2, 4, 6, 8, who do we appreciate?

22 Feb




^ That is what I am greeted by every time I pull up my Safari internet browser now. Why? Someone tell me why. I don’t speak Cantonese, Mark. Okay? I don’t. It’s a wonder I even speak English, considering the brain-damaging amount of alcohol I consumed in college. Change it back to a real language immediately, or I will be writing an angry letter to whomever it might concern.

Apparently you can do anything to get famous these days. Be fat, and then get skinnier but still be just as much of a douche bag as before when you were a whale, sleep with 800+ dirty men, or just have a shit load of kids.

Jon & Kate Plus 8 can go ahead and stop. It used to be that you had to have an earthquake-inducing, glass-shattering singing voice, or the ability to make 50 three-pointers in a row, or climb Mount Kilimanjaro to get any recognition or be worthy of giving autographs. Now, all you have to do is not use birth control, and you can have your own TV show and write a book. Do you know what they do to animals who over-populate like that? They cut their balls off. There are millions of families with unnecessary amounts of children though, team. That doesn’t make them special. That makes them stupid. Check Utah, there’s thousands of Mormons will families larger than some actual cities, and you don’t see them signing contracts.

While we’re on the topic of shitty television, let me introduce you to my next topic. Today I walked upstairs into the living room. My roommate was watching Real World-Road Rules Challenge on MTV. After seeing about 15 seconds of the episode, I concluded it must have been a re-run.

…From 2002.

“Is this, like, a really old season?” I asked.

“No?” Jess replied. I looked back at the television screen in utter confusion.

There were people on this season that were on seasons I watched back in high school. In fact, most of the people on the show were from seasons from back in high school. I have one thing to say to these people: GET A JOB.

Veronica, you’re like 38 years old. You should be at home boiling macaroni for your two illegitimate love children, and working at Denny’s as a waitress to pay for the boob job and the tanning bed you couldn’t afford but still got. Stop living in the past. You’re a mom. Accept it.

CT, what are you doing on television? Men like you with testosterone levels higher than most male silverback gorillas during mating season belong in cages on UFC, fighting each other and spraying blood and sweat on spectators, or possibly building decks or pouring cement for a living. You’re a douche bag. Get a job.

Danny, sign up for alcoholics anonymous, and then consider a career change. I’m not sure that voids like you can actually get real jobs, but at least consider different possibilities. If you belong on any television show at all, it’s Tool Academy.

Coral, you have more psychological and anger problems than any high security level inmate that any federal penitentiary has ever seen. You need to be studied by science. And stop pretending to get bitten by spiders. No one cares.

And who remembers Beth? To my knowledge, she has finally gotten the hint that not even the most friendless bastard on the planet would offer her 30 seconds of attention, and that people would rather eat rat terds for breakfast than watch her bitch and moan on late-night television. Beth was a person I REALLY hated. Like I physically threatened my own television when she was on it. Beth, apply at a dive bar and serve Miller Lite and waffle fries like you were meant to do. Maybe you can save up enough of your tips to pay to get that nasty mole removed, you ugly skank. P.S. YOU’RE OLD.

Now that I’ve got that off my chest, let me whine about something else. This morning I dropped my brand new Blackberry in the toilet. You can imagine my dismay. For a split second I hesitated sticking my arm into the cold, questionable water, but I quickly ignored my instincts and snatched it out. Too late. My phone is as dead as a door knob. For a moment, the screen flickered, giving me just an ounce of hope that maybe it would be alright. But after doing the old “rice” trick and blow-drying the shit out of it, I just couldn’t bring it back to life. Thank god for Asurion insurance.

Anyway, time for me to get my House fix. Hugh Laurie and I? We’re friends. You might see us together grabbing coffee, or shopping for sunglasses in the mall. You know, friend stuff.

“He’s JERSEY, he skis in his jeans!”


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