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Archives: Mar 2008

Clooney brought us a turd

Note: I’m a columnist for the Reader Weekly, an alt-weekly newspaper in Duluth, MN. Every Monday I post a new column.

This column refers to this event.

 
The train pulled in slowly, and a heavenly glow appeared on the platform. The source, a devilishly handsome man in his late-40s, smiled and immediately entranced the room. “Hi, I’m George Clooney”, he said, winking at the crowd like a favorite uncle who planned to slip them some money when no one else was watching.

A great cheer rose from the crowd, as if Jesus had resurrected a day late and chosen Duluth, MN as his re-spawning point. The frigid air turned 10 degrees warmer, with this wonderful man transporting everyone, if only in their minds, from the cold Northland to a sunny spot in heaven.

Suddenly, a horrible sound pierced the ears of the crowd. It also came from the platform. “Braaack!” the creature crowed, its mouth creaking open as if someone had once tried to sew it shut. “What town is this again, George? Braaack!” The creature had a woman’s body, but the face of a vulture. Its voice crackled and scraped through the air, bruising everything within earshot.

Clooney smiled, pointed to the creature, and said, “I assume you all know my co-star Renee Zellweger.”

George is my friend, and he gives me money

Whoops. Forgot to post this on Monday.

Note: I’m a columnist for the Reader Weekly, an alt-weekly newspaper in Duluth, MN. Every Monday I post a new column.

 
I don’t mean to brag, dear reader, but George W. Bush and I are very close friends. We’re pals. We’re amigos. Mejores amigos para siempre. We’re such good buddies that sometimes we even finish each other’s sentences. Actually, I just finish his, and it’s pretty easy since he’s been saying the same things over and over again for seven years, but we’re still great chums. Just the other day, George gave me $600.

I didn’t even ask for it. The check just showed up in my mailbox. The return address claimed it was from the IRS, but I know who it was really from. That old rascal! Where’d he get that money! Hell, I don’t care where he got it. It’s not my business where the president gets his federally-funded cash.

The best thing about George is he doesn’t even want me to pay him back. He just made me promise to stimulate the economy. “Hey there, Slim,” he said. “I saw you had your eye on that Playstation 3. I thought I’d help you out.” Hell of a guy! I’d kiss him if I could figure out which end was his mouth.

Stop overusing the word ‘fuck’

Note: I’m a columnist for the Reader Weekly, an alt-weekly newspaper in Duluth, MN. Every Monday I post a new column.

 
“Fuck” used to be a great word. It was a beautiful, poetic way to describe joyfully defiling and banging the holy bejeezus out of someone you normally wouldn’t care for, or whom normally wouldn’t care for you. It was also a fierce, intense insult aimed at only the vilest of enemies.

Telling someone to “Go fuck a pole” used to mean something. It meant you wanted that person to physically thrust their erect penis headlong into a pole, preferably with a running start, and injure themselves in the worst of ways. Now it’s just another generic insult, thrown out for every mild offense.

Someone honks their car horn? “Fuck you.” The waiter forgets to bring additional napkins? “That stupid fucker”. Your grandmother casually mentions she doesn’t care for NCAA basketball? “Fuck that bitch.” Fuck, fucker, fucking, fucked, fuckety fuck fuck fuck fuck. All the time! Every day! Whether I’m at work or out on the street, all I hear is “fuck this, fuck that, fuckity fuckity fuck”. Enough!

“We went to this great fucking store the other day.” No you didn’t. You went to Target. A “fucking store” would be a business so terrible that you had diarrhea when you left, or were treated like an AIDS victim with a nosebleed. Stop trying to slip the word “fuck” into every single sentence. You’re killing it. You’re killing the word that is most dear to my heart, because it describes the two things I love most: Unclassy sex and brutal hatred.

I don’t understand how Google works

Note: I’m a columnist for the Reader Weekly, an alt-weekly newspaper in Duluth, MN. Every Monday I post a new column.

 
I don’t get the internet. I went to Google and searched for “Paul Ryan likes danishes from McDonald’s but only if they heat them in the microwave first duh idiots of course I like it hot” and I only got seven search results, none of them relevant. Then I realized I accidentally spelled it “micromave” and sighed in relief, figuring that was the problem. But after fixing it and searching again, I still got seven worthless results.

What the hell, man? I expected one of the following search results: 1) A detailed biography of me, including which danishes I find the tastiest, 2) A detailed biography of some other guy named Paul Ryan and his danish preferences, or 3) Porn. The actual results included none of these things. The internet is supposed to be perfect and magical, but it certainly wasn’t that day. As the first girl I ever had sex with said to me, “Is that it?”

So I tried a different approach. I typed “www.paulryanloveswarmdanishes.com” into my browser and hit enter. There’s no website located at that address. Why the hell not? “Maybe I’m more important than I suspected,” I thought. “I should try www. paulryanloveswarmdanishes.org.” I did, but still found no relevant results.

Take a sick day, you douche

Note: I’m a columnist for the Reader Weekly, an alt-weekly newspaper in Duluth, MN. Every Monday I post a new column.

 
My boss crawled into work on Monday morning, almost literally. Her withered form crept through the dark hallways, filling every shadow with her sickly coughs and wheezing. Opening the door to her office, she winced back in pain from the sunlight, hissing like a wounded vampire as her pupils constricted.

“Oh, she’s taken up drinking,” I thought. “Good for her.” But she wasn’t hungover, reader. She was sick. Sicker than Old Yeller when Travis entered the barn with his gun. If I had been holding a gun, I probably would have tearfully put her out of her misery as well. That’s how bad she looked.

Some of my co-workers called her a “trooper” for coming to work. I prefer the term “retard”. Why did she show up? She didn’t do any work. She just walked around all day whining about how sick she was and gathering sympathy from every person she could blow snot on, which was all of us. By this time next week the company will have to install barf bags in every cubicle to accommodate all the poor bastards she infected.