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Archives: Jan 2011

Super Bowls are for turds

I don’t care about the Super Bowl this year. I mean, I care about the important parts, like getting wasted and overeating and watching commercials, but I don’t care much about the game. To be honest, unless a cheerleader pops a boob out, I’ll likely spend most of the time playing Tecmo Super Bowl on my laptop.

And hypothetically speaking, let’s say a cheerleader did pop a boob out, and the cheerleader was actually attractive in a “former ballerina, but with boobs” way instead of in that “wrinkly at 28 from too much tanning booth time, smiling so big that it’s actually kind of a turnoff, but I’ll go for it anyway because she’s being really nice to me and it seems easy and I’m too lazy to actually work at charming a more interesting girl” way. What would it be, like two seconds of entertainment at that point? Two seconds I could catch on 400 different websites after the Super Bowl is over?

Ow! Damn it! I just pulled something. I was putting my feet up on the table, and I raised my leg too quickly and strained a muscle or something. Jesus, that stings. It’s like once you reach the age of 30, you have to think about every movement you’re going to make beforehand, so you don’t surprise your limbs.

Seriously though, a ballerina would be an excellent fit for me.

Hire me for all your rebuttals

You may have heard rumor that I, humble hicksville columnist Paul Ryan, was chosen by the Republican Party to deliver the rebuttal speech to President Obama’s State of the Union address. You are correct. I was both flattered and sexually aroused by this honor.

It has long been my dream to offer rebuttals to things. As you may have noticed from reading this column over the past eight years, I hate everything. I hate kittens, ice cream, smiles, the kindness of strangers, and even panda bears. What about children? Oh, I hate children. They’re like midgets, but with an IQ of 47. What about newborn babies? Oh, I hate newborn babies. They can’t do anything themselves. Having a baby is basically like owning a homeless person.

See? I’m perfect. With my love of hating things, and my tendency to be disagreeable even to stuff I like just for the sake of being a grumpy pain in the ass, there was no better choice for someone to offer a political rebuttal. If Obama said puppies were adorable, I’d call them “urinary and fecal vending machines”. If Obama said the economy was recovering, I’d shout something racist like, “You look like Wayne Brady”, which is arguably the meanest thing anyone could ever shout at a black person.

Please shut the hell up about your astrological sign

If I hear one more person utter one more word about their astrological sign changing, I’m going to unleash a flood of vomit so mighty that all of you will drown. I’ve tried to be nice. I’ve even tried to console people, rather than mocking them for basing their personality on something akin to the cycles of a washing machine. Alas, this has gotten out of hand and it’s time to put an end to it.

Shut up. No, shut up! I’ve read all 40 of your Facebook/Twitter/Tumblr/JDate updates on the matter and I don’t need to hear them repeated. No, you’re not being stubborn because you’re a Taurus, you’re being stubborn because you’re a dick. Now sit there quietly while I explain reality to you.

Your personality is not based on the time of year you were born. Hitler shares a sign with Maya Angelou. I share a sign with Sid Vicious and the gay guy from NSYNC, so don’t feed me nonsense. Your personality isn’t determined by astrology any more than your penis length is determined by leprechauns that live in your mother’s uterus.

An e-reader for poor people

It’s Saturday night and I’m sitting on a little rubber footstool at a Borders bookstore, leafing through website coding books. I’m unemployed and can’t afford to buy the books, so I’m using my cellphone to take photos of the pages that have information I need. A lot of people read books on little electronic devices these days, so I figure this is kind of a cheaper do-it-yourself version of that.

Unfortunately, the bookish ladies with Sarah Palin glasses who work here disagree, and they’re starting to get suspicious. After multiple casual strolls past me to scowl and make “tsk tsk” noises, one of them approaches.

“Um, are you going to buy that?” she asks.

“Yes,” I say, clearly lying.

She walks away. This will give me at least another 15 minutes before she works up the courage to confront me again. When she does, I’ll feign anger at the interruption, hopefully causing her to walk away muttering about how she doesn’t get paid enough to deal with this shit.

Eulogy for the Limplifter

I’d like to thank you all for the outpouring of support and condolences on the loss of Superior’s classiest strip club, The Lamplighter. It was a great loss to me. In 10 years, I went there once. I was their best customer.

Actually, I haven’t heard any condolences yet, as the club was a festering pit of depression and sadness that not even the most hardcore masochist or sex fiend would enjoy, so it’s not surprising that its closure went unnoticed. Now that this column has made everyone aware of its demise, I’m sure the entire region will be grieving. Everyone hates to lose a great joke.

“The Limplifter” was, after all, a comedy landmark. Much like an old library that still heats itself using firewood or the last doctor’s office to still use leeches, The Limplifter may have been the last strip club in the nation that required strippers to feed their own quarters into the jukebox in order to dance to a song. I always wondered if the owner gave them the quarters, or if the quarter was the club’s take of the $0.39 in tips the strippers earned each dance.