Thursday, March 09, 2006

Not FROM Maine, But...

I know, I know... it's been two days since Lisa's been around, and you keep checking back in to see whether or not she changed her mind about going, right? Well, sadly, she has not, and today, it's just me in here.

"Awesome," he said sarcastically, realizing that 95% of the people reading this paragraph probably have one hand on their mouse's scroller button and the other hand firmly cupping their balls on their way to last Tuesday's picture post. Given that cold, hard reality, I suppose it's best that I make a few things known up front...

To the ball-cupping 95%... I'm a guy. You probably want to put that thing away for a minute, lest we make things what you'd call "cowboy-awkward" between us. I'm sorry that, while I am indeed braless, I'm not the kind of braless that we're both commonly looking for around these parts. I'd suggest a few alternative websites, but, quite honestly, you already know them. Anyone who's had the internet longer than 20 minutes already has the good stuff bookmarked. I'll see you back here in two weeks. Hopefully, it'll be a cold day out on the Salt Lake, if you know what I'm saying.

*high fives apparently 14-year-old self!*

To the other 5%... I'm still a guy. That means there won't be any cute wordplay or sexy alliteration going on in here. I'm short on fantasies (aside from the whole "two chicks" thing) and textual seduction is an art I can't manage. I'm not that good, and I'm damned sure not that creative. The most creative thing I'll ever do in a given day is dip a slice of pizza into my cup of coffee to see if it'll help me stay awake through to the end of the pie. Disgusting? Sure... but how would I know these things if I didn't at least try? This is what idiot guys do. It's who we are. It's why we die earlier and it costs more to get us insurance. Accept it.

And, to anyone masochistic enough to have made it this far (no, really - there are no pictures to be seen today - this isn't just a ruse to weed out the undeserving)... I'm following up with some random thought snippets:

  • Are you ever not disappointed to find out somebody has a guest blogger standing in for them? I mean, when you go to somebody's site, you already kinda know what to expect, and you're in the mood for it. Doesn't matter who's subbing in; it's always a let down because it's not what you came for. Like, if you turn on Letterman, see he took the day off and find out he's been temporarily replaced by Chevy Chase... you're instantly fumbling for the TV guide to see who the guests are on Leno, right? Sure, maybe you like Chevy, but if you wanted to watch him on late night television, maybe his own crappy show wouldn't have gotten cancelled in 42 seconds. That's sort of how I feel about the whole guest blogging thing. I could be the greatest blogger since Moses made up the Ten Commandments, but I'm not Lisa. I consider the fact that you're reading this sentence to be a goddamned internet miracle on ice. Personally, I'd have bagged out by "cupping their balls in anticipation." beckons. But maybe that's just me.

  • Every time I see a guy with a big tattoo on the side of his neck, I either think, "Wow, that guy must really be satisfied working the desk at Jiffy Lube for the rest of his life," or "If I had a neck tattoo, it would be of a fake knife scar. Think of all the tough-guy/sympathy pussy I'd pull with that thing. Yeah..."

  • Sometimes I talk to my mom on instant messenger, and that's really weird to me. My parents aren't supposed to know how cybersex enabling technology works. In fact, if I ever go to her house and find out she bought a webcam, I'm gonna burn my genitals off and shoot myself in the head like one of those Heaven's Gate idiots. There's no way I'm going to be forced to mentally visualize that sexual possibility for the rest of my life. I'd rather be a dead eunuch in cult-joining, retarded eunuch hell. I'm very serious about this. It has now been documented on fake internet paper. Hold me to it.

  • I tend to be very wordy, but I'll try not to take too long here today. There's something weird about posting on a website where some of the readers could have arrived by searching for something like "housewife tit pancakes" on Google. What do you say to those people? You're clearly not their primary search objective, as your breasts were not designed or endorsed by Bisquick, but since they're standing there looking at you for a minute, don't you have to at least try to appease them in some way? Just to not be rude? It's weird. Anyway, I have nothing for these people (aside from half a bottle of lite syrup and a pat of butter), so I'll have to hurry a bit.

  • To me, the hardest part about getting older is watching The Real World on MTV and realizing that you'd never be able to go on the show anymore. Mainly because the idea of having to go out every night dancing and having to pretend you give a shit about whether or not your cute roommate had lesbian sex with some stranger in some club is exhausting. If they put me on that show, my only sound clips would be, "Wait... this is my job for a few months? Sweet," and "You guys going out again? Okay, I'm gonna hit the shower and get some shut eye. See you in the morning." I'd be the lamest, most boring Real Worlder ever. They'd ask me antagonizing drama shit like, "Does it bother you that your roommate is gay and that he's cheating on his boyfriend with a woman?" And I'd reply with, "No, seriously - you're saying I don't have to go back to work till we're done filming? And that fridge is always gonna have food in it? Really? I'm not gonna get a bill when I go home?" Those producers would have to fire me or something. I'm bad television. I'm Cop Rock.

  • I don't smoke marijuana because I already think Doritos are very delicious. I don't need the added incentive. Plus, American Idol is already very, very funny to me. I am definitely not the weed dealer's target market.

  • I think it's fair to admit I have no idea what I'm doing here. I can be an adult about it. My presence is a jarring variance from Lisa's standard fare. Are you even supposed to leave comments after this? What the hell could you say? "I agree that neck tattoos are disturbing," or "Where do you stand on Road Rules?" This could be a disaster. An internet paper documented disaster. And I love it.

I think I'm done. I've met my textual obligations for the day. Enjoy the rest of your week, please feel free to search the internet for as many breasts as humanly possible, and, when you find them, see if you can't put them into a nice zip file and send them to me immediately. I'd do it for you, after all.

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