This post contains preposterous claims, slanderous intent with remarkably effective follow through and surreptitious acts of a one-handed nature. Proceed with your hand firmly clasping someone dafter than you. It's too late; I've already chosen Paula Abdul.
Have you seen the list?
It's about time I got political on yo asses, by stating categorically that it's about camel humping time that this fabulous show finally earned the accolades which I, and perhaps only I, have been proclaiming, demanding, petitioning UN delegates for and ejaculating from my vernacular over the span of only-my-crusty-sheets-know how many years.
I couldn't have put it better myself, which is why I'll offer this quotation for you to synchronise with your chi:
'With plucky humor, the series dealt with a variety of issues facing young women, eventually becoming the longest running show to feature an all-female lead cast.'
Ahh...It feels like this week's most downloaded ring tone has been introduced to my ears. The buzz I'm experiencing is indescribable.
Where does one go for Tootie? Look no further than my DVD player, ho.
In other developments, I'm sensing readership to this unholy B-log has dwindled to one, not counting me, myself or Irene, which means that changes ought to be implemented at some time between now and the first Monday of whenever. As this is about as likely as Paula Abdul ignoring what she thinks the studio audience thinks about the way she thinks the studio audience perceives her, you have my unreserved promise that you may squeeze any part of my genitalia as hard as you wish when and if you work out which of the members of Human Nature I really am. Realistically, I could be the guy on the far right. Fictitiously, I'm more likely to be Tim Robbins, but only because I dig the man and because he'd never be a part of the quadraphonic mess I'm associating his good name and intellect with.
Have you seen the list?
And now, here's something we hope you'll really like. It's confession time. I'm addicted to American Idol; fucken love it, in fact. It started out one afternoon, hot sake in my living room, as we ignited the switch on the 24 cm TV. As the flames to the vision thing engulfed all but our souls, we flicked through shit after shit after shit, eventually treading in the turd that is American Idol. And I've been scraping the soles of my shoes ever since. Even with the retarded, deluded, moronic fucks from the first sixteen shows gone from the shrinking mindset of the show's obvious pulling power, the wife and I now get out kicks by asking our good friend, Torrent Spy (a.k.a. Chico), for the latest instalment of who did the least creatively to impress 45 million Americans into swaying to their corner, while earning enough money to ensure the executive producers' pockets excrete cocaine by the tonne.
If you ever doubted that one had to suck a lot of cock to get where one is, look no further than this new tear of an arsehole of a show. You, too, can become the next multi-billionaire by forfeiting your right to originality. The bonus is that you get to shoot a new commercial each week for the latest major sponsor. Booyah!
So, how about that list then? Done and done.
Shit I wouldn't do if you fucked me until I shot semen for eight minutes and fifty-eight seconds through my eyeballs:
Submerge myself in an eight-foot fishbowl based on information that by doing so in front of the world's news-starved media, it will increase the size of my cock to twice that of my height.
'Blaine, who had spent some 177 hours under water, went without air for 7 minutes, 8 seconds as a finale to his endurance stunt.'
Therefore, his pursuit of breaking the breath-holding record of 8 minutes, 58 seconds ended slightly shy of anything with timeless connotations. Personally, I'd do that part of the illusion first. Either that or I'd opt for something with actual mesmerising qualities of Biblical proportion, like masturbating continuously for six months without breaking a sweat while 50,000 Parisienne (mainly female) virgins flicked parts of their anatomy capable of dangling.
What a cocknut!
But wait! There's more!
'Blaine started training in December, with some help from Navy SEALS. He lost 50 pounds so his body would require less oxygen. The water temperature was regulated to help keep his core temperature near 98.6 degrees, and he ate and relieved himself by tubes. He remained tethered to an oxygen tube.'
My thoughts on the Navy SEALS portion of that revelation is that I can get life altering drugs from people without a death wish. He could've done aqua aerobics for a month if he wanted to lose body fat. But that's shite publicity, innit? The obvious question, which some may argue belongs in the same playing field where common sense is presently tossing a ball to itself, is why not kill yourself before attempting the underwater non-breathing record instead of during?
Fuck it, man...Why not immerse yourself in a regular bathtub at home while a starving kid, sponsored to eat him/herself to death by Subway, sits on top of you to ensure that whole reincarnation thing ain't for real? Imagine the publicity that fucker could gather. Stay in there for fifty years for all I care if you feel it will compensate for your lack of publicity of late.
Do it. Do it. Do it! Ahhh, too late, gringo.
Also, where's the challenge in relieving yourself 'by tubes'? I mean, WTF, dude? If you're not willing to go at this shit with everything you've got, preferring to pussy around the issue like you enjoyed the sight of your glistening toes in heels, then I guess your own waste products aren't worthy of being cast in the same fluids as the rest of you.
The list ends here.
Now...You may be wondering why the list, which had eye bending publicity, is lacking the traditional padding of multiple entries, each different from the previous and leading to the conclusion that the creator of the list had done everything in his/her power to ensure a well-rounded, balanced presentation of an issue? The explanation I'm willing to provide free of charge in this juncture of our acquaintance is that the list doesn't require other references to utterly stupid acts on behalf of human beings for human beings. It stands alone as the single most pointless venture since the previous fuckhead attempted to wrestle the focus away from more common news debacles, such as the war on terror or the increase of ten cents to McDonald's cheese burgers.
To David Blaine. I have the following message of congratulatory commiseration: You complete me...By showing me that you're not half the person that I gave you credit for. You, dear Sir, are a cunt of the grandest extravagance.
Immerse yourself in the vortex that is my arsehole, arsehole!