PLASTIC SURGERY

My main beef with plastic surgery is that there isn’t enough of it. I want to see an entire race of peoplecats take over the planet. Catlandia, as it will henceforth be called, will be ruled with an iron fist by the sinister Diane Cannon. This will lead to a period of deep oppression stemming from her ban on any new procedures in order to galvanize her position as the most stunning feline beauty in all the realm. Such despair will give rise to an underground revolution led by the brave thundercat Meg Ryan and her dangerously witty sidekick, Carrot Top. Michael Jackson will come back from the dead to declare his love to the man-jaguar Bruce Jenner. Their deep love will inspire Meg “Cheetah-Che” Ryan to challenge Queen Cannon in a no-holds-barred cage match to the death. Cheetah-Che will emerge victorious, helping foster decades of peaceful peoplecat existence. That is until her daughter, the bubbly bobcat Heidi Montag, turns to the dark side and threatens to destroy everything we’ve worked for. 

ORDERING AT JAMBA JUICE

Fact: Jamba Juice is delicious. Fact: Jamba Juice is the category-defining leader in healthy blended beverages, juices, and good-for-you snacks. Fact: ordering the Berry Fulfilling makes you feel like a complete dillweed. Fact: telling a 16-year-old with a smirk on his face that you’d like a large Mango-A-Go-Go makes you question if you’re even a man. Fact: they called it a Razzmatazz just to mess with customers. Fact: The Peanut Butter Moo’d looks gross so I’m glad I don’t have to order it. Fact: starting a sentence out by saying “Fact:” is extremely annoying and will be the subject of a future post.

WATCHING HOARDERS HUNGOVER AT A CONVALESCENT HOME WHILE IT'S RAINING

There's something about watching Hoarders hungover at a convalescent home while it's raining that really bums me out. I don't know what it is. Maybe I just have a shitty attitude. Or maybe it's the fluorescent lighting, which always reminds me of the DMV. Or it could be the TV they have over there. Is that what it is? I'm so accustomed to a 40-inch flat screen that I can't watch anything unless it's in high-def? Wow, that's sad. Leave it to someone from my generation to find the bad in any situation. Why can't I just look past the constant smell of impending death in the air? Who cares if the coffee tastes like athlete's feet? Me and my country club expectations need to just get over it. Still though, it's difficult. Especially when every time I look over at Melvin he's staring deeply into my soul and rubbing his nipples. Gives me the willies. Then there's the fact that Regina stopped giving me half her pills. What a selfish bitch. I didn't mean that. Maybe it's all these things. Maybe it's none of them. Sigh.

MIXED NUTS AT BARS

Dear son, I know you haven’t been born yet, but I want to give you a quick head's up before I forget. For now I’m going to call you Clyde because people named Clyde are always cool as shit. Anyway Clyde, I need you to listen carefully. Never eat the mixed nuts at bars. Seeing as how your name is Clyde I predict you’ll find yourself in more than a few extremely sketchy bars. I’m talking about some real shitholes. The kind of places where a guy shivs you in the back one minute and hands you a pickled egg the next. So please son, take heed. In these dingy, dark and awesomely depressing bars people will visit the restroom and handle their dirty bits. Often, they’ll get a little pee on their hand, or worse. You’ll know what I mean by “or worse” because you’ll be a bright kid who can make connections easily. These people will then leave the bathroom without washing their hands and rejoin their companions. What comes next? A wrist-deep dive into a bowl of mixed nuts. After that point it’s just a big bowl of Hepatitis. Listen, you’re going to face a lot of challenges in your life and I can’t promise to prepare you for every one, but when it comes to the mixed nuts situation, don’t say I didn’t warn you.

SPOKEN WORD

Chicken in the rooster coop. That is life. The mother. Raising. Reaching. Reciprocating. Flowing through a cross-pollinated monochromatic half-lens. Slipping. Slipping. Slipping further down the pitch-black ether. And I deny. I deny this rooster game. But not yet, not ever. Mother. This mother. Mother Earth. The goddess of all who portend the enflamed liquid hopelight. Light be the majesty. Darkness be the void. Like so many wretched receipts responding and reacting to this paved-over blindfold. And paved-over once again. And again. And again. And again until shhhhh. Commercial in its emptiness. Filled full with regret. Damage done. And yet, the shadows speak in muffled tones! But the echo is real. Mother magnificence make me whole. Bring me into your womb. Leave me awash in that glorious placenta. Oh mother. Cover us all. From the liars and the thieves and the greedy greed greed of the political machine. Bring the rain that makes the rust that stops the system that kills the birth of a yet one more system. A new stream engulfing man and woman in one. Fell. Swoop. Buried. Into the deep nothing. A ripple-scorched landscape. Left bone dry but for one. Impossible glimmer. A drop of utopia. Waiting. Waiting. To keep us from evaporating.

UNNECESSARY USE OF THE WORD “LIKE”

The word "like" is a bigger scourge on society than cancer. And if you think that’s being too dramatic, you’re right, I already regret starting out that way. Cancer is far worse. Let me begin anew. The word "like" sucks nads. Better. My statistician, Romeo, informs me that the average American says “like” 782 times a day. Astonishing. Romeo goes on to explain that 98% of us say it in 98% of our sentences throughout 98% of the year. Astounding. In a This Guy's Pet Peeves Exclusive, it has come to light that during the early part of 1982 an Al Qaeda sleeper cell embedded itself deep inside California's San Fernando Valley. Their central focus: to whisper the word “like” in the ears of unsuspecting teenaged blondes. Positioned conveniently next to Hollywood, the cell also disseminated the word into popular culture through such films as Valley Girl, Fast Times at Ridgemont High and Hardbodies. From there it took on a life of its own and none of us are safe from its clutches. Young or old, smart or stupid, its wicked tentacles have turned us all into mindless drones bent on turning everything into a simile. Resistance is, like, futile.

ONLINE SECURITY CODES

You need a 90-inch monitor and an advanced degree in computer engineering to figure out some of the security codes they lay on you. I'm no computer wiz and I hate to question protocol, but can't we at least stick to the keys on the keyboard? What are they testing anyhow, if you have eyeballs? Nope, that kid put farnimagin instead of famimagin, that's a code one breach. Access to professional wrestling tickets denied. I think this is what happened to the Unabomber. He was trying to surprise his wife with tickets to the symphony when he came across one of these. He snapped, yelled "Fuck It!" and marched into the woods.