COMPLAINING ABOUT PAPARAZZI

If you ever find yourself in a position to complain about paparazzi, do us all a favor and shut it down. If people are constantly hounding you for a picture it means you have a crap-ton of money. And I’m not saying money can buy happiness, but that’s exactly what I’m saying. If you have money you can buy yourself a water slide right off your bed so you can just roll over, slide down a rad slide and be catapulted into your own private grotto with a breakfast bar and mermaids who swim around and sing magical songs. Or, ya know, whatever you’re into. So if I had to pick between that awesome scenario and nobody ever wanting to take my picture, I’d go for the morning grotto every time.

GOTH CHICKS WHO SAY LIKE A LOT

I dunno, just like, society sucks, you know what I mean? I can’t wait for the dark lord master of all things evil to like just take me away from all this boring suburban bullshit. Why am I even talking to you right now? You’re so totally clueless and bourgeois it makes me want to gag in my cauldron. Me and my friends will like rain down hellfire on your corporate ass or whatever. God I hate my parents. They’re so like ordinary, do you know what I mean? Like, they don’t even have any passion in life. Oh. My. Godfire. How boring can two people be? I’m so hella over them. They won’t even let me go see Avenged Sevenfold. Whatever, like I’d even want to get dropped off in our stupid minivan death trap. Yeah right. I’d die. Like, seriously, I’d die in that shitbox. LOL. I can’t even deal. Where are my cloves right now? 

BAD HEROIN

There is nothing worse than a bad bag of Big H. I’ve seen it a thousand times. There you are on your futon on a Friday night getting amped for that sweet sweet China white. You’ve wolfed down a cold cut footie knowing that the black pearl will be the only thing on the menu for the next four to seven days. You can almost taste that Mexican mud coursing through your veins as you line up your water jugs so the skunk doesn’t dry you out like Tucson in August. You lick your lips with the excitement of a million sunsets, overjoyed to be hopping on that train for one more trip to Chivatown. But it’s not quite time to dive into the junk drawer because you still have to lay out 20 of your most reliable battery-powered votives to set the perfect mood for dancing with the dragon. Of course, you don’t want actual candles out because you have no clue how hard that gypsy horse is going to buck. Once the brown sugar makes it’s way into the cake, you don’t want flame anywhere around. I mean, why call the fire department when the white nurse is already on call? Then the moment of truth arrives. You’re ready to smack your friend in the face with a monster snowball. So you fire up the shit, take a puff and let out a disappointed cough. “Man, this stuff tastes like farts!” you yell angrily at your ferret as the scag pipe goes flying across the room. 

DANTE CONDOR'S LIFE DECISIONS

Dear Dante, there’s certainly nothing wrong with being a bathroom janitor. Cleaning up other people’s shit is what most of us do for a living every day. It’s a whole lot more honorable than being a celebrity lawyer or blood diamond merchant or Donald Trump. There’s absolutely no shame in it. Unless your name is Dante Condor. Then it’s time to aim much, much higher. You’re Dante Freakin Condor, man. Just saying your name makes me feel like I could punch through a brick wall with my face. You should be saving defenseless women in dark allies or threatening to fire a missile at the world from SpaceLab Dante IV unless they hand over Fort Knox and Hawaii. Whichever way you want to go, it’s yours for the taking. I’ll even be your sidekick. I could be Andre Falcon or Eagle Steve or something. You’re right, I’m not bad-ass enough. I’ll be your wise butler slash father figure. Who knows, maybe you’re working up to things, filling out your back-story, creating solid alibis. Or maybe you’re leading a double life, but then you wouldn’t use your real name but maybe your real name is even more awesome. Who am I kidding, it can’t get any more awesome. Listen Dante, sorry, Mr. Condor, this is only chapter one. How the remainder of your epic tale unfolds is up to you. That being said, when I have extra time on my hands I sit at home, blast Motorhead and think about what you should be doing instead of cleaning bathrooms. Here are a few:

-Barracuda rancher

-Ballet Dancing Assassin

-The man who finally tracks down and kills Santa

-The man who actually saves the whales through the most human of all tactics, vengeance

-Electrify the fashion world by creating pleated pants that gay men actually want to wear

-Hollywood super-agent who resurrects Steve Guttenberg’s career.

-Sarah Palin’s fluffer

-Parlay your Mr. Universe title into a lucrative action-movie career that helps you meet and marry a beautiful and highly connected TV news personality which propels you to become governor of California where you cripple the state with hilarious policies because you’re focused on a passionate love affair with your maid who has a heart of gold but ain’t too easy on the eyes which you don’t care because she bears you a child named Conan the Condor who goes on to be the fiercest Barracuda Rancher in all the land

-The first black, non-muslim president

-The first Guatemalan to score a basket in professional hoops

-Rhinestone cowboy

-Hard and/or soft-core porn director, writer and actor

AARON NEVILLE'S MOLE

ANDY ROONEY

I feel like I'm supposed to like him because my dad does. So did his dad and his dad's grandpa before him. But every time I'm unlucky enough to catch him on TV I can't help but think, "Wow, this really is the worst fucking story I've ever heard in my life." Are you supposed to put quotes around something you think? Screw it, I'll check that later. The last Rooney story I watched was about fruit. It went a little something like this: Fruit is fascinating. It comes in all kinds of different shapes and sizes. Sometimes it's big. Sometimes it's small. It also comes in different colors. I generally like fruit that is yellow, like bananas and melons. I don't know what the yellow melon is called, I just know that I like it. They make square watermelons in Japan. I get my fruit at a local bodega. You might say I'm a fruit nut. Is a nut a fruit? I don't even know, but I like both.

Mickey Rooney was a pain in the ass too.

THIS BANNER AD

I'm pretty sure none of these chicks ever googled me. In fact, I'm positive. I checked.

BILL BELICHICK'S SWEATSHIRT

OVEREMPHASIZING COFFEE

You know the ones. Every office has them:

Don't even talk to me 'til I've had my coffee.

Whoa, whoa, not before I've had my coffee.

We're gonna need a biiiig pot of coffee before we tackle this one.

Ya know, without my coffee I am a bit of a demon-beast from the 9th circle of hell who will spit venomous acid on your face until it melts while I cut you up into a million tiny pieces.

We get it, Tina. You're really into coffee.

EMOTICONS

;) = `_´

THE END OF RAMBO: FIRST BLOOD

He beats up a bunch of hillbilly cops, escapes from jail, steals a motorcycle, makes himself an awesome tarp jacket, jumps over a 75-foot cliff into trees (not water), sews up his arm, throws a rock at a chopper which kills a dude, survives a bazooka attack, navigates through a rat-infested gold mine, kills a dog (who attacked him), commandeers an army jeep, blows up an ammunition shop, shoots up a police station, then he starts crying and gives himself up. Credits roll.

ARMANI EXCHANGE

Sometimes, it's better to say it with haiku:

Those jeans are so tight
Chet, did you grab the roofies?
Time to crush some tail

Douchebag Factory
Let's start using that instead
Or Steakheads 'R Us

Piss off you loser
The exchange is a lifestyle
Let's bounce, Destiny