Month: January 2013

The Borelor

Zzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz.

Hmm?

Oh, yes. I’m recrapping The Bachelor.

It is two hours long!?! What the fuH.

I’ve got this. I’ve totally got this.

Um…

So this guy? Yep, his name is Bland. He likes his harem o’ ladies. He’s getting really connectedvilled with some of them. Some ladies are like “Fart.” Others are like “Poopy.” One sharts a sonnet.

This one climbs a mountain and claims her religion prevents her from kissing Bland on TV, but not from completely humilating herself on TV. Bland wants to kiss her, but also wants to drink a shoe filled with milk.

Roller derby group date. Woman I’ve never seen before say “I’m irrelevant.” Someone falls, cracks her head open and shredded paper falls out. Sarah, of the one-arm, cries because this is the most boring episode. Bland’s heart bleeds Pringles® and gives her a pep talk that makes me want to chew off my arm.

Skate, skate, ambulance, feh.

One woman on the group date is trying to be interesting by being “the villain,” but she is just boring and makes me wish I was watching someone chew gum. “I’m going to leave,” she bores and ugh.

There is an hour left.

For fuck’s sake.

Random woman wonders why she is not sticking her finger in Bland’s bunghole. She does not get the coveted one-on-one date card. The other woman who earlier was crying about bloopy gets it and I’m so…..I’m so dead inside.

They both have crazy eyes and talk about how “excited” they are for this date. Driving. Interesting conversation ensues:

“We’re in Beverly Hills,” Bland says.

“I know,” says date person.

Pretty Woman reference. “We’re living out the fantasy,” Bland says. I think he thinks he’s getting a blow job from a hooker.

Clothes montage and…zzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz.

I’m up. I’m up.

She is getting her wish or her chlamydia, I don’t know, but she’s getting something and pffttt….45 minutes left. I swear time is standing still.

Bland is not feeling a “romantic ” connection with date person. “Romantic” connection means “hand job.” No rose for her. She leaves.

Bland heads back to the date by himself to hear “Ben Taylor” sing on his guitar. What is happening?

Rose falls “dramatically”to the ground. Some petals fall off.

I look dramatically at the clock and cry.

Bland platitudes to a bunch of random people before the rose ceremony. “I love ______ about ______.”

I love nothing about this show.

And this is why I won’t make it to the end, but I’m sure the rose ceremony is “dramatic” and “shocking,” but now is the time for…

zzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz.

This Blog is Sponsored by the Letter…

We’ll get to that later.

Today is le day of le birth of Le Clown. If it had fallen on a Monday, we would have likely gotten a day off from work.

Something to live for next year, I guess.

The Ringmistress (Le Ringmistress if you are Quebecian) has planned a special birthday surprise for his magnificence™ that I can only assume involves a clown car and monkeys. I am a pawn in this surprise. This post will give Le Birthday Boy™ a letter of le alphabet and a nudged to the next stop on le Scavenger Hunt.

This is why I’ve called in the big guns.

hugobirth

Hugo, are those my tonsils?

hugobirth2

That looks like something a serial killer drew.

hugobirth3

So what is the super cryptic clue you came up with that will leave Le Clown puzzling for hours?

hugobirth4

You’re a regular Sphinx, you know that. So where does he head now?

hugobirth5

Fulk if I know too. I am also a Sphinx.

Happy Birthday, dear friend. Although you are older, thankfully you are not wiser.

Job Application #2

I once tried to work at Walmart.

I took a personality test. There were a lot of questions about stealing. The scenarios were very Jean Val Jeanesque. There were a lot of questions about loyalty. The scenarios were very freedomy™. I think there were questions about pooping or I may be confusing the test with the questions asked by priests during premarital counseling sessions.

I did not get the job.

I am now applying for a new job. I’m a bit late to the game, and nearly missed the deadline. This weekend, I became intimate with the toilet and forged a bond that is usually reserved for war buddies.

This special relationship caused me to miss the love blooming between Blank and the 753 women he is dating on The Bachelor. I can only assume someone said they weren’t “here to make friends,” and Blank blandly stated his connectivity prospects with another lifeform or inanimate object. So basically this paragraph is my recrap of episode 3.

Anyhow, I am here to apply for the president of the Bozo the Clown fanclub. I’m sure I have gotten this wrong, but I am too lazy to refer back the original post written by Le Clown. Here I’ve linked it. You can tell me in the comments if I got it right.

I vaguely recall some rules, such as writing a post to show why you deserve it. I probably don’t. I’m uncomfortable with power. I’m socially awkward. I lasted in the Girl Scouts for about a week.

And yet, I seek it because I’m looking to jolt some Jolt Cola back into my own blog and writing. I figured if anyone could create inspiration it would be the magnificent™ Le Clown himself. I heard he once took a turtle turd and turned it into mashed potatoes.

If you did not know (i.e. you are one of the three people on earth who have never heard of Le Clown), every day is fucking magical. I believe this is true. Did you know that you can throw up several times and still feel like shit? That is kind of magical.

Before I virtually met Le Clown, I was a sad little man, seeking to restrict a woman’s right to everything:

The Before Picture

The Before Picture

And then something happened. Le Clown commented on a blog post. I believe he wrote:

“Speaker7,

Fuck™.

Le Clown”

And I was sucked into a magical world, one where unicorns make out with white baby jesuses.

Now I’m a happy little man seeking to restrict a woman’s access to everything:

The After Picture. You can too! Only 3 installments of $99.99!! Call today!

The After Picture. You can too! Only 3 installments of $99.99!! Call today!

I feel at this point, I would even be able to land that job at Walmart.

Please Punch Me in the Face Repeatedly

I feel like a character in Terry Gilliam’s Brazil.

Have you seen Brazil?  In the beginning, a fly splatter changes the name of a terrorist suspect from Tuttle to Buttle. The innocent Buttle is apprehended through a hole cut in his ceiling, terrorized and killed. His neighbor attempts to track down what happens, but gets tied up in bureaucratic red tape at Information Retrieval.

It’s actually quite funny.

My dilemma with the state education department is not so much.

My initial certification is set to expire in 14 days. I became aware of this by an automatic email sent Jan. 3 through my school’s business office.

My reaction: Fuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuucccccccccccccccccccccccccccccccccccccccccccccck!

I had assumed (what’s the expression about assumed? Oh yes, that it makes your life a living, fucking hell) that I just would be professionally certified. I had already taken the tests, said the Pledge backwards and forwards, perfected the art of shushing.

A week after the automatic email, I received a form letter from my school informing me of my impending shitcannery unless I get my prof certz.

So I’m on this. I pretty much needed evidence that I taught kids the Dewey Decimal System for three years, and I filed that paperwork under 020 (Dewey Classification for Library and Information Sciences, boo-yah).

Here’s the rub, and it’s not the good rub that relaxes you, but the kind that causes your shoulders to hunch up–my paperwork is in the bowels of the state ed department, awaiting some clerk to rip open an envelope, stick the paperwork on top of towering stack of 10,000 other applicants, and shove it under the nose of an evaluator.

mailroom

Yes, this is the year 1964 for those who may be wondering. Have you seen those new giant computers that are the size of airplane hangers. They is something! I bet in the future they get even bigger!

This envelope could be opened tomorrow.

It could also be opened three months from now, meaning I get my dandy certificate 59 days after I get fired.

This is me: Fuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuucccccccccccccccccccccccccccccccccccccccccccccccck!

“I thought this could be expedited,” me to certification person.

“It can’t be expedited until they get the paperwork,” certification person to me

“Can I just bring the paperwork directly to them. I will do that,” me to certification person.

“You won’t be let in the building,” certification person to me.

“So my job, my livelihood, is at the mercy of a mailroom? There is nothing I can do?” me to certification person.

“…”

I guess my next stop is Information Retrieval.

Vocal Fry on Parade

Every woman speaks in vocal fry. Every woman trying to win Bland’s rose heart on The Bachelor. Every woman.

“Errrr myyyyyy gawrrdddd. I lurvveeeeee Blandrowrlllllllll. He is errrrrrrrgrowllllllll”

If you don’t know what vocal fry is, go listen to Kim Kardashian speak for three seconds and then hit yourself in the face with a baseball bat. It’s something the young of our kind do, and I would rather rub jalapeno juice in my eyes then listen to it.

But here I am listening to two hours of it–well, one hour and 15 minutes of it, and it’s highly likely I will not make it through the end of the second episode.

After last week’s talentless show, it is now date time. Sarah–she of the one arm–is picked to go on the coveted one-on-one date. The other ladies “awwww” this because they think she poses as much of a threat as a woman pursuing a doctorate in aeronautical engineering. Bland throws her off a building. Her scream sounds like she has a kazoo lodged in her larnyx. She’s actually attached to a harness and then she says “That-growl was soooooo-rrrrrr amazing–gerrrrrrrr?” Bland smiles blandly at her.

The next date card arrives: Jujee. (*Squee!*) Sammy (*Whoo!*) Boo-Boo Child (*Grrrr!*) Booby (*Jiggle!*) Tamayarayra (*Pop-pop!*) KaitlyNn (*WhoMp!*) Lala (*Tinky-Wink!*) Jacket (*pfft*) Vacantie (*…!*) Vaginalflap (*flop!*) Lindsaysey (*drunk!*) Random (*who?*) Token African-American (*Civil Rights!*) and 40 other names are read. Everyone is very excited and/or drunk.

They arrive at a castle. Bland stands blandly on a balcony. The date is a photoshoot for the “greatest romance stuff” Bland says. He might have said something else, but I got distracted by breathing. They will take pictures for the latest box of Grape Nuts Cereal. Some dress up as grapes, some as nuts and even more as the twigs that actually make up a bowl of Grape Nuts. Oh, it is Harlequin romance book covers. My idea is better.

Posey-pose. Grope. Kiss. Oily bodies. Bland.

Some shrieking thing grabs his crotch and says 3,458 times that she is a model. Others say “This is-growllll succcchhhhhh-errrrrrrr and amazzzzzing-errrrrrrrrr stuff?” Bland likes to stare blankly and smile more blankly.

Bland blandly invites them back for a pool party. The pool is full of slighly sour tapioca pudding. The women vocal fry at each other and drink and try to get kissy-face time. There are “connections” and “deep feelings” that one can only get from competing with 25,000 other females for the tongue of a blahville dude.

Another one-on-one date. Some random girl sadly says “It’s myyyyy-errrrr birrrthhhhdayyyy-growl?” so she hopes to get the date. She doesn’t. He asks someone else named ??–let’s call her Void. They go to a garage that has been “transformed” into an “art” “gallery.” See Bland is all about senses of humors, and wants to see if Void has one so “he” sets up a prank in the style of Scare Tactics, which is show I actually enjoy on Syfy. The Bachelor ruins Scare Tactics by designing the lamest prank in the world. A piece of “art” falls, and void gets blamed for it. Bwhhahahhhahahah!!!!

Is this show over yet?

Nope.

More vocal fry. More clenching of buttocks to avoid public farting. More “I hate-rrrrrr herrrrrrrr because-growlll” and then roses are handed out.

Some women don’t get any and that’ssssss—grrrrrrr a bummerrrrrrrrrrgrowl.

Fuck, Ladies

I’m currently watching the premiere of the latest Bachelor. Some guy–let’s call him Chip? Sure, why not–is humbled that all these ladies have turned up to humilate themselves to win his rose heart.

The limo is like a clown limo. At least 300 to 4,000 ladies plop out and try to make an impression by being lamer than the last.

One gal lips up and plants a smooch on his pancake-make-up-covered face. Another pulls a used snot rag out of her cleavage and wipes it off. Another is like “I’m a Cosmo article,” mentions Fifty Shades of Shart and pulls a blue–BLUE–tie out of her butt. Someone has a profession called “personal organizer.” Another does a backflip and almost breaks her elbow. Another calls herself an entrepreneur.

One 1.5-armed gal says this is exactly how she envisioned falling in love. Another has a football because Cosmo told her men like sports, and she uses it as a prop to gaze at his bung hole.

Some woman voice-overs that she’s going to pee her pants. Some lady is that 25-year-old who is really 35. Another shows up in a wedding dress and gah.

Someone suggested I should recap the latest Bachelor.

This is my recap: Fuck, ladies.

Everything’s Coming Up Roses

I have been asked to participate in a local variety show that will have its premiere in April.

This is kind of great especially since I made one of my New Year’s resolution: “Be like super famous and shit.”

Nearly there, reader, nearly there.

I have three months to figure out just what the fuck I’m going to do. This is where you come in.

It’s difficult because I have so many talents, I’m not sure which one I should highlight. #humblebrag

This actually is not true, but it is very similar to something a college boyfriend once said to me after I confided my fear in never finding a career post-college because I couldn’t do anything. He commiserated by confiding he was so good at so many things, he didn’t know what he should do. #horribleproblems

That’s almost as good as when my post-college boyfriend told me I’d “be so cute, if (I) just ate salads.” #luckilyIdidn’tmarryeither

So I am a bit apprehensive about this upcoming show. I do have some theater experience. In ninth grade, I played the pivotal role in a high school production of Romeo and Juliet–Peter, the nurse’s page. I wore a tunic that made me resemble a potato, said “Anon” like nobody’s business and stood really still except for those times I was directed to sit. I sit really well. #braggartpotato

Here are some of my ideas. I’m hoping you can give me some direction in the comments.

  • Reenact the dance I did to Wanna Be Startin’ Somethin’ in the sixth grade talent show.
  • Ventriloquist bit with Hugo. Hugo will not move his lips while I speak.

hugoactOh. What are you doing?

hugoact2Okay. So I guess that’s out.

  • Watch TV
  • Wow people with my ability to be the only person who doesn’t know what the fuck “gangnam style” is.
  • Eat slices of provolone cheese at 10 at night.

 What do you think? #everyvarietyshowhasoneterribleact

“Celebrity” Apprentice

I think I need an assistant.

I’m finding it difficult to juggle the demands of writing this sentence with watching Adam Richman scarf down an entire family of four on Man v. Food.

I want to be able to explore the craters my tonsils left in the back of my throat. For instance maybe I can top my marbles-in-the-mouth record of 47.

And I need all my brain storage to come up with the perfect name for Kanye West and Kim Kardashian’s baby. So far, I’m stuck on Kool-Aid.

But am I big enough to warrant an assistant?

When I lived in Los Angeles for three seconds, I nearly interned with a fledgling Second City outfit. I was looking for some comedic writing experience and a chance to get out of my routine of crying in my apartment. The random guy only wanted someone to tally up his personal frequent flyer miles. Even though he was the only employee with no future prospects, he still needed an assistant.

Hugo, the half-man puppet, has five assistants solely to shine his bald head.

And Le Clown’s getting one.

I recognize I’m not as one-ab’d or clown-like as his Magnificence™, but I am scheduled to interview Le Clown’s peen so that must count for something.

Still, would anyone be willing to work for me for the lowly salary of nothing and the 100% probability of recaping the latest season of Honey Boo Boo?

Well, holy shitballs, it turned out there was!

I recently received this email:

“Excellent beat ! I would like to apprentice whilst you amend your web site, how can i subscribe for a blog web site? The account aided me a applicable deal. I had been a little bit acquainted of this your broadcast offered brilliant clear idea”

How soon can you start?

Now, granted, I wasn’t planning to amend my “web site” and I don’t really broadcast anything, but I think this person knows what the Speaker7 brand® is all about.

Who is this person?

Why the Lap Dance Factory, of course!

I went to Lap Dance Factory’s “web site” and I really believe my account “aided (it) a applicable deal.”

Lap Dance Factory left an address that specifically directed me to this:

anal

Could this object help the Speaker7 brand®?

analexplorer

I think this is the beginning of a beautiful apprenticeship.