Friday, September 24, 2004

It’s that time again, kids, so buckle up for another edition of...


That’s right, it’s America’s favorite blog pastime—where a new and exciting prose piece is constructed from only the most impressively crafted sentence from the most recent post (or, in some cases, most recent post featuring at least one complete sentence) of each and every website in the “Hostin’ and Postin’” area to the right of your screen. The result is wacky, zany, and contains 100% recycled material, so it’s good for the planet. Ready? No? Too bad, let’s begin:

En otras palabras: Relax, bitches, we're goin' to Mars! Beyond that, our intrepid, proboscidally-enhanced and tusk-bearing protagonist admits nothing. This must be what it feels like to be an Iraqi.

I had about three orgasms browsing through the thing. But I had a hunch this wasn't true–after all, I imagine the entire Washington State education system would implode in a abscence of Pee-Chees. I feel a term paper coming on, or someone wants to be very naughty next time they babysit.

Is Israel going to bake Iran a cake? As these cases go, this particular brand of political correctness reaches a new level of false history and hypocrisy. The mud was remarkable, filled with oils, swirling, stinking. Yeah, if ten thousand of them were dressed as empty seats.

Yeah, nothing screams Christmas more than Thuman's cold cuts, Pechter's bread and plastic cutlery. So don't you be fooled by all the propaganda coming from the plunger industy. A tad confusing at first because he tends to go, "Reality? Fuck reality!" only he doesn't tell you this upfront.

Yes, only a four-eyed weenie would step into the hardball of Texas politics because he didn't like his district's geography. Alternately, the guy could be a frat-boy date rapist who was off his game until he discovered Viagra.

But I finally got some time to myself, and I'm just going to lounge around. (Insert sound of record screeching backwards here, followed by the evil glares of Venezualan pop stars and horny Java engineers and the two out-of-the-closet latino Yahoo! employees.) Ever since then I have been thinking about trashy pregnant white girls with Iron Cross tattoos stirring butternut squash soup. Before it gets to the point where Morning is somehow...Broken.

Pocket Ninjas: FIRST STRIKE! is not only a subtle comment on a fine legal point, it also has one of the top-ten all-time best Voltron references. I'm calling it: that's it, election over.

I got that promotional idea from Joyce Carol Oates.

Maybe this is considered impolite in mixed company, but let me be the first to say: Mission Accomplished, you incompetent, despicable, lying dry-drunk sock puppet! The Tibetan glaciers are melting.

Yeah, there's gonna be a lotta broken pencils, all-nighters, Krispy Kreme runs, and sweaty brows as they try to triangulate around whatever they predict Kerry'll say. And he called President Bush "Satan ... with a learning disability."

But don't be like the kid on the playground who not only beat everyone at dodgeball but made them feel bad about it by bragging about it later. Just this one spot that looks kinda like Weezy from the Jeffersons.

You might say he lived by the freezer and died by the freezer. No man could film boobies better.

But mostly, I'm just wasting time, because I'm suppossed to be getting paid to write and yet all I want to do is crawl into bed with a bowl of lasagna and watch Ferris Bueller. It will be almost like we are having a threesome.

Happy birthday, Bruce. It's at this precise moment that an unseen force grabs me and I disappear into the bushes. I think once my neighbor's teenage sons leave their bedroom window to go buy drugs or harass squirrels, I'll take my pants off and stare at the computer screen for an hour or two.

Or would I rather be one of those new "fast" zombies, barreling through the streets like Gary Busey on a coke bender? Those women were the most acrobatically orgasmic group I have ever seen.