Open Tryouts For the New Hottest Band in the World! (Fixed the Stupid Link)

Now that I've shown you how to get rich by doing absolutely nothing, I've developed a foolproof way to become an incredibly famous rock star--with groupies and everything--without ever recording any music!

See how you improve your life just by reading my stuff?

("Rock Star" link goes to my MySpace blog.)

Why Microsoft Needs to Hire Me

There is something distracting about a blinking cursor when you are trying to write creatively. Whenever I'm in one of my many bouts versus writer's block, I'll sit there looking at the screen, and the cursor will blink back at me with impatience, as if it's thinking, "Well? Still thinking? Not so funny today are you, Loser?"

I think they* should change that. Instead of a blinking vertical line, they should have something more soothing and conducive to the creative process. As I'm sure you've probably already guessed, my proposal is a mini-Keira Knightley. That's right; I think in every computer program that uses a cursor, a small picture of the British beauty should be looking back at you. She should have voice capability and speak in that incredible English accent, too. This way I don’t feel so badly when my idiot brain goes blank:

Knightley: “You haven’t typed in a little while. Is everything okay, Joeykins?”

Me: “I’m just drawing a blank here.”

Knightley: “Poor lad. I’d give you a massage if I could. Would you settle for me disrobing?”

Me: “Well, if that’s the best you can do…”

Oh, I know what some of you are thinking: “What about us women? What kind of cursor would we get?” And I have the perfect answer: Keira Knightley. Come on! She’s beautiful! Even another woman can appreciate that. She’d look better than a cursor, right?

Besides, I don’t want to borrow one of your computers and have some dude looking back at me.

*Whoever. Or maybe “whomever”. I’m a blogger, not a writer, dammit.

Jesus Christ, Action Figure (Apostles Sold Separately)

I read recently that Wal-Mart will soon be selling Jesus and other religious “action figures” designed specifically for children. Of course, being Wal-Mart, this surprises me about as much as another Bush Administration indictment. But I have to wonder: Who will be buying these things? Can you imagine the “playing” that will be going on in a typical household with these toys?

Mom: “Timmy! Quit hitting your sister with the Virgin Mary this instant!”

Timmy: “But Mom! She cooked one of my Three Wise Men in her Easy-Bake Oven!”

Sister: “Did not!”

Timmy: “Did too!”

Mom: “Both of you, shut up and stop ar—OH MY GOD…who flushed the Son of God down the damn toilet?!?

Sister: “That was Timmy!”

Mom: “Timmy, do you know how much a plumber costs?!?!”

Timmy: “But mom, YOU said he could walk on water!”

Mom: (sighing) “Jesus Christ”.

I Got Served

Thirty-six.

That’s my age, but a part of me basically refuses to believe it. And that is the part of me that decided to go play indoor volleyball last night.

I should know better. If I had to describe in five words what my feeling was after playing volleyball for three hours, those words would be “Burning Thigh Muscles of Death”. Well, I suppose “Very Painful Lower Back Contusion” or “Wrist Possibly Broken in Half” would also work, but those ailments aren’t the ones causing me, every time I sit down, to wonder if I’ll ever be able to stand up again for the rest of my natural life. You don’t even want to picture what it is like for me get up from the toilet.

Ha ha. Too late. You have that image stuck in your mind, don’t you?

Well, no offense, but screw you. You aren’t in anywhere near the pain I am. I think I may have bruised every surface of my body. I’m currently on an all-Advil diet. I’ll even take some Vicodin if anyone has it.

And to literally add insult to injury, physical ailments weren’t my only issue last night. I haven’t played volleyball since about 1993, and apparently since then, they changed all the rules. In the early nineties, the rules basically were:

1. If the ball came anywhere near you, try and hit it up in the air.
2. But don’t use your beer hand, lest you might spill some.

Last night, however, I was playing with semiprofessionals that take their volleyball very seriously and have all these new rules about what each position is supposed to do. They were always yelling things at me like “Get in the V!” and “Cover short serve!” and “Beer is not allowed on the court!” and “Stop crying!”

Okay, I’m kidding about the last two, but I really was always getting yelled at, mainly because, no matter where I went on the court, I was always in the wrong place. My teammates tried to help in-between serves, but they were always giving me incomprehensible advice like, “Make sure to play short on serve and immediately fade back afterward but only when we are serving. When they are serving be sure to cover the middle short zone then fade back to let the setter set”.

I would always say “got it” but when play commenced I’d continue to run around randomly bouncing off of my teammates. I’m pretty sure they all thought I was, um, “differently abled”. I’m beginning to agree.

Anyway that was last night; tonight I am just dealing with incredible pain. So if you’ll excuse me, I’m signing off now to go curl into a fetal position and die.

My Big Contract Offer to Develop a Sitcom for NBC!!

Sorry for going blogless the last few days. Though, there IS a very good reason: I just received a phone call about developing a sitcom for NBC!!*




*New readers: the link goes to my MySpace blog.

The Butt-Crack Postcard

I just came up with a brilliant idea of how I’m going to become rich, and it involves my butt-crack.

I got the idea from the three newspapers I find in my yard every week. Now bear in mind, I don’t have a subscription to any paper. I haven’t had one since about 1999, mainly because of the Internet. Who needs a newspaper when they give their crap away free online? It makes no sense. Regardless, the fatheads that run these newspapers apparently think if they keep throwing me a free one every week, eventually I’ll read their tripe, like it, and subscribe. But that isn’t even close to what happens. What really transpires is:

1. Some jackass throws a newspaper in my yard at 4 am.
2. I, not having a subscription, do not expect a paper so I don’t see it as I pull out of my driveway to go to work.
3. When I get home I may or may not see it, and may not pick it up even if I do see it, because I didn’t want the stupid thing in the first place and resent having to deal with it.
4. It rains.
5. I end up cleaning newspaper-slush off my driveway with a trowel while uttering expletives and fantasizing about shooting the jackass’s tires out.

Obviously, this pisses me off. I have never read a damn word out of any of these papers in the four years I’ve owned this house. But how do I cancel a newspaper subscription I don’t have? I would pay these jackasses to NOT throw their stupid papers in my yard!

Bingo.

Did you read that? As a businessman, blogger, and World Champion Lazy Ass, I am always on the lookout for ways to make money by not doing something. So this gives me a great idea: The Butt-Crack Postcard. The plan is simple. I’m going to get the address of every single person in a given city and start mailing them all a postcard about three times a week. The picture on it will be nothing but my bare ass, in super high resolution so you can see all the detail. When you flip the card over, you’ll see: the same picture of my ass. There’ll be no escaping it! At the bottom of each side it’ll say:

We sincerely hope you are enjoying the postcards we have been sending you and will continue to send you three times a week for the rest of your life. However, if you wish, you can subscribe to unsubscribe for the low, low price of $79.99 a year. Just send a check or money order to:

Simmons Full Moon Enterprises, LLC

P.O. Box 54321

Cape Coral, FL 33914

Isn’t this idea brilliant? People will be paying me not to moon them anymore! Pretty soon, I’ll have every single person in an entire city sending me eighty bucks a year to do absolutely nothing! Man, I love capitalism.

Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have postcards to make up. Um, anyone want to volunteer to take a few pictures?

"Phone Check!!"

Blogged on MySpace again. But before you go over there, you MUST read the following disclaimer:

WARNING: This blog entry contains genuine “guy talk”—the kind of conversation men absolutely NEVER have around women. If you are a woman and want to believe that men never have repartee like what you are about to read, turn away now. However, you would only be lying to yourself, because ALL men have these conversations.

Do you still want to go? Are you sure? Okay then, here's the link.



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