You know how some people have like, an electric guitar signed by all the original Beatles or Dr. Teeth & Electric Mayhem or the Nixon Administration or something (by the way, The Nixon Administration isn’t actually a real band. Yet)? That’s awesome and all, but I want to be different and more random and get an electric guitar signed by all the original authors of the Federalist Papers, because even though their band never really took off, John Jay and Alexander Hamilton did some bitchin’ work when they were practicing out of James Madison’s Mom’s (Sheniqua Madison) garage.
I was out by the Midlothian Wal-Mart at which I once worked many long and forgotten epochs ago when the world was young and you had to shoo the pterodactyls off of your car when you came out of the house in the morning, and across the road they had a new shopping center called “The Shops at
Why is it that the Spanish Channel gets Bumblebee Man but the
You know how if you take the lid off of a lava lamp they have a bottle cap that tells you not to drink the lava? Guess what, none of its true. They lava lamp people just don’t want you to drink it because its sooooo good that they want to save it all for themselves and sneak into your house at night and guzzle the substance of your retro lighting accessories. So if you’ve got one around, you’d better go and snarf it down now just to be sure. Also, some of them give you super powers.
If Worf ever opened up a specialty fabric store, he ought to call it “It is a Good Day to Dye”.
Most people who read that last one didn’t get it, and those few who did wish they hadn’t, because it was the lamest joke ever.
Most of my myspace friends are, in fact, bands rather than actual people. Somehow I feel as if this development somehow confers some kind of vicarious coolness upon me. Alas, none of the aforementioned bands took any naming cues from me, which is probably why nobody outside of myspace has ever heard of any of them.
I tried some Herbal Essences the other day because the commercials always make it look so utterly transcendent, but all it did was wash and condition my hair whilst also making me smell all fruity. At no point in the entire process did I feel the urge to cry out with passion, except for when we hot water suddenly cut off, and that wasn’t so much passion as unexpected frozenosity. So yeah, I think all those people in the commercials are either complete and inveterate freaks, waaay too turned on by smelling like a scented candle store, or maybe they just need to get out more often and discover that there are pleasures in this world compared to which even smelling like a rainforest cannot compare.
The other day I saw a car called a Mazda Millennias. No offense Mazda, but if you can’t even properly conjugate the plural of millennium, I’m pretty sure that you haven’t figured out how to build a decent transaxle either. Unless of course you’re some kind of weird Dustin Hoffmanian transaxle-designing idiot savants who sit around gibbering incoherently in the shadows while coming up with efficient and affordable automobiles. On the other hand, Occam’s razor says you’re just a bunch of tards.
If the Muppets did the Diary of Anne Frank, that would be the best thing ever.
If I’m ever a killer cyborg from the future and I get sent back in time to kill someone, protect someone, or otherwise wreak havoc, and the people who send me are on a budget and just teleport me back into the past naked, I will totally not just walk into the nearest biker bar and pick a fight with someone. Instead, I’ll just use my awesome cyborg powers to turn a nearby cow into a complete fashion ensemble. Also, if whoever built me in the future really hates cows, I’ll already be racking up bonus cool points, just in case I mess up at my real mission. Also, if all else fails, I can just start up Sea Dream Leather again.
