I'm not Gold Digging, I Swear!!!!!!

Dear Mila Kunis,

While you are filming your new movie, "Ted," in the Greater Boston area, you really should look me up. I am so much better for you than your current boy toy, Macauley Culkin. Let me count the ways:

• Four out of five dermatologists agree that I am 28.74 percent less pale than Macauley Culkin. Think of the money you'll save when you only have to buy SPF 500 rather than SPF whatever-is-28.7-percent-more-than-that. My calculator app is all the way down in my dock. Do the math yourself.
• I have about a dozen loyal blogonauts. You'd be picking me up before I was cool. In today's world, that means a lot.
• You don't really believe nothing happened between him and Michael Jackson, do you? You'll save money on psychiatry bills with me over the long run.
• I can grow a beard. The closest he can get to a beard is when he does that thing with his hands on his face.
• I'm like a cross between Hyde, Fez, and Kelso, all of whom your character banged on That 70's Show. Macauley Culkin is just an albino, anorexic version of Eric Foreman.
• I would look a lot more dashing behind the wheel of your magnificent yacht. I've spent most of my life training to become a charismatic sea captain. I've already got the beard, and with your resources I'm sure we can find an appropriate hat and pipe.
• I recently completed my first novel. There will be a movie version. You'd be perfect for the role of the Witch. Think about what Black Swan did for your career; now imagine how much further a starring role in my direct-to-Youtube masterpiece will take you.
• In case of a home invasion, I will be much more efficient when it comes to protecting you. One guy gets a baseball bat to the knee caps; the other gets a fork in the eye. And then we get away and live happily ever after. Do you really want to be kidnapped because your protector is too busy trying to tie a paint can to a length of rope and setting it to swing downward at someone who steps on the third tread in your front stairs? I didn't think so.

Five People You'll See at the Bruins' Parade

• Sandwichboard Jesuspants. You know who I'm talking about. The scrawny dude with the turkey neck who hangs out at pretty much every sporting event, holiday gathering, or political rally, adorned in plywood decreeing the coming of the end times, silently distributing poorly aligned literature to the drunk and those who don't know enough to avoid him. Sandwichboard Jesuspants wouldn't miss this one for the rapture itself.
• Hockey whores. Also known as puck sluts or, at a certain tech school that shall not be named, interior design majors, these women have slept with the entire team. That bear claw painted on her cheek over three layers of hooker makeup decrees to all that she let the fourth line and the backup goalie run train on her in the bathroom at Sully's after every game. God bless her. She'll be at the Squire later on, so be sure to make it rain.
• Whalers fans. You know who's never going to go extinct? Fans of the Hartford Whalers. These people are nothing if not persistent. Their team died a decade ago and yet they still wear the colors proudly. The Mighty Whale is going to outlast the cockroaches, the Jews, Dick Clark, Ted Williams's frozen head, Twinkies, and everything else modern science tells us can never completely die. They'll be there at the parade with smiles on their faces, but Brass Bonanza will be echoing through their heads. Their loyalty to a departed team is one of the most impressive things I've ever seen. Wait–did I just say something nice about someone here? I must be bombed. Oh, I can still spell? Shit, then I'm just going soft.
• At least one Twittered schlong. You just can't beat the odds on this one. It's going to happen.
• Me. I'll be the guy with one arm over a skank in a cut-off Whalers jersey and the other over Sandwichboard Jesuspants, trying vainly to take a picture of my junk with my iPhone.

Wait, that last one's bullshit. You couldn't pay me to spend my day in a sea of stupid tourists who think it's funny that they're drunk at noon. Amateurs.

Hmm, this was my 200th post on this piece of crap. That's 200 moments you'll never get back, you big dummy. I think that means I win and now I'm immortal or something because I've ingested many pieces of your soul. Yeah, that's it.

You. Me. Serious Discussion. Now.

I can't put this off any longer. There's a problem of the utmost importance that I need to address before it becomes a full-fledged conflagration that ruins my life and the lives of those around me. Bare with me, folks. This won't be pretty.

Recently many people have questioned my taste in bathroom hand soap. Tonight, I squelch all future questions about my preference in pumpable sanitary foam.

Whilst perusing the hand soap aisle at Johnny's Foodmaster last Saturday afternoon (tangent: If Johnny himself isn't the Foodmaster, as the possessive implies, then who is? And why does he allow himself to be indentured to Johnny? Didn't Abraham Lincoln put a stop to this kind of arrangement?), I realized I was faced with a life-altering decision, one that we all have to make at some point in our lives but which even the best of us is never completely prepared to face: did I want pretty flowers, or did I want Spongebob Squarepants? I chose Spongebob. Before you get your Judgy McJudgeypants in a twist, allow me to explain why I took the path I took.

Spongebob Squarepants lives in a pineapple under the sea. Flowers live in fucking dirt. Said dirt is often fortified with warm, stinky manure. There's nothing clean about that.

Spongebob Squarepants is friends with Patrick the starfish. Flowers have no friends. Old ladies decapitate flowers and put them in their hats. Rabbits and cows and horsies and other animals little girls claim are cute eat flowers and then shit out their remains. Obviously, flowers are not the choice of anyone who cares about his public image.

Spongebob Squarepants makes hamburgers. Crabby Patties, to be exact. When's the last time you saw a flower in the kitchen? Oh, that's right, when it was sitting in a tiny little pot on the window sill, watching you while you did all the work.

Absorbent and yellow and porous is he! Flowers eat all the sunlight. Leave some sunlight for the rest of us, assholes.

Spongebob Squarepants has a pet snail that meows like a cat. Flowers have bees that sting you and make you express your discomfort with language your mother would not be proud of.

Spongebob Squarepants tries really hard to be friends with Squidward. Flowers wait for you to make the first move, and even then your relationship is strictly a one-way street. You water them. You put them in the sun. You kill the weeds around them. Then they spit pollen everywhere and try to have babies in your eyes and you itch like a motherfucker.

I could go on for days, but I do believe I have proven my point. Spongebob Squarepants wasn't just the correct choice, he was the only choice. Anything less would be uncivilized.

No, I can't believe I wasted 450 words on this either.

Atlas Stole Your Lunch

It took me a month and a damn half but I've finally finished reading Ayn Rand's "Atlas Shrugged." I used to think the only people who liked Rand's work were batshit crazy libertarians and douche bags who think they shouldn't have to pay taxes. Although those two demographics are definitely her core audience, there's a lot of good stuff in this book that's very relevant to today's world. I probably missed some of it because I started skipping entire paragraphs toward the end just to get the damn thing over with, but whatever, we Interweb journalists are held to much lower standards than our print brethren so it doesn't matter. Given some of the words you'll find later in this entry you really should be amazed that I was able to read and comprehend that book.

One of the lesser things Rand's protagonists rail against is people who either can't or won't get to the damn point during a discussion or when answering a question. They dance around obvious answers with half-truths and responses that have absolutely fucking nothing to do with the topic at hand. It's a testament to the quality of Rand's writing, specifically her dialogue, that I legitimately wanted to drop the Five Knuckle Shuffle on those people and then lock in the STF to make them tap out. In my own dealings with people, this used to annoy the shit out of me. Now that a well-regarded author has expressed an opinion backing me up, it flat out pisses me off to the point that my inner monologue replies to these shitheads with "Fuck you, Jim Taggart." Granted, this is a small point in the book that's really just a symptom of the larger overall problem, but it's the one that really stuck with me for some reason.

So now, because I'm tired of taking the effort to write coherent paragraphs, I present to you a list of people who need to be less like the weaselly, perpetually evasive Jim Taggart and more like the dashing, to-the-point John Galt:

• Professional athletes. Is there anything more useless than the postgame press conference? Why do the reporters even bother asking questions when they can safely pick one of the usual canned responses and attribute it to a professional athlete on any given day without any worry whatsoever of being sued for libel. "We played hard, but they played harder." "We've just got to take care of our own business." "No, I shouldn't have taken my gun to the night club."
  
• Mr. Weiner. Really, you claimed that you weren't sure if that was yours? There isn't a man on the planet that doesn't recognize his own bulge. Fucking stop it. On a side note: Twitter, is it too much to ask that you add a penis filter? Facial recognition technology has come a long way recently. Surely that science can be applied to the trouser snake.
  
• Mitt Romney. You championed the Massachusetts health care reform. Don't pretend you didn't. If you feel differently about it now, just say so. But don't pretend like you had nothing to do with it. Your perfect hair isn't fooling anyone.
• People who bought the Wii. Just admit that it spends most of its time holding up your XBox 360 games. And don't delude yourself about the Wii U being any better.
• The NFL's owners. We've been over this one before, but I reiterate: if you need to adjust the distribution of revenue because you're losing money, FUCKING PROVE IT. The NBA's owners recently did just that, and it kind of makes me want to try watching basketball again.
  
• Michele Bachmann. Between claiming that there are Nobel Laureates who champion intelligent design (I refuse to capitalize that), calling for a McCarthy-style witch hunt to track down "anti-Americans," and forfeiting a debate on the Constitution against a child, Michele Bachmann could easily be the inspiration for a villain in the book's sequel, "Atlas Queefed." She is a gust of feminine flatulence. No, I don't know how a man like Atlas is going to queef. It's fiction. Suspend your disbelief already.
  

There's also stuff in there about consuming without producing, living your life based on feeling rather than logic, and being dumb enough to think that your enemies are going to speak on your behalf on the radio. It's all interesting stuff, but none of it would've made a good blog entry. Or even a half-assed blog entry like this one that I'm ending because I'm bored and I know no joke I write will ever top "Atlas Queefed."

Thanks, Alaska

Today the state government of Alaska announced that it was making 24,000 of former Governor Sarah Palin's email messages available to the press and the public for examination. Note that I did not write the term "emails," and you never should either. You don't get mails; you get mail. That doesn't change just because you put an "e" in front of the word to scare old people and idiots who think the computer's going to bite them if they hit the wrong key.

Back to business; my focus tonight is not grammar, it's idiocy, as per the norm. Today's example of how not to do something involves the method in which the state of Alaska is making the Mama Grizzly's email available. When you've got 24,000 electronic transmissions, the obvious means of distributing them is by printing them all out. So that's what Alaska did. Either they have more trees than bandwidth or the current governor has been bought and paid for by the powerful Xerox lobby.

But I suppose it could've been worse. They could've...

• ...recorded all the messages onto player piano reels.
• ...asked the captain of the Exxon Valdez to transcribe the messages into the oil still crusting up the state's sand and soil.
• ...read them live over shortwave radio.
• ...sent them via carrier pigeon.
• ...posted them to a giant billboard so Russia can read them via binoculars.
• ...dispatched Paul Revere to bring them to the British.

Regardless, I want a copy. I'm low on toilet paper.

Top Secret Document from the FUTURE!!!!!!!!!!!

United States History 101: Official Course Syllabus

Professor Sarah Palin

Gosh golly gee! Welcome to United States History 101! We're going to have sooooooo much fun learning all about the best country on earth, dontchyaknow! :)

• Week 1: Birth of a Nation. Focus on Paul Revear's midmorning ride, during which he warned the British not to take our guns.
• Week 2: George Washington. That's the guy on the dollar bill! He chopped down a cherry tree even though the crazy conservationists told him not too because he'd make a whole in the autozone layer which is just make believe anyway. That makes him a true American!
• Week 3: Martha Washington. The original mama grizzly!
• Week 4: The Real Reason Behind the Civil War. Discussion revolves around the south's decision to secede because Abraham Lincoln couldn't produce his birth certificate. Then the Confederacy tried to take our guns.
• Week 5: ALASKA. Our greatest trophy of the Cold War! Those eskimos didn't know what hit 'em!
• Week 6: How Teddy Roosevelt's New Deal Caused the Great Depression. Everybody was very sad in the 20's because he tried to take our guns. And this is before the miracle of Prozac! I can't even imagine.
• Week 7: Roe v. Wade. New evidence proves that the judge was possessed by Satan. With special guest lecturer BRISTOL!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
• Week 8: Korea. During this war, a prison camp spent five years being tortured inside of John McCain.
• Week 9: FIELD TRIP! Snowmobiling with my husband Todd!!!! I will show you Russia.
• Week 10: Review. P.S. If u see Levi he's not allowed in the classroom.

Grading will be on a curve that kind of looks like the letter G. G is for guns. If u try to take mine I will flunk u!!!!!!

So Long and Good Riddance

Dear 88 Bus,

I'm breaking up with you. It's not you; it's me. I wasn't man enough to love your wild, untamed nature, to appreciate your seemingly random comings and goings as a beautiful expression of freedom and individuality. I need some stability in my life.

Our relationship just wasn't working for me any more. You wouldn't hang out with me unless I paid for the pleasure. And when you passed me on the street and I was otherwise occupied, you'd just speed away with an annoyed squeal and an angry roar. No hello. Not even a wave. Don't kid yourself; I know it wasn't working for you either. Sometimes people just grow apart.

And so I'm moving on. I'll be on my own for now. I don't need to rely on you to get me to work, or to the grocery store, or to bring my drunk ass home. I wish you all the best.

..what's that? Fuck ME? Oh no, no, no, 88, fuck YOU! You want to know the truth? FINE. You smell. Bad. Like ten thousand farts in a tiny elevator stuck on the twenty-third floor of a shit processing plant. And the company you keep? Hot damn! Why the hell would I want to be seen with that motley collection of sweaty drunks and dirty poor people you pal around with everyday? And don't even get me started on all the other men I've seen you pick up, you gold digging tramp! You think I didn't see you give that old blind guy a discount?

And you know what's worst of all? There's absolutely ZERO room in there. That's right, ZERO. IN THERE. I just about had to cover myself in Crisco so I could slip even halfway in. Let me tell you, honey, it was not fun. Even on those rare occasions you'd let me in through the back door. And let me tell you, honey, it sure as hell ain't because I'm too huge.

Damn you, 88. Damn you to hell. To the level of hell that's a never-ending sidewalk clogged with fat people walking side-by-side. To the level that's a grocery store on Sunday afternoon.

We're through. Don't ever speak to me again. I've taken you out of my phone. Bitch.