3/24/2009

A few thoughts...

If I were Michael Phelps, I wouldn't worry about incriminating pictures of me smoking marijana.  I'd be like, "You want to ban me from Olympic sports?  Oh well, I guess I'll take my 14 gold medals and build a fort with them, maybe have a few left over to make into ninja throwing stars or something.  And I can do it, too, because I'm a multi-millionaire.  The only recession I worry about is my swim trunks crawling up my ass crack!"  Then I'd suck a huge bong hit and blow it right in Mark Spitz's face.  Stuff that down your Speedo, Mark!

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Wouldn't it be nice if people who talked a lot got repetative stress disorder in their jaws?  Oh, I'm sorry to hear about your jaw bone, Bill.  You know what helps that?  Rub some Bengay on your jowls and shut the hell up for the rest of the week.  

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I'm lowering my fashion standards as I age.  When I was young, I wanted to look cool, hip, and sexy.  Now I walk up to the mirror and think, Hey, this isn't too embarrassing.  I can get away with this look.  That's what fashion becomes as you get older -- a quest not to embarrass yourself.  The best possible scenario is that you blend in.

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Mental health therapists recommend that when you're angry with somebody, you should write an angry letter to that person. In that letter, let all your grievances hang out.  But once you're finished, don't mail it.  Destroy it.  I take this advice, only I don't destroy something I spent so much time writing.  Instead, I tape it to a large rock and send it crashing through their kitchen window.  The experts are right!  It's very therapeutic.

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Sometime during my lifespan, I became dependent on entertainment at all hours.  For example, I literally need the television to fall asleep.  That flickering noise box is a sleep aid.  How patholgocial is that?  And what's more, I have to find something good to watch before I can fall asleep.  Honey, give me the remote.  There's a special on the Discovery Channel I'd like to completely ignore and fall unconscious to.