Every week I pick five stories from the news that make me proud to live in this great America. This week, it’s all about the love. And the car crashes.
At this point, if a guy (or lady) sits at a computer and types the words “John Mayer is a douchebag” is anything really accomplished?
Is it any different if that same fellow (or bird) pulls his laptop over and types the words “you know, the ocean is really big. And blue. Well, bluish-green. And I peed in it.”
No. But it’s hilarious that John Mayer felt compelled to drop the n-bomb and then compare his penis to David Duke. Which is actually a pretty obscure reference in 2010 – does he get points for this? We need a judges’ panel for stuff like this.
Fashion Police can eat me. I want Celebrity Asshole Death Panel Live! where we can cut – live! – to Joan Rivers, Perez Hilton, the adorable Jay Emanuel, and Warren Sapp and have them break down celebrity nonsense as it happens. I want a scoring system, and, ideally, a rankings ladder. Or food chain. Whatever.
Was anything accomplished here, today? Are we better people for knowing that John Mayer likes to use the n-word? Are we enriched by knowing that he probably calls his penis “David Duke” or maybe even just “the Duke” when he masturbates?
The Indianapolis 500 is one of my favorite things in the world. It’s got pretty much everything a dude could want an awesome thing to have: the cars are loud as hell and twice as fast and it’s world famous and Gomer Pyle sings and then at the end a dude kisses a pretty girl, gets a wreath put over his head like he’s Seabiscuit, and then he drinks milk right out of thebottle.
Unfortunately, because everything sucks and everyone is dumb, me and like three guys on the internet are the only ones left who seem to care. So all the owners and some sponsors got together and decided that times are desperate. And desperate times, as you know, call for desperate measures.
Like, all the Batman.
I like Peyton. I do. He does good work, just so long as it’s September or nowhere near a football field. He’s kind of like the Bizarro Shaq.
He’s good at making faces, calling audibles at the line of scrimmage, telling people how to do their job, and throwing touchdown passes against the Texans in Week 7. The thing he’s not so good at is winnng big games. He’s terrible at that. Except for that one season where the Patriots blew a three touchdown lead and then the Colts got to play against the Sex Cannonin the rain at the Super Bowl.
That season was like when NASA has to wait something like two years for the planets to literally align before they can launch a deep space probe and make sure everything is on the proper trajectory and all that. The odds were astronomical. They were higher than the odds of a girl who doesn’t have a vagina getting pregnant.
So when the Saints did what they did it wasn’t really all that surprising. It was awesome but not surprising. Jesus, this is the New Orleans Saints we’re talking about. Everything is officially retarded now. The entire city of Buffalo just committed seppuku. Do you think Cleveland would willingly accept a natural disaster if it meant the Browns would win the Super Bowl in a couple of years?
You’re taking your time and enjoying the beautiful day. Maybe your windows are down. That one George Harrison song you love comes on the radio. You’re enjoying the delicious bratwurst you got from the Sausage Guy at Home Depot – because it’s Saturday and you always get a bratwurst from the Sausage Guy at Home Depot on Saturday. Of all the Saturdays of your life, this might be the best. The only way it’s better is if there’s football on TV when you get home.
Just moseying along, you turn onto that winding road that cuts through the park. You see a family throwing a Frisbee around. Some kids are flying kites. Just then you see somethingdifferent, though. You don’t notice at first, but as you get closer and start to drive past you realize that what you’re seeing is what you’re seeing. People in costume. People in tights who shouldn’t be in tights. Wigs. Douchebaggery.
That’s right: LARPers. Right there, out in public. Where everyone can see.
That perfect Saturday? Ruined. Thanks, assholes.
Things are bad for the American auto industry. Detroit is an imploding dystopian hellhole. Chrysler is owned by the Italians. GM is a hulking shell of its former self. None of this isnews, you see – the Big Three have been taking it in the ass for years.
It’s always something with these guys – they’re like that one girl that everyone knows who is a complete and total drama magnet. She can’t live without with the drama – she thrives on it – to the point that if there isn’t any drama she’ll create some. She’s insane and crazy and maybe a little bit hot, and yeah the crazy probably makes her a little more attractive, but everyone’s fallen for that at least once and pretty soon you just learn to keep your distance.
Toyota, though, was always that quiet girl that kind of hung around but nobody really paid any attention to. Maybe she got good grades, maybe she didn’t. Nobody knows because she just kind of did her own thing. She’s cute, but only in the right light. After high school or college or that semester at sea you probably just forgot about her, until the other day when you bumped into that other chick at Target while you were buying tampons for your wife and you found out that OMG did you hear that Toyota murdered a dude and buried him in Christian Bale’s front yard?
Because she totally did.
|Aaron B. Murray has a wall-sized aquarium filled with Cristal and reef sharks. He feeds them daily and recycles the Cristal twice a month. Follow him on Twitter at murray_cod|