You are getting very sleepy...

This is the funniest animal video ever:

http://www.compfused.com/directlink/440/

(Video opens within browser.)

I've got 200 quatloos on Shatner...

Set your phasers to fun, everybody, because we're going to talk about death.

We're all fascinated by death. Especially celebrity death. I'm talking dead actors, musicians, political figures, and athletes. Who among us doesn't find it to be absolutely riveting front-page news to read about a Frank Sinatra, George Harrison or Johnny Carson dropping dead just the night before? You open up the paper or log on to CNN.com and see that Rick James died and you think, "Wow, Super Freak is super dead. Amazing."

So which celebrity will be next to cross the river Styx to the gates of Hades? Will Lindsay Lohan starve herself to death? Will Shelley Long bore herself to death? Will one of the Golden Girls finally die? Because Estelle Getty has got to be a well into her 120's by now. Is Conrad Baine from Diff'rent Strokes close to joining Dana Plato in the hereafter? Will gun control advocates finally get their chance to pry a gun from Charlton Heston's cold dead hands? Will Mickey Rooney's 4-foot frame soon be dropped into a 6-foot hole in the ground? What's that? Lady Bird Johnson is still alive?! Well geez, she has to be next, right?

It's all just so exciting to think about. The suspense of finding out who will die next is killing me. Pun intended.

The most recent celebrity death was that of James Doohan a.k.a. Montgomery Scott a.k.a. Mr. Scott a.k.a. Scotty a.k.a. Fatty Boombalatty from the original Star Trek series. And that got me to thinking. There's been two main cast members die now, Dr. McCoy and Scotty, and it's entirely possible that the rest may start to drop like flies rather quickly. So which original Star Trek cast member will be the next to breathe no more? Will it be Uhura, Chekov, Sulu, Kirk, or Spock? After hours of careful consideration, I've finally concluded that it will most likely be William Shatner a.k.a. James T. Kirk a.k.a. Captain Kirk a.k.a. French Kisser of Green-haired Aliens a.k.a. Master...of.......Melodramatics. Here's my reasons why:

1) The guy was born in 1931, which makes him 74 years old. Coincidentally, this just happens to be the average life expectancy of a male human being living in the United States of America. Just as a double-ended vibrator tends to break on the very day the warranty expires, this means that our beloved Bill Shatner is now on borrowed time.

2) His wife drowned in 1999. She was a big time alcoholic and apparently fell into the pool one night while drunk. Usually drinking and swimming at night are a winning combination, but not in this case. At any rate, this had to be an extremely hard, stressful time for Shatner. And stress only leads to premature aging and premature death.

3) Kirk's physical appearance is an excellent indicator of how close he is to transitioning to another plane of existence. Here's a side-by-side comparison of the young and old Shatner to give you an idea of how far from death he was, and how close to death he is:



He looks like he's been attacking pizza pies with the same vigor that he used to attack the Klingon Bird-of-Prey. He looks like he's smuggling a few Tribbles in his cheeks if you know what I mean. He looks like his face has been bombarded by tritium radiation from a warp drive reactor core meltdown. He looks like a few photon torpedoes damaged his shields and beemed them up to the bridge at warp factor 8. OK, I don't know what that means. The point is he's fat and old and ready to die. Want further proof? Let's warp into the future and look at a computer-generated projection of what Shatner will look like within 3 years:


Case closed! This guy can't last much longer. His only hope is that he hosts a telethon of his own to raise money to save himself.

In summary, if I were to put down a wager in some sort of Star Trek death pool, my money would be on Captain Kirk to die next. But I'm a little nervous because I just heard a rumor that S-U-L-U has S-A-R-S. Now, if you'll excuse me, I had some Taco Bell last night and I feel somewhat of an urgency to take a big ol' Shatner. Later.

I'm giving all my flying fucks away...

As a single white male living in the United States, there's a lot of supposedly important political issues in this country that I've come to realize don't have any discernible impact on me whatsoever. For instance, all this business I'm hearing nowadays about the Supreme Court and the President's choice for a new Supreme Court justice. After a lot of thought, I've finally decided that it just doesn't matter to me. In fact, I could give a flying fuck about Supreme Court justices. I could take a fuck that was just flying around the room and give it away to whomever wanted it. And I wouldn't even ask for anything in return. I'd say, "Hey, folks, step right up and get your free flying fuck! It's free, I tells ya!" And people would be like, "I'd like a free flying fuck. May I have your flying fuck?" And I'd say, "Well, are you sure? This particular flying fuck is about Supreme Court justices." And they'd reply, "Oh, that's OK. As long as it's free, I'll take any flying fuck." Then I'd give it away.

In fact, I have a lot of flying fucks that I could give. To name a few, I could give a flying fuck about health care, a flying fuck about gay marriage, a flying fuck about abortion rights, a flying fuck about Social Security, a flying fuck about campaign finance reform, a flying fuck about tort reform, a flying fuck about leaking the names of CIA operatives, a flying fuck about the new Pope, a flying fuck about the space shuttle, and I could give a great big flying fuck to some lucky lady about this joke of a war on terror. Hey, flying fucks for everybody!

Hmm, I wonder if I could collect all of my flying fucks in a big bird cage (so they don't fly away) and then put them in a Salvation Army or Goodwill collection box. They could resell the flying fucks for, like, a quarter apiece.

By the way, I should point out here that some people like to keep their fucks. They'll say, "I don't give a fuck about that!" And then they keep their fuck, which seems rather selfish. If people want my shit, though, they're out of luck because I don't give a shit. So maybe I'm not one to talk about selfishness.

Fuck, I'm tired as shit. Later.

Needlessly pointing out Google's minuscule weaknesses...

Most of the time, the Google search engine is spot on tits, but sometimes it just plain doesn't work. I know, I know, who gives a crap? Nobody. Just bear with me here. You see, I use the image search function of Google quite a bit to search for specific images of silly things like chicken butts or chicken lips or...headless chicken...wieners. But sometimes the results of these image searches are far below par. First, here's an example where Google works well. I was searching for images relating to the phrase "Google boobies" and managed to find this:

Bravo, Google, bravo. But here's some examples where Google doesn't know what the hell it's doing. Today, I searched for "Undercover Grandpa" (with no quotation marks), which is the title of a screenplay I'm thinking about writing (I tend to write the title first, then work off of that. The same way they wrote "How Stella Got Her Groove Back."). I wanted an image that related even the slightest bit to the words "undercover" and "grandpa." Here's the only image that Google could conjure:


Hey, how YOU doin'?

As nice as this picture is, and as much as I'd like to wage a sexy war upon her Milagro beanfield, it has nothing to do with grandpas or being undercover. I mean, she's underdressed by some standards, but not undercover. Later tonight she might be under my covers, but she's not undercover. She's an easy, breezy, beautiful Covergirl, but not an easy, breezy, beautiful UNDERcover girl. Nor a grandpa. Yes, the website is www.undercover.com, but I couldn't find the term "grandpa" anywhere on the site.

Here's another example. I typed in "portable underpants" because I think this would be an important invention for the 21st century, or possibly a good name for my rock band. The only images Google could conjure were GIFs of navigation bars from a tennis website:


...is lame.

In another search, I typed in "tongue depressing" hoping to catch an exciting action shot of a doctor using a tongue depressor. Maybe with the caption, "Dr. Beeper in the act of tongue depressing." This is the only image of note that Google found:

Depressing? Maybe. That's open to interpretation. But I for sure don't see any tongues. Not that I want to. I mean, it's not exactly a pleasant image to think of these two in a hardcore makeout session. Elderly but muscular tongues slithering and chaotically probing for lips, earlobes, teeth and napes. Glistening trails of saliva upon the skin guide the way back home lest the tongue get lost in the passion, which knows no boundaries of age.

Finally, when I typed in "Chunky Lover 53", which is derived from the prefix of Homer Simpson's email address, I got one resulting image of a cropped Google screen that says that there were no pages found containing chunkylover53:


This, needless to say, totally blew my mind, which doesn't handle very well the concepts of irony, circular logic, Mobius strips, multiple universes, dimensions beyond the 4th, or mirrors reflecting each other to infinity. You know, things that make you want to smoke weed. Or things you think about WHILE smoking weed. Or things that you imagine other people are thinking about while THEY'RE smoking weed. I feel like smoking weed. Maybe make s'mores and listen to a few crunchy tunes. Later.

Please watch this video. It is dope and awesome and not lame.

(Video opens automatically within window. Turn on your speakers.)

This Crunchwrap Supreme must have heroin in it or something...

Taco Bell must be thinking WAY outside the bun these days because I swear on Conrad Baine himself that they're putting heroin in their new Crunchwrap Supreme. Either that or they've found the perfect combination of meat, cheese, veggies, sour cream and both hard and soft taco shells. Yeah right. I'll stick with the heroin theory.

First, it was McDonald's that decided to put heroin in their McGriddle breakfast sandwiches that debuted a few years ago. I was hooked after the first one, and literally almost crashed my car after taking the first bite. I proceeded to then eat one every single day for the next 6 months. I was hooked bad. But I don't even know why McDonald's felt the need to add heroin to the McGriddle. It's overkill. I mean, maple syrup is infused right there in the pancake. Infusion, everybody! Who can resist that? So the added heroin is just plain cruel. But I finally got over the McGriddle and haven't had one in months. All it took was a few trips to the methadone clinic, an electrolyte flush, a bowel cleansing, and a brain scraping before I was finally clean and sober.

But, alas, now I'm hooked again. Only this time the heroin seems to be embedded somewhere within the confines of a Frisbee-shaped soft shell taco stuffed with warm and crunchy Taco Bell goodness. I don't know what to do! I eat, like, four of these things every day. I can't stop. And they're only $1.79! Hell, I can't afford NOT to buy these things!

Well anyway, I've gotta go to lunch now 'cause I need a fix, baby, and I need it BAD.

By the way, I think I've got a good idea for a Crunchwrap Supreme TV commercial. It'll be like those Reese's peanut butter cup commercials from the 1980's:

Scene: A fat guy eating a Crunchwrap and a heroin addict...eating heroin... accidentally bump into each other on the sidewalk.

Fat guy: "You got heroin in my Crunchwrap!"

Addict: "What the fuck, fatass?! Watch where you're going. You made me spill my shit. Aw shit, fatass! Damn! You got fuckin' Crunchwrap in my heroin!"

Then, with a twinkle and a chime, the food and the narcotic magically combine to form the perfect Mexican-inspired, addictive food-type thing.

Pitch the product.

End scene.

A monkey washing a cat...

I wish space shuttles had names like monster trucks...

I watch space shuttle launches to see if they'll explode.

There, I said it. But it's true. It's always been true, and not just since the Columbia disaster. I watch shuttle launches for the same reason people watch a fist fight. Or car racing. Do people REALLY enjoy watching cars go around in a circle? I think not. They want to see some carnage. An 18 car pileup coming out of turn 2. An errant tire bounding over the barrier fence and into the crowd, maiming twelve. A 2000 pound stock car turning end-over-end-over-end-over-end. The driver ejected from the car and into a sea of flames derived from inflammability. As the driver is carted off the track into a waiting ambulance, the only bone in his body that isn't broken, his thumb, signals the crowd by rising upward. What's that you say? Jeff Gordon took the checkered flag and has pulled within 30 points of 2nd place in the point standings? Yawn. Hey, what's say we replay that crash 20 more times?

Comparatively, do people really care about the actual missions of the space shuttle? Do people care that the shuttle will launch or repair another imaging satellite, or deliver food supplies to space station inhabitants, or conduct experiments to determine the effects of weightlessness on circumsized goat penises? People don't care. They just want their daily dose of carnage.

It's human nature.

If NASA wants people to get interested in the space program again like they were in the 60's, they need to embrace and exploit this human nature. During press conferences prior to launch, NASA should express uncertainty every chance that they get. If a reporter asks, "Do you feel confident that the shuttle is safer since the Columbia disaster?", they should respond, "Shoot, we don't know. This space business is dangerous and unpredictable. We're just gonna light this candle and see what happens." In fact, that should be the stock answer to darn near any question thrown at them.

To add to the uncertainty, NASA should throw caution to the wind. Literally. They should launch during inclement weather conditions such as when Hurricane Dennis just rolled by Florida. High winds + solid rocket fuel = edge-of-your seat television.

And would it kill NASA to paint some flames on the shuttle? It obviously already has bitchin' flames shooting out the back on liftoff, but some bitchin' graphics would be a nice touch.

To add to their new tough-guy, rebel, bad boy image, NASA also needs to get rid of those weenie names they've got for the shuttles. Discovery? Atlantis? Endeavour? Boring, boring, and boring. Get some new names similar to monster truck or roller coaster names. Name a shuttle "The Equalizer", "Widowmaker", "Spacezilla", "Asteroid Avenger", "Slick Willy", or "SuperNovasaurus Wrex."

So picture this then. Spacezilla II is poised on the launch pad (Spacezilla I having been lost in a risky 75 degree re-entry maneuver last autumn). Bitchin' flames extend from nose to tail. "Rock You Like a Hurricane" is booming on the outdoor sound system as an actual hurricane roars over Cape Canaveral. The crowd around the launch pad is HUGE. The TV networks are pulling a 45 share. Then, Mission Control announces to the crowd over the loudspeakers, "Are you ready to rock, Orlando? I said are you ready to rock!! Screw the countdown! Let's light this puppy!" Guitars wail. The crowd goes nuts.

What happens next? Nobody knows. And that's the point.

More like Olympic Suckball...

So we learned today that baseball has been tossed out of the Olympic program for the 2012 London Games. Boo hoo? No. No boo hoo. You'll get no protest from me here. I mean, I love baseball, but Olympic baseball is absolute turd. Who wants to watch a bunch of no-name, no-face college kids go out and play bad baseball? Not me. That's why I avoid the College World Series like I would avoid a bucket full of 80-year-old vaginas if I just happened to find them on a street corner. I'd avoid them so much that I wouldn't even point them out to the police. Even if I saw children playing with the bucket, I wouldn't say a word because I'd be too busy avoiding the old vaginas. Just like I avoid amateur baseball.

You see, I want big-time stars on my Olympic baseball team just like we have in Olympic basketball. I want to see A-Rod, Pujols and Clemens. I even want to see Barry Bonds. I HATE Barry Bonds, but damnit, at least he's interesting. I want him to go stand at the plate looking completely uninterested, crank a 600-ft., 3-run oppo jack, walk around the bases, complain that the fans are too racist, then get in a hover-limo and zip off to the airport and fly home. I want to see a Chinese batter charge the mound after getting hit in the helmet, only to have the pitcher, Kyle Farnsworth, get in a 3-point stance and absolutely plow the guy into the ground all the way back to his homeland. Then, I want to see Farnsworth head to the dugout, punch a Gatorade cooler, and cry for an hour. Now THAT'S fun. THAT'S baseball.

Baseball is emotionally unstable players. Baseball is egos the size of Montana. Baseball is players that shove camera men down and break their wide-angle lenses, then apologize a few days later. Baseball is fat guys that can pitch 2 and 1/3 shut-out, middle relief innings after drinking 10 Jägerbombs and 5 Hennessy & Hpnotiq the night before. Baseball is money and greed. Baseball is interesting. Baseball is NOT a bunch of unpaid, amateur, immature losers looking for glory. It's the charisma and sheer skill of professional players that makes me like baseball. These college kids have no skill and no charisma. They're not ready to represent my country in the Olympics. They're losers. Hell, Team USA just lost 7-3 yesterday to Japan. Lookin' good, guys. Can't wait to see you in Beijing in 2008. If you even qualify, that is.

Scratch that...

It looks like it's now a modified Bert-Ernie yellow-orange combo. The general threat remains at Bert, but the threat for the mass transit portion of the transportation sector is now Ernie. Nice color coded threat system, Homeland Security. Real simple. For Christmas, I'd like to see some red and green. A red Elmo threat for just the artificial Christmas tree portion of the Christmas tree sector combined with a general green Oscar the Grouch threat level. That would mean that artificial trees are gonna get all fucked up and shit.

Er-nie!

If anything good has come from today's terror attack on London - anything at all - it is that my Terror Alert Level indicator on the right side of the page has finally changed from Bert to Ernie.

But I'm not sure if I ever want to see Elmo.

"Burger, She Wrote"

I'm perpetually coming up with ideas for new shows on the Food Network. There's "Ready, Steady, Spaghetti", which consists of choosing three people off the street at random who then compete on-the-spot to see who can whip up the best tasting batch of spaghetti the fastest. In the interest of good television, I would make sure that homeless people were often the contestants chosen at "random." There's also "On Your Mark, Get Set, Spaghetti", which is the exact same show. Similar, but different, is "Hasta la Pasta, Oui?", which is a show where Italian food is given a Spanish flair...by French chefs. "Extinction Distinction" is a show where species on the verge of extinction are cooked to perfection by top chefs. Never before seen dishes such as "Elephant Trunk Kabobs with Grape Ape Sauce", "Cheddar Cheetah Fajitas", and "Falafel Chimpizza Pockets" are sure to grace your television screen. When a dish doesn't turn out very good, it will be deemed "extinky." There's another show called "Bake Me a Pie or Make Me a Sandwich" where housewives are first given the choice of baking their husbands a delicious pie or making him an awesome sandwich. Then they make it. And then he eats it to see if it's up to his standards. If the pie or sandwich passes the test, she gets some cash for shopping. If not, well, it could get ugly.

Now I've come up with a show called "Burger, She Wrote", which is none other than Angela Lansbury traveling around to different cities in a quest for the best hamburger. I'm pretty sure the show writes itself. I'm also pretty sure that Angela Lansbury needs work. Unless she's dead.