….I can blog from my phone. Take that twitter!
You've been Blackberried!
Archive for May, 2009
….I can blog from my phone. Take that twitter!
I love this country as much as the next person. Nowhere else could I blog like I do and not get arrested (well, nowhere else as cool). That being said, even though I love this country so much, there is one thing that I do not feel compelled to do: sing the National Anthem at a ballgame.
Lady behind me at the baseball game, here’s a tip: you can’t sing. We don’t want to hear you sing. In fact, you probably don’t even want to hear you sing. I know, I know. You love this country and just can’t help but sing loudly and off key when that tune is being played; I get it. But, there is good news….there is medication you can take for it. Maybe, say valium, mixed with a vodka tonic. Or, say, cyanide. Whatever. Just stop making my ears bleed. Please and thank you.
You’ve been Blackberried!
Here’s a bit of wisdom for your Thursday: If you are going to be in a small room with a bunch of people for an extended period of time, wear deodorant. You are not in Europe. We are not French. You are not Matthew McConaughey. You are not Brad Pitt. You are a normal person working a normal job and quite frankly, I don’t care what your nationality is. When you work in an office, in this country, you should wear something to control the smell of decaying skin under your arms.
The rest of us, and by rest of us I mean people wearing deodorant, will appreciate your efforts. For the record, I am currently immersed in the pungent smell of human onion. I might need to go take a shower just to watch off the stink. I have never wished I had a cold so much in my life.
I love the smell of a woman’s armpit when she’s not wearing deodorant.
Over the last several weeks I have had dreams about Twitter. I don’t know how they have pried themselves into my subconscious, but they have. I don’t have specific details about these dreams, but when I awake I feel a mild compulsion to start “tweeting” (or twittering, depending on who you talk to).
So today, I gave into my dreams and decided to scope out Twitter a bit more. Admittedly this was probably due more to the sweet and chewy haze that surrounds me due to my constant ingestion of RKT, and less to do with my dreams, but that is beside the point. Considering I am fairly tech-savvy, I decided to sniff around a bit before I signed up.
Let me get straight to the point here (after all, that IS why you are here after, isn’t it?). What a colossal waste of fucking time. Seriously. I can think of at least 63 more worthwhile activities than Twitter, including pulling stuck dog shit out of my dog’s ass with a paper ctowel (this does happen my friends). If I wanted to send a text to a bunch of people, I would make a bunch of friends to send out mass texts to. Oh, and while we’re on the subject, here’s a tip: We don’t like your mass text messages. We all think you are an idiot and every time you send one we contemplate removing you from our address book. You aren’t twelve. And by ‘we’ I mean everyone.
Back on point…Twitter, to me, seems like mass text messaging…or am I missing the point? What’s more is that people can respond to your “updates.” Really? Why is that? Why do I need, or for that matter, want, to have a conversation with a friend that is permanently in the public domain? If we started talking about vagina, would my mom really want to read that? Would your mom? Also, it seems like it is a bit like the scourge that is Facebook, only less Facebookey. Finally, it would appear that Twitter is another excuse for people to butcher the English language and use the dreaded shorthand. Here’s a tip: it’s ‘be’ not ‘b.’ Is it that hard to type one extra letter? If it is, I say we revoke your texting privileges. And again, by ‘we’ I mean everyone. And ‘tho’ makes you sound like a leotard. I like to abbreviate inappropriate words. I fnd that it ofen confs the peple rding my mesgs.
To play devil’s advocate here, I can see some value in this service for celebrities, and for the psychos that stalk them. No need to go follow Scarlett Johansen around; just log on and read about which direction she wiped at some posh L.A. restaurant. And, of course, who wants to miss a drunken celebrity tweeting at 3:34 a.m. There is something very amusing about someone chewing on the sole of his or her feet.
I guess the end result is that I will join Twitter when I become famous. By that time I’ll need another outlet for my ego, or a place to tell my fans something like, “I jst banged 2 hookers @ da Motel 6. Talk about some stank!” Until then, I will just have to stick to writing out full, well thought out sentences and paragraphs. And let’s be honest with ourselves, does anyone really want to read my angst-ridden ‘fuck you world’ anymore than necessary?
When angry, count to four. When very angry, swear.
I need to come clean. Recently, I have discovered that I have a rather nasty addiction. This addiction has, on a number of occasions, permeated my weekends and filled the holes of boredom more often than not. It has been said that a person that acknowledges his problem is on the road to recovery. Frankly, I am tired of being in denial, so it is time to throw it all out on the table. So, here it goes…
My name is jbr, and I am a Rice Krispie Treat addict.
Whew, there, I said it…I already feel a ton better already. See, the problem is, I am a vacuum cleaner around Rice Krispie Treats. If they are made in my household, I will eat the whole batch in a day. If they are made in your household, I will eat as many as I can then stuff the rest in my pockets (I will then blame the missing treats on your stupid cat that climbs all over the counter. Sure I left the plastic wrap off, but it was your cat that ate them. If you don’t have a cat, I’ll blame it on the dog). Never mind the fact that the next day my mouth is full of loose skin and sores. Never mind the fact that I am ingesting enough butter to kill a small village. No, all of these things are collateral damage to my addiction.
When I get RKT on the brain, all I can think about is slaving over the stove for 10, maybe even 15 minutes to whip up a batch of RKT. Double the marshmallows. Double the butter. Double the decliciousness. I will even contort my tongue in ways that are illegal in 17 states as I try to get the quickly drying treats off the spoon. Then, of course, I leave all the dirty dishes (which of course dry and must be discarded) so that I may make love to my batch of chewy goodness. Can you hear the snap, crackle, and pop through my moans? I bet you can.
It is quite obvious I have a problem and I need an intervention. I hope this make it to those that can help me battle my obsession with RKT. Maybe Jenny Craig or Oprah can save me from the quick, and surely fattening, downward spiral of my addiction.
I really have no words for the following story. Read it, close your eyes, and just imagine what this would’ve looked like. This would’ve been a YouTube sensation within seconds.
I seem to be creatively constipated as of late, and beyond the fact that I am bud-free, I’m not sure why. And today, after losing power at about 2:30 am and losing the soft, soothing sounds of my multiple fans, I am not only stopped up mentally, I’m crabby to boot. So until I get some laxative for my mind, and in an effort to not render myself useless in the eyes of the world, some random thoughts…
- I think they should call cranberry-apple juice “crapple”; it’s much catchier
- I wonder if dogs got pleasure out of licking their genitals if they would be so free and easy about it
- With all the shootings in the Midwest, I think we should call it the Wild, Wild West
- Today I remember why I try to leave the house by 6:30 am…7 am is the witching hour for morons on the road
- I’m going to grow a mullet and adorn it with beads
- I feel like Cougar from Top Gun this morning…I’ve lost my edge
- I need a drink (or a bong hit…where’s Michael Phelps when you need him)
- Sometimes it is tough being smarter than everyone else
- I’ve realized why gay folks are so adament on wanting to get married: without the yin (marriage), they cannot have the yang (divorce)
- I don’t like Cheetos and every time I see those creepily disturbing commercials I vomit a little
- Is it a prerequiste to discount all rules of grammar when making a local television commercial?
- Listen up fellas (last one I promise): It is okay to flush the urinal when you are done. It is bad enough that we have to deal with backsplash, the rest of us don’t need your whiz mixed with ours. I suspect that these men are the same ones that don’t get laid, or have miserable wives, or are pedophiles.
- Okay, I lied, one more: Monkeys
I’m hoping I will have plenty of fodder in the near future as I am about to spend four weeks cruising the 9th circle of hell (Arkansas). If, and just if, I could combine this adventure with a little bit of ganj, surely I will be able to express thoughts that will induce a good chuckle. Until then, I will continue to float around the clouds in search of something funny, or at the very least, something substantial, to write about.
Wanna get high?