Monday, January 12, 2009
I'm Taken...For Now
It’s true. After months of heartache, hopelessness, and occasional binges involving cottage cheese, I am no longer listed as “single” on Facebook. And we all know that Facebook, along with Wikipedia and YouTube, are the only remaining websites that can be trusted in this cauldron of deceit that we live in today. Although Facebook and YouTube are unquestionably above reproach, countless college students were ushered into a state of panic and emotional upheaval when the veracity and credibility of Wikipedia was called into question by some guy named Kurt. That’s right, Kurt with a K, which not coincidentally is the first consonant in “Killer of Freedom” and “King of Anarchy,” among other unmentionable titles. After a tense few weeks in which actual scientific journals and peer-reviewed articles were cited in essays, the slanderous reports of a supposed “factual error” on Wikipedia were ultimately discredited, and the perpetrator was tarred and feathered while being forced to eat marshmallow peeps. Needless to say he did not survive, and the reign of terror was effectively truncated. But anyway, I am now listed as “In a Relationship” on my Facebook profile, which should raise some eyebrows, normally implying that I have selected a female companion worthy of my affections. Upon closer inspection, however, one will notice that I am in a relationship with My Hair. Yes, having temporarily lost all hope in suitable female companionship, I created a Facebook profile for the frock of delinquent follicles that currently reside on my scalp. This actually proved to be more of a challenge than anticipated, as My Hair needed an email address, and I had already used my other email addresses creating fake profiles for the use of seducing pathetic on-line love-seekers. But, with the indomitable spirit of a midget that is at first not allowed to ride the go-karts but eventually creates a diversion by starting a small, containable grease fire and sneaks into one of the cars undetected…and help from my friend Ty, I created a Gmail account for My Hair, further proving my perseverance, quality of life, and affinity for productive uses of time. I’ve made a commitment, and I’m not ashamed to tell the world that, for better or for worse until I get sick of it, I am growing my hair out. I may resemble an 80s Spanish soap opera star, and my hair may occasionally be mistaken for a paralyzed muskrat that collapsed on my head, but for now, that’s enough, and I couldn’t be happier. Although we are currently not registered anywhere, all well-wishes, best regards, congratulatory remarks, and shampoo products would be appreciated.
Thursday, January 1, 2009
Happy New Year!
So as I sat in the living room of some people’s house waiting for the advent of 2009, I was able to make some keen observations of the hullabaloo and superfluous histrionics that celebrate the inexorable march of time.
-Dick Clark, despite being on the brink of death, has an infinitely more pleasant voice than the Jonas Brothers. This is one instance in which lip-syncing should be encouraged; listening to the cacophony of strident whines intermingled with moaning befitting of a humpback whale made me nostalgic for the tight harmonies and even tighter choreography of authentic boy bands like the Backstreet Boys and New Kids on the Block. The only thing tight about the Jonas Brothers is their jeans, and if the female demographic from ages 8-13 suddenly sank into the Mariana Trench, the rest of the world would be spared from Ryan Seacrest making certifiably untrue comments about their talent, charm, and ability to end world hunger.
-Speaking of hunger and Ryan Seacrest, that guy is getting fat. Rumor has it that he and former American Idol Ruben Studdard (widely referred to as “Fat Joe with soul”) have been spending lots of time together deep-fat frying the various wildlife that lurk outside Paula Abdul’s condo, and it shows. At least he still has the most charmed existence in the universe, raking in a lucrative salary for his mere presence at functions that most people spend ludicrous amounts of money to attend. If he were a gambling man, he would be almost like an NBA referee…
-If Taylor Swift proposed to me, I believe I’d have to accept.
-Robbie Knievel’s daredevil stunt was like telling a kid for months that you’re going to Disneyland and then instead giving the kid a Donald Duck temporary tattoo, placing the child in an old wheelbarrow with a small amount of water gathered in the bottom, and then refusing to give the kid a towel to dry off the embarrassing wet spot on his butt. Seriously, from the way everyone was talking it up, it seemed like there was virtually no chance that Robbie would not be incinerated in the volcano. Then, in the moment of truth, which lasted a grand total of about 3 seconds, Robbie rode his bike at a moderate speed, which generated enough momentum to cross a narrow chasm containing the “volcano,” which turned out to be a hazelnut-scented PartyLite candle that somebody briefly lit after he went airborne. I’ve seen more dramatic jumping in a women’s basketball game. Then the Ryan Seacrest-wannabe who was offering invaluable commentary of the whole escapade gushed about how relieved the Knievel family must be that he overcame such insurmountable odds and lived through such a hellish ordeal. The Knievel family also cited blinking, breathing, and movement of his left leg as feats accomplished by Robbie that have historically brought them relief and comfort…
-There are some truly awful kissers in Times Square, and camera footage does an admirable job of zooming in on these incorrigible delinquents of liplock. One guy in particular appeared to be polishing his teeth on his girlfriend’s chin while mechanistically bobbing his head in a longitudinal manner. In his defense, she seemed to have a nice chin…
-And finally, when the clock actually struck midnight, I braced myself for the inevitable flood of text messages telling me “Happy New Year!” in the indefatigable spirit of happiness, resolution, and utter redundancy. Nice work! You essentially just informed everyone in your contacts list of the date, and while it was a nice gesture, under the Tools section on most cellular devices is a nifty Calendar feature that accomplishes the same function. Next time, you might as well cut the crap and just send a Christmas card and a check to your cell phone provider.
-I’ve resolved to be more positive this year, and I’m off to a great start so far! Happy New Year!
-Dick Clark, despite being on the brink of death, has an infinitely more pleasant voice than the Jonas Brothers. This is one instance in which lip-syncing should be encouraged; listening to the cacophony of strident whines intermingled with moaning befitting of a humpback whale made me nostalgic for the tight harmonies and even tighter choreography of authentic boy bands like the Backstreet Boys and New Kids on the Block. The only thing tight about the Jonas Brothers is their jeans, and if the female demographic from ages 8-13 suddenly sank into the Mariana Trench, the rest of the world would be spared from Ryan Seacrest making certifiably untrue comments about their talent, charm, and ability to end world hunger.
-Speaking of hunger and Ryan Seacrest, that guy is getting fat. Rumor has it that he and former American Idol Ruben Studdard (widely referred to as “Fat Joe with soul”) have been spending lots of time together deep-fat frying the various wildlife that lurk outside Paula Abdul’s condo, and it shows. At least he still has the most charmed existence in the universe, raking in a lucrative salary for his mere presence at functions that most people spend ludicrous amounts of money to attend. If he were a gambling man, he would be almost like an NBA referee…
-If Taylor Swift proposed to me, I believe I’d have to accept.
-Robbie Knievel’s daredevil stunt was like telling a kid for months that you’re going to Disneyland and then instead giving the kid a Donald Duck temporary tattoo, placing the child in an old wheelbarrow with a small amount of water gathered in the bottom, and then refusing to give the kid a towel to dry off the embarrassing wet spot on his butt. Seriously, from the way everyone was talking it up, it seemed like there was virtually no chance that Robbie would not be incinerated in the volcano. Then, in the moment of truth, which lasted a grand total of about 3 seconds, Robbie rode his bike at a moderate speed, which generated enough momentum to cross a narrow chasm containing the “volcano,” which turned out to be a hazelnut-scented PartyLite candle that somebody briefly lit after he went airborne. I’ve seen more dramatic jumping in a women’s basketball game. Then the Ryan Seacrest-wannabe who was offering invaluable commentary of the whole escapade gushed about how relieved the Knievel family must be that he overcame such insurmountable odds and lived through such a hellish ordeal. The Knievel family also cited blinking, breathing, and movement of his left leg as feats accomplished by Robbie that have historically brought them relief and comfort…
-There are some truly awful kissers in Times Square, and camera footage does an admirable job of zooming in on these incorrigible delinquents of liplock. One guy in particular appeared to be polishing his teeth on his girlfriend’s chin while mechanistically bobbing his head in a longitudinal manner. In his defense, she seemed to have a nice chin…
-And finally, when the clock actually struck midnight, I braced myself for the inevitable flood of text messages telling me “Happy New Year!” in the indefatigable spirit of happiness, resolution, and utter redundancy. Nice work! You essentially just informed everyone in your contacts list of the date, and while it was a nice gesture, under the Tools section on most cellular devices is a nifty Calendar feature that accomplishes the same function. Next time, you might as well cut the crap and just send a Christmas card and a check to your cell phone provider.
-I’ve resolved to be more positive this year, and I’m off to a great start so far! Happy New Year!
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