Honest Answers to Cliche'd Questions

If you could have dinner with anyone in the world, alive or dead, who would it be?

--Anyone willing to keep quiet while I stuff my face. When did dinner become all about Q & A?

Do you believe in miracles?

--I'd start if you'd stop speaking.

Is there a God?

--Sure there is. Next, you'll ask me if there's an Easter Bunny. Jesus! Are you kidding?!

All Through the House, Not a Creature was Stirring Except for the Ax-wielding maniac and his Involuntary Prey. "Listen, that's how I remember it, ok!"

Wow, what a fantastic idea for a movie! I bet the killer's Jewish...Just remember I called it. I'm simply looking forward to certain catch-phrases and expressions I'm sure will be in abundance in this film, such as "Merry fucking Christmas mother fucker!" Or, "enjoy the birth of our saviour you son-of-a-bitch!" And then someone gets pumped full of lead. (I love that, pumped full of lead. It's just become apparent to me that I don't get to say things like that as much as I'd like) How about, "and a happy (protagonist sticks bad-guy with long metal pole) fucking (protagonist twists long metal pole, while its imbedded in bad-guy's stomach) new year (protagonist lets go of pole--realizing bad-guy is dead--and falls backwards, breathing heavily) you crazy fuck! I know I love it. Again, remember I called it. And the bad-guy's final retort could be "baaaaaaaah huuUUUuuum buuuug (and then his head twists so that he's not facing the camera): genius.

Louis CK #3

Louis CK is incredible. Check out Luck Louie on HBO if you haven't yet. You can watch clips on you tube as well.

I think at this point I'm merely hoping verbosity and redundancy are humorous.

K-Fed: My thoughts

Well, aren't you special. You're so special in your sparkling special suit, with your sparkling special earing. You're so special you make special people seem simply retarded again. You're such a special piece of special pie that your slice must be placed, not put, on a plate because put is too inferior a verb for the amount of specialness you exude, and therefore, require from others. You're so special you inspire wealthy people to marry you, pop out a bunch of your babies, divorce you, but then hopefully realize the amount of special specialness they've lost and come back. Damn that special quality of yours. Damn it to a particularly special place in hell!

Just smile for the camera Santa. Bitch always wanting to take pictures. "No honey, it's fine. I love you."

Ho, Ho, Ho, Ya Know!

Hello kiddies, it's almost Christmas. The one night of the year when dear old Santa actually gets to leave his house for the evening: I know, his wife's got him whipped! Can you imagine what it would be like to be with the same person for an eternity, and only get to leave the house one night a year? I know he's cruising around with a hooker on that sled, you don't even have to suggest it.
And I'm pretty sure that elves don't make the presents anymore either: it's all corporate now. If not, then why do the toys say Parker Brothers or Milton Bradley? Elves wear suits and carry blackberries now-a-days, Santa simply cuts down on shipping costs. And don't even act like one of them doesn't help Mrs. Claus out on the evening either; sex toys are still toys. It's not just hard for men, ya know...sexist bastard.

Believe me, I love the butter-scotch waterfall

--Muskrats do what I pay them to do.

"Can you check on the turkey for me?" "Why? I mean, it's not going anywhere?"

Maybe this is a bit late, considering Thanksgiving has past, but since Christmas starts earlier every year it might be time to try and extend Thanksgiving a bit. It is odd, however, that some people eat turkey for Christmas as well--just can't get enough of that turkey! I think that may be the same way comedians feel about George W. Bush.

Anyway, my girlfriend--being one of those people that seems to not have the ability to get over a turkey obsession--is cooking a turkey this evening. However, she left during this painstakingly long process and has now decided to call me to ask if I can check on it for her. What's there to check on? It's dead! "Um, I checked it and it's still pretty much dead, babe. In fact, that golden brown color it's beginning to take on doesn't exactly resemble sunbathing, if you know what I mean."

It seems to me that possibly--of course, if the turkey were still alive--it may have more of its own things that it wished could be checked on: things such as "is the farmer around? What month is it? Is it close to November? What are you gonna do with that hatchet?" Well, at least, it seems it'd have more questions needing answering. That's all I'm saying.

Kind of a threatening image for a turtle. I've never been so scared of such a slow-moving creature in my life. It's almost begging, "try and run. You just try it."

Excellent Bill. Excellent Ted. Excellent. Yeah! Excellent.

Excellent Written and Verbal Skills? Define Excellent.

In my persistant search for post-graduate employment I've ran across the word excellent quite a bit in reference to what many companies feel an ideal canidate should possess; especially pertaining to a potential employee's articulacy, which then makes me wonder if my verbal and writing skills are equivalent to that of excellence? Does my speech exude the excellence that is required to be considered excellent? Is writing an excellent job-fit for me? Will i excel at it? Will my possible lack of excellence in any particular skill overshadow my excellence in another? Does my excellence in any skill rely on my use of the word excellent to define it? Is the use of the word excellent an excellent selling point in an attempt to advertise the excellence of a particular skill? Damn it!
I wish there were an excellent way of knowing the most excellent ways in which to showcase skills in which one is excellent! Or at least, which skills one may have potential to excel at. In hindsight, this really hasn't helped, or even been cathartic, has it?...excellent.

Anxiety?

I'm always nervous when I'm out in public. Not that I'm an agoraphobic, or that I'm whatever the phobic is that means one's afraid of people, but something that I don't even think they've attributed a phobia name to yet: I'm afraid of farting in public.
Those of you who do not have a problem with this either have no manners, self-confidence that would make Hitler seem doubtful, or maybe instead of keeping our eyes on Iran we should consider the bomb your carrying around with you on a daily basis. It's one of those three, I know. It has to be.
Even if I head to the most remote location, like a bathroom for Christ's sake, and let it go it's always the same: "Dude!" shouts the assweed that's been previously blowing up the stall next to me. "Throw some water on that shit!" I WASN'T EVEN GOING! Somehow my own brand of personal stench was enough to break through the barricade of pungence that he had built around himself to cause his smelly ass to gag.
The worst is in a department store. Just when you think you're safe, in the corner of the mens coat section at the Macy's, you let one slide out ever so gently and BAM! You turn around and right behind you, next to the belt rack she stands. A girl that you probably didn't have a chance with anyway, but now have postulated that idea. One good thing, since you've singed off her eyebrows she's simply not as fetching as she may have previoulsy been.

Columbia University and Its Subway: An Interesting Dichotomy, Indeed...Indeed

When getting off at the 116 & Broadway stop, on the 1 train, I noticed across the tracks on the southbound side a man playing--like drums--what appeared to be overturned plastic spackle buckets; he was pretty good, hum. However, when entering the historic epithet for intellect that is Columbia University, I witnessed a girl standing in the middle of campus' brilliantly manicured grounds playing the violin. Now, it was about 30 degrees F outside, give or take, so what was this bitch thinking? "Hum, seems like a night for violin playing. Don't you think (to other overeducated assweed in her dorm room)?" "Should I get your jacket?" the other overeducated assweed asks. "No need." The music was great. I'd loved to have stuck around longer, but it was FUCKING FREEZING OUTSIDE!
The homeless guy--beating his way hopefully to a decent meal, or at least a fucking bottle to keep himself warm when he has to sleep in the violin bitches practice room--I could've listened to forever; and in the warmth of the subway, even shed a dollar or two into his metal container. At least, he had the sense to stay inside!