Worker #3116: Which do you think is bigger, the Nobel Prize, or the Stanley Cup?
Clown Coffee: Prize.
Worker #3116: Yeah, you’re probably right.
Clown Coffee: …
Worker #3116: …
Clown Coffee: …
Worker #3116: But I don’t think you can drink out of the Nobel Prize.
Clown Coffee: Cup.
There was a woman in the Hot Caff wearing an “I Survived Hurricane Charley” t-shirt.
Must get ready for work. Hmm…what to wear? What to wear?! Must look professional. It is important to keep up a respectable outward appearance. A successful business not only operates successfully, it also presents itself successfully. I know, this tacky t-shirt. And I’ll tuck it into my shorts with a belt. Ta-da! Boardroom, here I come!
They say dress for the job you want, not for the job you have. But “trucker’s girlfriend” isn’t really a job, is it?
I would just like to point out that The Aristocrats, the documentary about “the dirtiest joke ever told,” which opens today, was co-directed by none other than Paul Provenza…former host of Nickelodeon’s Kid’s Court.
It’s like my brain sends out radio signals!
Forty minutes of uninterrupted thought, with NO commercials, and none of that RAP!
You can’t really explain Satan’s Little Helper in the on-line diary format. My skill set and vocabulary are far too limited to really capture it. Basically, this little fat kid loves playing this video game that has graphics rendered in crayon. The game is called “Satan’s Little Helper,” and gameplay looks a lot like “Paperboy,” except you’re throwing people into hell instead of papers into windows. On Halloween the fat kid meets a murderer and pretends to be Satan’s Helper and they go around killing people in the middle of the day, but no one thinks anything of it because it’s Halloween, see, and then the fat kid’s family thinks that Satan is his sister’s boyfr–LOOK, I cannot explain this to you. It is beyond my powers. All I can say is that at one point they run down a pregnant woman, a baby, and a blind man with a shopping cart in the parking lot of a grocery store (which they call “the grocer”). Later, when Amanda Plummer is dying because Satan has taped her mouth shut, her daughter, who was dressed for a renaissance festival but is now wearing a chicken costume and high heels, tries to save her but can’t get the tape off and in desperation calls out, “DOES ANYBODY HAVE NAILS?” Then Satan shoots himself in the hand and dresses up as Jesus and pretends the bullet hole is stigmata and the fat kid fucking believes him because he’s such a retard.
Other notable dialogue:
“Hold on, I’m just going to go get the special cider mugs.”
“Where did this blood come from? Are you telling me the truth, or did you touch daddy?”
“Hello, helicopter? I need you to turn around and save us.”
This morning, I saw the music video for Can I Live? by Nick Cannon (feat. Anthony Hamilton). Had I seen the video from the beginning, I would have heard the following lyrics:
Mommy I don’t like this clinic
Hopefully you’ll make the right decision
And don’t go through with the Knife incision
But it’s hard to make the right move
When you in high school
Since I didn’t hear those lyrics, I didn’t realize it was an anti-abortion screed until the part where all the unaborted fetuses are wearing shirts reading “Can I Live?” and forming a glorious sanctity-of-life chorus.
Nick Cannon hugs his mom at the end, grateful that she had the clear-eyed vision to know that every teenage pregnancy that goes unaborted will eventually grow up to have a mildly successful recording career. In fact, teenagers make the best parents, and all of them should have babies.
Brandi Swindell of a youth pro-life organization, GenLife, is very supportive of Cannon’s work, and offered this chilling admonition to grown-ups: “No one knows what it’s like to be open prey in your mother’s womb unless you were born after 1973.”
What is this? The Hunted?
Am I the only one who is confused about the whole Lance Armstrong as Cancer Hero storyline? From all the literature I have read as an adult male between the ages of 20 and 34 who is conscientious about his health and well-being, balls cancer is highly treatable and often does not even affect the sufferer’s ability to reproduce. I’m not asking for balls cancer or wishing it upon anyone. Make no mistake: balls cancer is no joke. But if it’s so easily treatable with limited post-op complications, where is the heroism and triumphant will? That he won so much races is impressive, and that he was able to pull his shit together enough to say “Hey, so what if I only have one ball? I’m going to get a specially-constructed one-ball bike that accommodates my disability and I’m going to ride,” when so many others would simply hang up their gay little bicycle cap…that’s certainly something to see as inspirational. But I’m not buying this whole “Lance Armstrong triumphantly beat cancer through sheer will and then went on to…” NO! Here is how the media should be reporting this story: “Lance Armstrong triumphantly had his ball removed by surgeons!”
What am I missing here? We all know what Lance is missing…
Q: Hot enough for ya?
Q: OUCH! You put your cigarette out in my eye!
A: Hot enough for ya? Asshole.
Q: Ouch! It really hurts!
A: Go fuck yourself.
Page Six reports a mildly disgusting piece of salacious gossip this morning in which Bruce Willis is trading old pick-up lines poolside with some friends, and “uses” one of them on a college sophomore. It’s not disgusting that he used the line on what I’m assuming is a 19-year-old, I mean, Bruce Willis will be Bruce Willis, and besides, he was supposedly just telling her, lightheartedly, what he would have tried before he swore off co-eds on his 75th birthday. What is disgusting is that the hotel staff didn’t force that goddamn Crypt Keeper back into his cobweb covered blues rock coffin. Jesus Christ, I can smell his desiccated bald pate from here.
Anyhow, being a worldly man who wears only the finest Planet Hollywoood team jackets and solid gold studs in his sacky ears, Willis wouldn’t be so crass as to use the perfectly functional but style-less, “I am Bruce Willis, I was in Die Hard,” which probably would have worked fine. No, he went for the gadabout’s gentle touch, the infallible iron-dick-in-a-velvet-condom approach of, “What are your plans for sex tonight?”
Here are some other super-classy and turbo-sophisticated potential pick-up lines for Bruce Willis:
I want to have sex with you later. What time is best for you?
When are we having sex? It has to sometime tonight?
Here’s what I do know: that we’re going to be having sex tonight. But here’s what I still need to find out: where do you want me to cum on you?
Do you remember that old Nickelodeon show, Kid’s Court? This morning I was reminiscing about the only episode I remember, which featured an overweight kid taking his mom before the “Honorable Judge O’Meter”—as it should be, the justice of Kid’s Court was meted out by applause—for throwing out his collection of TV Guides. His mom wanted him to clean his room, but he always ignored her, so she decided to clean his room herself, and in so doing, threw out his collection, which he claimed included extremely rare issues. I think that was what cemented this landmark trial in my mind for life, because even when I was little I thought, Come on, fat kid, there’s no such thing as an extremely rare issue of TV Guide. When I was thinking about the show this morning I realized that not only did I totally take the mom’s side in this case, because I wouldn’t want my fat kid wasting his time with a piece of shit like TV Guide either (because where there’s fanaticism for empty-headed daytime-star puff pieces and exhaustive time-table scheduling, the fanaticism for donut eating and anti-social pipe bomb construction projects is not far behind), and more to the point, if I’m you’re dad and I tell you to clean your room you fucking clean your room and there’s no talking back either. I realized that I would probably take almost all of the parents’ sides in every case ever presented before the Kid’s Court. It’s not so much that I’m getting old, as that I think kids are retarded. They need to go to school and get smarter. And shut up.
Anyhow, in doing some very basic research for this post, I found this aspect of Kid’s Court that I did not remember:
“Kid’s Court always closed with “sound-offs,” when kids from the audience would tell what happened that was unfair to them, and then everyone in the audience would yell unfair.”
Good job, Nickelodeon. Your breakthrough work in children’s programming has done wonders for the self-entitlement industry.