Look. If I wanted a cicada surgically implanted in my inner ear, I wouldn’t have so briskly walked away from that crazy homeless guy this one time downtown. The World Cup, however, offers a non-surgical, non-urine-scented option that yields the same sensation–and I hate it. I hate it a lot.
Everyone in the world has to use the same feet and the same inches for measure (or the metric equivalents I can’t wrap my American mind around), but short men get their own. So somehow, every time I meet a short man he can tell me that, just like me, he is five-foot-nine, and that I need to trim my nose hairs.
Look, I realize that modern gas prices have hit these gentlemen and their compensatory vehicles hard, but could you imagine being a contractor for one of these guys? It’s bad enough we all have to deal with short men’s shoulder chips, surly demeanors, constant fight picking (I’m not looking at anything, little guy) and lollipop guilds; some compliance to standard measurements doesn’t seem like too much to ask for.
PETA does some good, I suppose, but there are a lot of other animal charities out there raising a lot less than $25 million a year and doing things with that money more practical than organizing ‘Girl on Girl Make Out’ tours. Sure, other charities may lack the support of beautiful rich people, but they also lack the endless Holocaust comparisons, and they do not lack the full support of the Better Business Bureau.
The local Humane Society comes to mind. Sure, they don’t have full page ads of naked hot chicks in national magazines, but if you give them a bag of dog food they won’t respond by saying, ‘I can’t make a bikini out of this! And I need something to wear to tomorrow’s “Girl on Girl for Squirrels!”‘ Amazingly, the Humane Society somehow does good without resorting to the antics of a sociopath pining for a reality television show.
Look Mr. President, I was totally, positively, thinking about maybe voting for you possibly, but on voting day they played one of those episodes of ‘Matlock’ where he wins, and that was that.
See, something among all the ‘changes’ and ‘hopes’ in your campaign message really spoke to me, and it said specifically (between the lines) ‘This is the guy that will finally make Lyle the nation’s Blogger Laureate.’
So I set out to learn how to vote, but then an episode of ‘Perry Mason’ came on so I put if off for an hour, but before that hour was up I forgot about it completely. Eventually one afternoon when my mother woke me up I asked her how to vote. She told me that I needed to take some of the dirty cereal bowls from my bedroom up to the kitchen. Later when I went upstairs to get some microwave burritos, she asked me how the job hunt was going, then told me how to vote.
That is neither here nor there, I suppose, as I didn’t vote and you are the president now anyway. I, however, am still not Blogger Laureate. As if that wasn’t bad enough, you don’t even have a Blogger Laureate in your cabinet. It’s almost as if you don’t think that position is important, or in existence. And to think I was absolutely going to possibly vote for you maybe.
Okay, so maybe it wasn’t three chapters and only eight or ten pages, but the fact remains that the entire concept of this book only works with that title. I may just continue, because chances are if I’ve never heard of this Dickens, no one else has either.
Alright, so maybe it wasn’t eight or ten pages either, but it was definitely the front cover design and a couple sentences of synopsis for the back cover.
This whole experience of discovering someone used this title already has been very aggravating. I’m going to totally lose it if someone tells me a story has already been written about a Delorean Motor Company time machine.
If I wanted to scratch you right on the ass I wouldn’t have started by scratching behind your ears. So why don’t you be a good boy and take two steps back again?
If anything in this world gives you cancer, it’s got to be SunnyD, right? If you had to describe the flavor in one word, wouldn’t you choose ‘carcinogenic?’ So it goes without saying that I’ve been drinking it by the barrel with an eye on the 2014 Winter Games in Russia. However, I have recently learned that aside from having a tragic story for tear-jerking television segments, you also have to be good at a sport. So, I have spent entirely too much time drinking SunnyD (and, by the way, no cancer so far, just Diabetes), and not nearly enough time curling. It’s going to be tricky but I have to find a balance between the two.