retort like "Then get your fat, lazy, pasty behind off the couch, scrape the Dorito stains off your jeans with a spatula, and get a damn job!" Although such a set up would be quite fun, that is not my intent with this update. Or is it.....? I do enjoy the word "retort."

Today, noble readers, I bring to you a genuine money making opportunity the likes of which you haven't seen since the last time that guy with all the question marks on his jacket popped up on your idiot box and started sqwuaking about how you need to buy his book so you can get free maple syrup from Newt Gingrich or whatever. My idea is so much better than that. Donald Trump, Bill Gates, Tony Danza...they've got nothing on Scott Colby's entrepreneurial expertise.

Now, before I tell you exactly how Scott Colby is going to help you make buttloads of sweet sweet dinero, let me take a moment to set the mood. Turn the lights off and lean back in your chair. If you're homeless, put a newspaper over your face. Now close your eyes. "But Scott Colby, I can't read your wonderful words of wisdom if I do that!" Just shut up and do it. Now imagine you're floating. Floating...floating...you're light as a feather...floating...floating...

And wham! All of a sudden, you're a fat, balding, 40-something slob lounging on the battered futon in the rat-infested living room of your double wide. Your white tank top is covered in ketchup and mustard stains, and you've been wearing the same pair of gray sweatpants for the past four days because a family of raccoons has built a nest in your black ones. Empty cans of Natty Light litter the ground at your scuzzy feet. Your wife walked out on you two weeks ago, right after you lost your job handing out smily face stickers at Wal-Mart. The dog ran away, and he took the last roll of toilet paper with him. You survive on a crude mixture of spam and ramen noodles, except you haven't paid your water bill for three months so the company shut down your faucet and the noodles are kind of crunchy. You have no friends, and your mom called the other day to tell you to just throw yourself off a bridge already so she can collect the life insurance and blow it all on the nickel slots. As you sit amidst the filth and decay, watching scrambled porn on the television you found in the dump, you ask yourself "What am I going to do with my life?"

You're going to whip out the Visa and dial the Scott Colby Positive Reinforcement Hotline, that's what!

That's right, for just $3.99 a minute, a warm soothing voice will whisper nice, happy things in your wax-encrusted ear, no matter how much of a loser you are. After several hours of this intensely therapeutic experience, you'll feel ready to take on the world again. You'll get a job at McDonald's, buy a new dog, upgrade from ramen to rice-a-roni, and find your true love amongst a particularly feisty pack of buffalo women at Foggy Goggle.

That's right, I want to sell positive reinforcement over the telephone. Think about it. Most Americans are depressed shells of their former selves who would give their left kidney to hear that they "possess a vast well of potential just waiting to be tapped" or they're "beautiful just for being who they are." People LOVE this kind of crap. How much money do therapists make? And as we all know, Americans are lazy. If there was a bucket handy, most of you wouldn't bother getting up off the couch to walk all the way to the bathroom. With the Scott Colby Positive Reinforcement Hotline, there's no need to ever leave the house to get a good dose of happy thoughts. You don't even need pants!

Tell me there isn't a market for this. Tell me I'm not a visionary, that I don't have my thumb firmly on the pulse of the American public. That's right, you can't!

All I need is some startup capital, which is where you come in. I guarantee a 90 bazillion percent return on your initial investment. How much is a bazillion? It's a buttload, that's how much it is. It's enough to buy a 50-foot yacht, plant it in your front yard, and drink martinis on the deck all day while you wait for the landscaper to drive by on the riding mower so you can pelt him with little packages of mayonnaise. It's enough to buy the Foggy Goggle and move it to New Bedford. It's even enough that Paris Hilton might find you attractive enough to party with you for a few days so you can be on VH1.

So bust out those check books, trade your cans in at Star Market, or just climb up out of your bedroom in the basement and steal a hundred bucks from your mom's stash of drug money...this is an opportunity you can't possibly afford to miss.

Unless I am elected pope. Then you can all fend for yourselves while I send my holy army on a crusade against those whiny people who said McDonald's was making their kids fat and made it so svelt people like Scott Colby can't gorge themselves on Supersize fries without gaining a single pound. Oh, and then I will excommunicate Flava Flav and the entire state of Vermont while taking my brand spanking new pope mobile off some sweet jumps.

Top Ten Reasons All the Hot Babes Love Josh Moody

10. Boy Scouts are always prepared. When the apocalypse hits, he'll be one of the survivors. He'll probably also be one of the people responsible for it in the first place.
9. He's MacGyver without the anti-gun thing.
8. He's a cheap drunk and pushing his intoxicated ass home in a shopping cart is fun.
7. He enjoys a good contact high.
6. Some day, he'll probably kill someone famous. If we're lucky, it will be Flava Flav.
5. He could survive indefinitely with no water, no electricity, and no toilet paper. But if all of a sudden all the Internet porn disappears, he's in trouble.
4. He can lose $20 in a no-limit Texas Hold 'Em game quicker than a buffalo woman can devour a box of Twinkies.
3. There's a really stupid post about him on I Stole Your Lunch, the only such post that doesn't involve the Foggy Goggle.
2. It's common knowledge that everyone from Beverly is well hung. If you don't believe me, check out the article in last month's edition of National Geographic.
1. "He's mysterious," says Steve Rossi.

INTERNS WANTED

Writing and maintaining the nation's second most popular blog (only a few million readers behind Oprah) is not an easy task. The amount of blood, sweat, and alcohol it takes to keep I Stole Your Lunch at the top of its game is absolutely obscene. Semi-interesting rambles and proper punctuation don't grow on trees, you know.

Needless to say, Scott Colby is on the verge of a nervous breakdown. The time it takes to keep you mental midgets entertained is seriously eating into the time he has to spend chasing his dream of one day becoming World Wrestling Federation champion, especially now with all the increased scrutiny on steroids. No longer can he just stick a needle in his luscious buttocks and call it a day. He actually has to work out. Stupid Jose Canseco.

So what's Scott Colby to do? For a while he considered giving up one or the other, but he just couldn't force himself to abandon either pursuit. The variety of women attracted to him due to the two is just too great. Chicks with yachts like his crazy writing style. Chicks with trailers like his mad suplexing skills. It's the best of both worlds!

He agonized over his conundrum for an entire episode of "The Surreal Life," then the answer hit him like a slap to the face. It was so obvious, he couldn't believe he hadn't thought of it earlier.

Scott Colby needs interns!

Anyone who wouldn't want to intern at I Stole Your Lunch is obviously either retarded, illiterate, or from Medford. Millions would jump at the chance to grab a slice of the fame and fortune involved with this little endeavour, which is itself a problem. Scott Colby would have to hire interns just to help read all the craptastic resumes, but he'd have to hire other interns to read the resumes of those interns, and he'd have to hire interns to read the resumes of those other interns...and so on and so forth until your head explodes. So, in order to weed out the losers, Scott Colby crafted this detailed job description.

Responsibilities

• Interns are responsible for all day-to-day operations of I Stole Your Lunch except the actual writing.
• Interns must dress in a professional manner. Dale Earnhardt t-shirts are unacceptable.
• Interns must be on constant guard for sasquatch attacks.
• Interns must make sure there is always a box of donuts in Scott Colby's pantry.
• All interns are required to use the word "leakage" three times a day.
• Interns must keep their shotguns handy at all times and be prepared to take a bullet or jump in front of a heat seeking missile for Scott Colby.
• Interns must smell like a cool spring breeze.

Required Skills

• Interns must be able to use a stapler without losing more than two fingers at a time.
• Interns will be proficient in sweeping the floor and Febrezing stinky things.
• Interns must understand the proper use of the comma.
• Interns must realize that this particular post is getting very stupid very quickly.
• Interns must be able to recite every word from Less Than Jake's "Hello Rockview" album.
  

Previous Experience

• Master's Degree from an Ivy League school or the University of Phoenix Online.
• 5 years panhandling in front of Burger King or 7 years handing out free samples of bourbon chicken in a mall food court.

Application Process

Step 1 - Interested parties should first ask themselves if they are ready to be involved with a world changing endeavour as powerful as I Stole Your Lunch. They should then ask themselves if they can tie their own shoes. If the answer to either question is "No" or "Only when Mommy's there to help me," they should not bother to apply.

Step 2 - Send Scott Colby a Polaroid of yourself dressed as your favorite character from "Napoleon Dynamite." On the back of the photo, write an inspiring haiku detailing the sociopolitical impact of the statement "Tina! Come get some ham!"

Step 3 - Retrieve a sample of floor muck from Foggy Goggle and analyze its various biological and chemical components. Then feed it to some mice and count how many extra eyes they grow.

Step 4 - Essay time! In five hundred words or less, describe what I Stole Your Lunch means to you. Post as a comment to this entry. Bonus points if you can make Scott Colby cry.

Step 5 - The end.

*Buffalo women need not apply.

Worst. Website. Ever.

Edit 3/14 - OK, I deserved that one. Post removed due to technical difficulties.

The Idiot's Guide to the Foggy Goggle

I consider myself to be one of the world's foremost philanthropists, and as such I am always searching for ways to improve the condition of the human race. Take this blog, for example. How many lives has it saved? How many dark clouds of evil has it sliced through like the righteous light of justice? They have yet to invent a number large enough to answer either of those questions. If you have time, you might want to give it a try, so you can tell babes that you're a bigshot mathematician with a swanky chateau.

According to a public service announcement I saw on VH1 last Monday at 3 in the morning, an ounce of prevention is...well, I can't remember the metaphor, but apparently prevention is important. It wouldn't be on cable if it wasn't true, so it really got me thinking. Perhaps I've been approaching this philanthropy thing from the wrong angle. Maybe I should be working to stop tragedy before it happens, instead of helping the victims to pick up the pieces afterward.

The more I thought about it, the more sense it made. Now all I needed was the right disaster to avert. I didn't feel ready to take on anything earth shattering, like global warming or an alien invasion, but I didn't want to be a wimp and take the easy way out, either. Writing a blog reminding people to look both ways before crossing the T tracks is not a good way to build the crazy street cred I'm looking for. I needed something with danger and intrigue and a liberal helping of scandal, a self-contained microcosm of society's ills. For weeks and weeks I was stumped, though I could feel the answer lingering just millimeters beyond the limits of my consciousness. Then I stood up too fast and whacked my head on the underside of the bunk bed, and all of a sudden my mission became clear.

On Boylston Street, across from the Hynes Convention Center, there stands a shadowy man of judgement who guards a shimmering glass door. If you are deemed worthy, the man will grant you entrance. For some, that door leads to a golden paradise. Others claim it's the gateway to hell. One thing's for sure: venturing inside without any foreknowledge of the interior has been known to reduce even the most well-adjusted individuals to slobbering vegetables unable to tie their shoes or cut their own food. It's not a pretty sight, kind of like anyone from Medford.

Such is the tragedy that I wish to prevent. I only hope that I am not too late. If my indecision doomed even one innocent soul to the aforementioned fate, I may not be able to sleep at night. Ladies and gentlemen, I give you a document that will change the world, a piece of literature to dwarf the significance of the Dead Sea Scrolls, the Bible, "Moneyball," and even "My Teacher is an Alien." I give you "The Idiot's Guide to the Foggy Goggle."

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The Idiot's Guide to the Foggy Goggle
By Scott Colby

Copyright I Stole Your Lunch, 2005



This one is for my baby's mama

Before we embark on our dark journey to the darkest depths of Boylston Street, let us take a moment to set the atmosphere. All it takes is a single word: skeevy. Look up skeevy in a dictionary, and you'll see a picture of the Foggy Goggle. If you can't find skeevy, it means your dictionary is crap and you should either throw it out or use it as toilet paper because Charmin isn't on sale this week.

"But Scott Colby," you ask, "If Foggy Goggle is as devestating as you say, why would I ever consider going inside? After all, Time Magazine did name it number 4 in its annual list of 'The Top Ten Places Where the Antichrist is Most Likely to be Conceived,' before Revere Beach and after the back seat of Brigitte Nielsen's Benz." There is a 95% chance that going to Foggy Goggle will not be your own idea. There exists in every group of friends that one person who takes it upon him or herself to completely disregard the warnings of others and convinces the rest of the group that venturing to such a place is actually a good idea, mostly by being exceptionally whiny and annoying. Despite the fact that every nerve in your body will be screaming at you not to go to Foggy Goggle, you'll go just to shut up your stupid friend.

Let's get this show on the road.

• Do not look at the floor. You do not want to know what you're walking in. Some things are better left a mystery, and this is one of them. Just to be on the safe side, you should probably burn your shoes the minute you get home. You don't want any of that stuff taking up residence between your toes.
• Girls under the age of 17 drink for free. I think whoever owns this pit (my guess: Jabba the Hutt) has some dirt on Mayor Menino and is using it to blackmail poor Mumbles into granting the Goggle immunity from the usual liquor laws, but only for trashy underage girls. Jailbait!
• That's not a jello shot. Scantily clad waitresses roam the depths of the Goggle with trays of what appear to be liquored up jello. For a few bucks they'll press themselves against you and toss one down your throat, followed by a squirt of canned whipped cream. Congratulations, your blood stream is now full of mind control drugs developed in the '50s by the CIA to stop the spread of Communism. You won't even think about leaving until the bouncer comes to kick you out, and when he finally does, you'll spend the next hour and a half face down on the sidewalk begging for someone to let you back inside. Also, do not get attached to the waitresses. Despite the fact that they are easily the best looking women in the joint, they are robots. You think real women could survive these conditions?
• Don't use the bathroom. I'd rather stick my head in a wheat thresher, and if you take a leak here, you just might find yourself on the next bus to Uncle Buck's farm in Iowa, scribbling a suicide note on the back of a Bickford's placemat. But at least you'll die with a stomach full of scrumptious pancakes!
  
• Yes, those are real fish bowls. Ever wonder what happens to a gold fish's home when he dies? A little known government program sends migrant workers into the nation's garbage dumps every Monday at midnight to recover any used fish bowls. They are then sold on the black market, where most of them end up back at Petco or Wal Mart. A small percentage of them, usually the really, really scummy ones no one else will buy, end up at the Foggy Goggle where they are used to hold pathetic imitations of scorpion bowls. Waking up in the gutter with fish food on your breath is not a good way to start the day.
  
• Beware the buffalo women. Foggy Goggle is the best place in Boston to observe this rare species in its natural habitat. Buffalo women travel in herds of 10 to 20 animals, each weighing somewhere between 400 and 600 pounds. The average buffalo woman is about as intelligent as a moldy log and possesses little or no sense of modesty, preferring to dress in clothing that reveals generous views of things you just don't need to see. When they decide to dance, and they will, close your eyes and find something sturdy to hold on to. If they corner you, and you don't have a few Twinkies to distract them with, you're as good as dead.
• Bring your own cup for White Trash Wednesday and your first drink is free. Actually, that's kind of a good idea.

I know this may all seem a bit overwhelming, but if you follow this guide carefully, you will survive. Heck, you may actually have a little fun along the way. Now go home guys. I'm tired.

"...just like every cowboy sings a sad, sad song..."

There exists in every situation where a multitude of individuals share the same living space a singular problem pervasive to all such arrangements: regardless of peer pressure or the positive examples set by the other members of the community, there's always someone, or several someones, who never do their damn dishes.

It's been a fortnight since last I cast my gaze upon the bottom of my kitchen sink. I've watched in horror as layer upon layer of used plates, bowls, silverware, pots, and pans methodically reached towards the stars like an undersea volcanic vent spewing forth magma to create a new landmass. Scraps and splatters of what had once been edible material full of wholesome goodness have coalesced into ragged clumps of biological refuse. Not only is the mound an eyesore, but it seems to enjoy smelling like something different every day. On Monday, it was bologna on rye. On Tuesday, it was a Worcester girl after a long night at Sh'booms. Today, it seems to be doing its best impersonation of Matthews Arena.

"But Scott Colby," you are surely asking by now, "how difficult is it to wash a few dishes?" While it is true that washing dishes is one of the favorite occupations of those who failed to complete high school, and as such is ridiculously easy, that is not the point. Other people's dishes are other people's dishes.

Still, as the days passed, the urge to destroy the mound with a torrent of hot water and soap became stronger and stronger. Often while sitting in a classroom I would find my right hand making a circular scrubbing motion on its own accord, and I would grab it with my left and slam it down on the desk and hope that no one thought I was a retard. Sometimes I could even feel the soft underside of a soapy sponge tickling my palm. I decided that the source of my distraction must be eliminated, lest it ruin my ability to operate amongst normal people with clean sinks. I was truly a man on a mission when I burst into the room and stalked stoically toward the mound.

Imagine how shocked I was when I heard it singing.

Unfortunately, the high-pitched melody stopped abruptly before I could recognize the tune. Thousands of tiny feet could be heard scrabbling for purchase amidst the cookery, accompanied by a few distressed whines and moans. And then all of a sudden the mound returned to its naturally quiet state.

I stared at the pile in utter disbelief for what seemed like 2 hours but was really about a minute and a half, trying to determine if I'd actually heard what I thought I'd heard or if that fat girl at Foggy Goggle had slipped me a mickey again. I scratched my butt a few times, but that didn't help. The only way I was going to determine what was going on would be to investigate the sink.

After putting on a breath mask and duct taping a flashlight to the side of my head, I cautiously approached the steaming mound. With my roommate's toothbrush I carefully lifted the topmost layer of crud and examined the mound's interior. A wispy cloud of greenish vapor that reeked of dirty sweatsocks wafted into the air, but I ignored it and focused my attention on the crusty landscape before me. A thorough examination of the mound revealed no evidence of anything that could've been singing. It seemed that Shavonda was up to her old tricks again.

But then I saw it, a thin sliver of blue in a dingy brown clump of week old guacamole. I carefully retrieved the tiny fiber with my roommate's nose hair tweezers and held it up to the flashlight at my temple. My mind whirred and spun as I dove through my memories of ninth grade biology.

And then it clicked. The singing, the blue hair...it could mean only one thing.

Here be fraggles.

No, that's not a misprint. All evidence pointed to a community of fraggles living in the filth that used to be my kitchen sink. "But Scott Colby," you're whining again, "Fraggles live in a hole in the wall that leads to Fraggle Rock, not Fraggle Dish Pile." Well, you'd be correct, if it was 1986. But the modern fraggle lives a much different lifestyle than those who filled our childhoods with song. The onset of global warming led to the extinction of the Dozers, the manufacturers of their one and only food source. The Dozers were extremely sensitive to temperature; their spleens stopped spleening, and they all keeled over and died. The only fraggles that survived the food shortage were the ones that turned to eating dish gunk. Their whole way of life changed; the carefree days of singing songs about sharing and friendship are gone forever, replaced with a filthy existence that can only be expressed through late 80's power ballads. The state of the modern fraggle is truly a sad one, and President Bush doesn't want you to know any of this.

I wanted to see them. I knew that I would have to wait until the late evening, when they would feel safe enough to show themselves. I also knew that fraggles are extremely sensitive to the biorythms of other creatures. For those of you with a fourth grade education, that means that they would be able to hear my heartbeat and thus would keep themselves hidden. In order to observe them, I would have to place myself in a near comatose state. So I went down to the Fuentes Market, plunked down $3.75 for a 30 rack of Natty Light, and drank myself into a stupor on the aptly named Ol' Stinky.

They appeared around 3 a.m., a horde of bedraggled little muppets moping pathetically across the floor like Scott Colby after he's spent an entire graphics class thinking about depressing things he knows he shouldn't be thinking about but which he thinks about anyways because Laterza is stupid and there is nothing better to do. They didn't laugh or dance or play or do any of the things you'd expect fraggles to do. They did, however, perform the saddest, most touching rendition of "Every Rose Has Its Thorn" that I have ever heard. And then I passed out.

And no, the fraggles were not a side effect of the beer. Everyone knows that Natty Light makes you hallucinate snorkels, not fraggles.

I'm bored with this. The end.

P.S. I Stole Your Lunch thanks Mike Brilla for eradicating the disgusting pile of dishes. The Environmental Protection Agency, however, does not approve of the destruction of fraggle habitats. They do not care that he is an Important Businessman. They've dispatched a squad of delta force tree huggers to sing him happy songs and recycle his paper. Run, Mr. Brilla. Run like the wind!

Making the world a happier place

So I'm sure when you woke up this morning, as you rolled out of bed, or climbed down from your bunk, or hoisted your hungover form out of the puddle on your bathroom floor, the first thought that popped into your head was the same thought that's been dominating your conciousness since the day Al Gore invented the Internet. You've dreamed about it. You've prayed for it. You've asked the glowing Indian statue for it every time you've tossed a penny into the fountain at Foxwoods. It's an uncontrollable desire that manifests itself at the most inconvenient times. It's kept you awake at night. It made you forget a movie at your girlfriend's house. It caused you to slip and fall while dancing on the bar. It made you forget that pink is not a very manly color. It even made you try to put out a grease fire with a glass of water. It's caused never ending pain and frustration to even the most well-adjusted individuals, and yet it can be boiled down to one single, agonizingly simple sentence.

"Sweet Jesus, I wish Scott Colby would start a blog."

Well it's time to jump in the car and haul ass to Connecticut, because you owe that glowing Indian a great big hug! Scott Colby has heard your subconscious screams for help, and he's come running to your rescue! The Internet as you know it is about transcend time and space to become something so wonderful, so immaculately radiant, that the planets will align, war and hunger will cease to exist, and people will live in absolute harmony for the rest of time, similar to the effect created by Wild Stallions music. Either that, or this little endeavour will descend to the level of a flaming car wreck that you just can't tear your gaze from, no matter how hard you try. Whatever happens, at least it will give you something to read at work, and hopefully you will learn a few things about proper comma usage along the way. Proper punctuation is a beautiful thing.

Plywood the windows, hide your donuts, and lock up your daughters (especially if they have yachts and/or trust funds), because a monster of Godzilla-esque proportions is about to be unleashed.

P.S. - Blogs are for losers.