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Sorry, starving kids
This million is set aside
for nude Bea Arthur.

I’m having a little trouble catching “Friday Fever” or “Friday Hepatic Encephalopathy” or whatever those asshole kids call it these days. Maybe I’m just bummed out because I didn’t win the auction for that naked Bea Arthur painting. It would have looked so fucking classy next to my nude Polaroid of Robert Zemekis.

Some might say, “What kind of submental jackass would blow seven figures on an ironic painting of Maude’s tits?” Granted, there is an argument to be made there. But I would then have to retort, “At least I didn’t donate money to the son of a bitch that made Garden State so he could make a follow-up.”

I confess, I saw that piece of shit. I’m not entirely without blame. I went of my own volition, handing over real, actual money to sit in a darkened room and watch Zach Braff stand there making that Zach Braff face in front of a wallpaper with the same ugly pattern as his ugly shirt, and I accept whatever unimaginable agony awaits me as punishment in the next life. But for what it’s worth, man I sure hated the hell out of that movie. It was kind of a “creeper hate.” I left the theater with a sense of unease, but I wasn’t yet ready to admit I’d wasted my seven bucks (or however much tickets costback in those olden times). I just attributed that rotten feeling in my gut to a bad batch of Sno-Caps. I’d write the Sno-Caps Corporation a stern letter when I got home, then sit back and reflect on the wonderfully poignant work of art I’d– aw hell, that movie fucking sucked a mile of cock. And the more I thought about it, the angrier I got. Angry at every person involved in every stage of creating that godawful pile of self-indulgent tripe, but also at myself for being suckered into sitting through it. I mean, the wallpaper bit was in the trailer, for fuck’s sake!

I can honestly say, however, that of all the thoughts that passed through my wounded mind during those traumatic post-Garden State days, not one was “More of that, please!” Tragically, the same cannot be said for the rest of this doomed society, as evidenced by the fact that Braffhole successfully passed the hat around on Kickstarter for two million dollars to fund his next unbearably twee project whose title is so damn stupid I can’t bring myself to include it here. Of course, it later turned out that he didn’t technically “need” the two mil ha ha but thanks for being such awesome fans anyway ha ha luv Zach. Ain’t he a stinker?

So, I guess when you think about it, there are dumber things to waste a couple million dollars on than a tasteful nude portrait of the third-hottest Golden Girl. Yeah, that just cheers me right the fuck up.

I know it’s Thursday, because those damned Christians are out again. Periwinkle ties, freshly ironed smiles and a parasol to shade them from the apathetic gaze of the Creator. Always on Thursdays. Here, anyway. I can only assume they’re wheeling that proselytizing shitshow around different parts of the greater Los Angeles area throughout the rest of the week, possibly even moving other mediocre wannabe writers to bitch about it on their own blogs that receive up to a whopping ten page views on a good day. Or maybe they’re just on a different wavelength than most, causing them to warble back and forth between existence and non-existence on a weekly basis. Someday soon, I will walk by them and they won’t have heads. Or was that today? I was only on my fourth cup of coffee at the time.

WHAT DOES THE BIBLE REALLY TEACH?

A rhetorical question, of course. You know, like “Where’s the beef?” or “Why are you in my closet, Jeffrey Beaumont?”

Hey, Mr. Bible Man, Bible me bananas. I am touching your face, Bible Man. It has the pliability of cookie dough. No resistance. Going to make delicious oatmeal raisin cookies with your face. No, an ashtray. I just got a new kiln and I’ve been dying to… no. Kneading what was your Bible-face, squishy, squashy. You hate it but you can’t complain without a mouth.

Oops! I forgot to add water. The remains of your pasty visage crumble and flake through my atheist fingers and cascade in slow motion to the concrete below your stompy feet. A squadron of ants emerges from the cracks and makes off with every last crumb, a display of efficiency and teamwork both adorable and terrifying. You try in vain to crush them but only manage to amuse the occupants of a passing (doomed) tour bus–

Skids on a Moebius banana peel, rolls once, twice, bounces, glides gracefully into a Panda Express. No survivors. Another Yelp score ruined.

WHAT DOES THE BIBLE REALLY TEACH?

Bible A leaves the station at 3:35 p.m. traveling east at 8,520 mph. Bible B leaves the station at 10:10 a.m. traveling west at 4 mph. Why is the station on fire?

Sally drops a Bible from the top of the Eiffel tower. Five seconds later, Jorge drops a canteloupe from halfway down.
How many seconds will it take for this to become a hot new trend? How many more seconds will elapse before the backlash? Show all work.

Put that shit in a bold PowerPoint presentation and take it to your grave. Nobody would understand. They’re only interested in short ribs and American Idol.

Fuck Thursdays.

Dearest Ronald,

PEACE,
RONNY

—

This here is exactly why I need to stop poking around in the attic. Well, that and the spiders. And the wormhole to Dallas. I don’t even have an attic, to be honest. But if I did, it would be hot and very empty, just like Ronald.

Nurses always have tea. Did you know that? For real. Ask any nurse if he/she/it is presently in possession of tea and the response will invariably be “Green or hibiscus, you creepy fuck?” It’s never failed me in my time of need (9:47 a.m., Tuesdays). I’m a simple man.

Hibiscus is a fun word to say, isn’t it? Someday I want to say it eight hundred times consecutively. Maybe even shout it at a nun once or twice. Could you say it after a few shots of novacaine? We should hang out. In a well-lit public place, obviously. We’ll take turns mutilating our respective consciousnesses and saying “hibiscus.” Hey, if we each bring a friend, we could form a terrible, atonal barbershop quartet and never speak to each other again. But you don’t really care for music, do you?

Okay. I usually bring my own tea. I don’t know where it comes from and that’s just how I like it. No sugar, no cream, no identifiable point of origin. Just sediment in a porous bag. That’s the American dream, is it not? Don’t mean to get all political on you, but…

Well, just for a moment. Aren’t you glad we never had to see Nixon in HD? He died in 1994. I was in high school. That morning, my right contact lens rolled back into my eye and I had to be excused to go to the restroom so I could fish it out. I’m not saying I killed Nixon, just that there wasn’t high-definition television yet. Don’t get any ideas.

Nixonian. Clintonian. Klingonian. You know you’ve made it when someone can tack the -ian suffix onto you and you don’t even feel it. You just smile, nod and walk on down the hall. Past the copy machine, past the utility closet, past the other copy machine. Into the ether. Bill Clinton, everyone.

[clappingseal.gif]

Meatheadian. No, that’ll never fly. Maybe a sarcastic -esque someday, if I’m lucky. Then again, at least I’m not Scott Ian of Anthrax. Ianian? Good luck!

—

My sweet, sweet Ronald,

PARTY HARDY,
STEVE I MEAN RONNY