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Archives: Jan 2012

Hollywood guide for artists

Writing in Hollywood

Writer: You said Modern Family’s writing staff is looking for spec scripts, right? I wrote a great one! It’s really funny.

Agent: Give me an outline for it.

Writer: Well the family decides to-

Agent: No, I mean give me a written outline, 8-12 pages long, detailing all the plot points. Nobody reads full scripts.

Writer: Just an outline with the plot points and jokes?

Agent: No jokes. Just plot points.

Rules for dating a vegetarian

Let’s get one thing out of the way: The first rule in dating a vegetarian is to not date a vegetarian. It’s just simply awful. It’s like when I decided to follow the Dalai Lama on Twitter. The first week was very inspirational, but by the third week, his endless droning on about peace and compassion made me want to throw rocks at children just to spite him.

Also, he did not retweet my reality TV show pitch, wherein David Sedaris and The Muppets live in an apartment together, which makes me question whether he’s truly compassionate or just all talk.

Why would I ever go on a date with a vegetarian, when I’m not a vegetarian myself? Well, because guys will date anyone who’s pretty. If a woman is attractive enough, she can literally get away with anything: Public tantrums, infidelity, lack of knowledge about anything of importance, stupid-looking dogs that no man would ever own voluntarily, vegetarianism, murder. It’s not news that if walruses had nice tits, guys would mainly date walruses. Only physical characteristics matter to us at first. It’s not until a woman poisons our breakfast cereal or smashes our windshield with a baseball bat that we realize maybe our penises shouldn’t be making major life decisions for us.

Failed jokes

Guy #1: Knock knock.
Guy #2: Who’s there?
Guy #1: Fuck you.
Guy #2: Um . . . fuck you who?
Guy #1: I’m going to slit your throat, you piece of shit.
Guy #2: I don’t want to play this game anymore.

Why did the old man cross the road? I don’t know either, but your grandfather’s closed casket funeral will be held this Saturday.

A priest, a rabbit and a shaved monkey walk into a bar. Nothing amusing happens. They all have a very pleasant and uneventful time. I’m not sure why you had your hopes up. People in this world can be quite civilized, you know.

Q: What’s black and white and red all over?
A: Selena Gomez masturbating.

I’m too lazy to cast you into hell

by Kirk Cameron

Hmm. It says here that this is the Reader Weekly’s 666th issue. The mark of the beast. I guess it’s time to start up the apocalypse, but really, who has the energy anymore? I’ve been so worn out lately that my normally flaccid penis is doubly flaccid. It’s literally hiding inside my own scrotum, which is in turn hiding inside my own anus. It feels incredible.

Oh, hello everyone! I didn’t see you there. My name’s Kirk Cameron, and I was once the star of “Growing Pains”, television’s eighth most popular sitcom in 1988, and 75th most popular sitcom in 1991! There is a photo of me on Wikipedia holding up a duck! Go ahead and check! I’ll wait.

These days I’m mainly known for being Christian. Really Christian. The type of Christian who stands outside Miley Cyrus concerts handing out leaflets accusing everyone of sodomy. The type who goes on national talk shows and says evolution isn’t real because nature never combined a pelican and a fart. The type of Christian who would be rambling incoherently on the subway if he hadn’t been on a TV show once.

Goddamn it, stop talking so loud

I’m really hungover, so let’s get the meat and potatoes of my usual comedy routine over with: Poop, fart, penis, anus, Miley Cyrus, twat, douche, jizz, diarrhea, vaginas shaped like astronauts. There. This week’s column is finished.

What? Is that not enough? Seriously, I’m really hungover from drinking whiskey in a hallway closet by myself, and I woke up with the bottle jammed in my armpit like I thought deodorant was going to come out of it. Every inch of my body is sore. I have to hunt-and-peck this column on my laptop from the floor because I’m afraid if I sit up I might vomit all over everything I’ve ever known or loved.

Meanwhile, I left the TV on last night and the morning infomercials have come on, which means at least six playings per hour of that goddamn Sarah McLaughlin commercial with the sad-looking animals and that shitty angel song she wrote 15 years ago. Can you write a new song, Sarah? Maybe one about fucking or doing blow, so we can all feel a little more upbeat? Eazy-E may be dead, but that doesn’t seem to keep him from being more fun that you.