Learning how to play the ukulele is really cutting into my surfing-the-internet-for-really-weird-stuff time. For the record, it’s totally worth it. I’m having the best-est time ever. In fact, I’m trying to figure out how I can work Herbert into my old married hag of honor toast at Gwatt’s wedding. (Performing “Take a Letter Maria” probably isn’t the way to go.)
Fortunately, you people are weird enough I don’t seem to need to seek out much of anything. You guys send it straight to my inbox. So um, thanks for that? I’d like to return the favor by sharing a few here.
Google Images seems to be a little confused about my gender…and species…and well, where I fall into that whole animal, vegetable, mineral question. The first return for “Elly Lou” in Google Images is a beanie. A green beanie. With a giant poof ball on the top. It’s like seeing double, isn’t it?
It seems I need to stop lecturing people on the proper way to eat a watermelon. (In case you’re wondering, the proper way is to cut a hole through the rind of the melon, then set it atop one of those giant 5 gallon plastic tubs they sell at hardware stores. Let all the juice drain out. Then you pour a nice grain alcohol through that hole and into the dehydrated melon. Alternately, if you live with people that happen to have a lot of large syringes around *waves to Mom and Dad* you can also inject the alcohol straight into the melon. Either way, instant party. You are welcome.)
Granted, melons are frickin’ heavy. I mean, the heaviest thing I lift on any given day is a ream of paper. That’s why I only buy them when there’s a Rocco around to carry them from market to apartment. A little melon trolley would make it easier to schlep my favorite cocktail container home. Still, the cooling mechanism seems a little excessive.
…that is, unless it’s already full of alcohol and you want to serve it cold. Then it makes total sense. I retract my objections to this little appliance.
I have a lot of friends that are collecting unemployment these days, so I didn’t want you fellas to miss your chance at becoming “America’s Favorite Porn Star.” You can apply here. I hear the medical benefits are stupendous, especially the dental coverage. I suspect Mary Murphy and her Hot Tamale Train are missing from this season of So You Think You Can Dance because she’s scored a gig on this new show.
The deadline to enter is August 9th, so you’re going to want to get right on that (that’s what she said – oh wait this is gay porn – that’s what he said). It’s not everyday you win prizes AND have your bait and tackle immortalized on film…in 3D. Woof.
If it was up to me, I’d produce a show called “So I Think You’re A Fuck.” It could run for nine bazillion seasons. I mean I can list off a pretty sizable string of contestants right off the top of my head – Rod Stewart, Tom Cruise, my upstairs neighbor who’s new hobby seems to be clogging, Bristol Palin, Lindsay Lohan (and suddenly I remember I had a very strange dream about Samantha Ronson last night, awkward), Tony Hayward, Dick Cheney, that annoying guy from the State Farm commercials, Glenn Beck, the mean cashier at my grocery store, and the asshole keeps leaving fliers on my car right before a huge rainstorm. Fucker.
Well this post suddenly took a turn for the crabby. If I keep this up, someone will be taking my angry rants and matching them up with cute pictures of kittens like they did to that beacon of humanity, Mel Gibson. I better end this on a positive note. Thanks to my dear friend Creamed Corn, enjoy this beautiful image of The Hoff.
Keep the weird shit coming you latex-wearing, pony-humping Freakazoids…that I adore.