[Insert excuse for not writing here]. Phew, glad we got that over with! Now that you’ve forgiven me for my absence, let’s proceed, since I’m sure your life is significantly worse without my sensual sentences serenading your… sphincter? Just take my word for it. I have a degree in molecular biology, and all the curriculum focused very heavily on sphincters, so it’s safe to say I’m an expert on the subject. Seriously, I had to study that stuff like every night! In class, the professor would be like “We have a quiz on chapter 4 tomorrow!” and I’d be like “That’s the sphincter chapter, right?” and she’d get angry and say “For the last time, there aren’t any questions on sphincters in Contemporary English Literature for Non-Majors,” and I’d say “OK” and just look up pictures of raw buttholes anyway. So, from an expert to a plebeian, just relax, open your mind, and allow my sentences past your sphincter. That’s how you make your brain bigger! And guess what? Your brain is like a sphincter, too! It’s not that hard to learn something new, it just takes time. Start at the beginning. Just imagine the grades of elementary school as a set of graduated butt-plugs. First and second grade are tough because you’re still getting used to the idea, third and fourth grade are a little easier because you’re starting to get the hang of it, and fifth grade is really hard because you have to do it twice. But look at you now! Your elementary school butt-plugs have opened you up to an entirely new world of knowledge and possibilities. Just think of all you can take in now! Calculus! Quantum Physics! Human fists! The amazing array of things you can receive today is a result of your perseverance through the gradual dilation of mental and physical apertures! As I’ve said earlier, I’ve been through 16 years of school, so I could fit a bag of potatoes in my ass just by sitting on it. Don’t ever let someone put a limit on what you can fit in your… brain. I thought I was stupid for the first 18 years of my life because some people kept telling me so, but look at me now! Whole sentences! Sometimes. Lately, I’ve been thinking about creating a physical copy of all my posts and burying them in a time capsule so that I may subject future generations to the very idiocy which you suffer now. Maybe aliens will find them, who knows? If the Trumpies somehow manage to burn all books on Earth because knowledge offends them and then the world ends because of nuclear war, then maybe the aliens will find my posts in the wasteland and think they are revered human knowledge. I could become part of human canon! When people are asked what three books they would want if they were trapped on a desert island, they’d list the bible, Eat, Pray, Love, and that one blog of assorted ass jokes. If they weren’t all dead from the aforementioned nuclear war, that is. Maybe my posts will end up in an alien museum, and everyone would know exactly why we became the only species on the planet that went extinct from sheer stupidity. I need a new name anyway, Levar Burton is a Maybe isn’t a good blog name. I’m thinking about re-branding, not only because this blog is hard to market with such a long name that makes no sense to most people, but also because Levar Burton blocked me on Twitter after I sent him a dick pic and now I’m mad at him. It was artfully composed, thoughtfully lit, and masterfully captured, which is Instagram speak for “I took a picture with my phone and put a black and white filter on it.” Fucking genius. What should I call my blog now? Undercover Drag Queens? The Strumming Virgins? Erin Brockovich? All solid band names, not great blog titles. Reposado Stranglers? The Softcore Pirates? Still from my list of band names. This isn’t going well.
Hello again, dear followers! I apologize for the lengthy hiatus, the election results have provided a plethora of blogging fodder but lately I’ve found myself drinking in preparation to blog without actually stopping to blog. I’ve wanted to make fun of the ridiculous mockery which has become the American presidency (fuck yeah I didn’t capitalize that shit), but unfortunately, it isn’t a joke anymore. How do you satirize something that itself is already a perfect title for an article by The Onion? Just like how “Area Dad shares photographs with family using previously unheard-of online photo-sharing website” felt like the author was writing just to me, so now does the news headline “President Trump denounces Nordstrom stores via Twitter because they drop shitty clothing line”. Usually, I’d attack stories like these with my signature blend of sarcasm, self-deprecation, and horrific social skills, but I just can’t keep up anymore! He’s only been president for a month and shit has already hit the fan and sprayed all over grandma’s meticulously prepared Thanksgiving turkey, Dad’s midlife crisis Mercedes, and the family dog with cancer. I could list all the things that have gone wrong in a month, but hey, have you ever known me to exceed 700 words in a blog post? I don’t think I even know 700 words. Another reason why I haven’t been blogging or learning words is because working two jobs to afford GODDAMN MOTHERFUCKING PIECE OF MONKEY SHIT CAR INSURANCE massively sucks my mana. That’s a foreign word for “life stuff”. Get your mind out of the gutter. Now I know that getting paid $12.50 an hour sounds like a lot, but it’s actually slightly less than it sounds when you account for taxes and the fact that my car insurance is just over $252 every month. Jesus fucking Christ, you plow through six elementary school kids in a school zone crosswalk doing 28 over while looking at your phone because you were Googling “Was Fantasia 2000 actually released in the year 2000″, and suddenly everyone’s all over your shit. And before you lose it too, just chill the fuck out, they were probably gonna turn into crackheads anyway. They just looked like tiny fuckups, especially that 65-lb suspenders-wearing, four-eyed piece of shit. Nice pocket calculator, were you doing your taxes or just writing 58008 before turning the device upside-down to make it spell BOOBS? Get a goddamn job already, you lazy mooching cunts are the reason the economy’s fucked. I’m glad there’s blood all over your DeadPool backpack now. Your stupid twat parents shouldn’t have let you watch that in the first place; their neglectful parenting is probably why you did a quadruple backflip and landed on the lawn while your shoes got caught in the damn monkey bars in the playground on the other side of the school. And it’s a two-story school. Rich fucker. Probably too busy getting stoned and watching SpongeBo- oh wait, that’s me. But in all honesty, sometimes the only way to forget the sensation of breaking the ribs of the dog you’re performing CPR on because they died suddenly and literally in your arms in front of their family during a routine veterinary visit and never getting them back while continuing to feel the ribs you broke shift and move beneath your hands because stopping compression means they’ll die for sure is getting stoned and watching SpongeBob. See how I got really dark, but in two different ways? THAT’S CALLED COMEDY. Or something of that ilk. That was a rough stretch, how the hell do I walk that back? I’ll just ignore it and hope my readers can’t read. Speaking of illiteracy, Betsy Devos is now… fuck it. I’m not going to address it because I don’t feel overly misanthropic at the moment, but the best way to agitate that sentiment is to speak of our new Teacher in Chief. There’s no ending to the sentence “Betsy Devos is now…” that will make me happy unless it’s “fired”. But, I would also accept “not a total piece of shit”, or “curing cancer using an evidence-based scientific approach”, but those will literally never happen. At best, she could be like those shitty, hungover substitute teachers who just let us watch movies like Fantasia 2000 during class, which actually came out on December 17, 1999. WE’VE BEEN LIED TO, WAKE UP, SHEEPLE! Also, welcome to the 700-word blog post club, me! This is how you become a genius, unless I’ve done it before and I just don’t remember. If I’m becoming dumber, I blame Betsy.
Vet school applications: Submitted. Odds of admittance: Approximately 8% nation-wide. Actual odds of admittance: … Less… Less than that. But it’s done, and now it’s time to celebrate, and also time to ponder a panicked change in my life plan for the next three months until the schools get back to me. Luckily, I’ve already figured it out! I’ve always thought I’d be good at Army-ing because of the unique intangibles I bring to the service: I’m a man, and I can do several pushups. Like, without stopping, though. But that’s only part 1. The second part is my tell-all exposé on the American military machine through letters sent home to my beloved. But, every letter would be censored of all pertinent information and probably all my best butt jokes (the government will keep them for themselves, I’m sure), so I would just stash all the letters in my pillow. I’m aiming for a 600-page novel, so maybe I’ll get two pillows. I’m sure a testosterone-driven organization would just love that. I already have a title, too! I’m calling it Letters From Iwo Jima II: Let’s Iwo Jima Some A-rabs! Now that title may seem insensitive, but it’s actually not bad when you consider this is America and we really don’t give a shit. When you account for the facts that we have a football team called the Washington Redskins and the logo for the Cleveland Indians looks like someone drew a crude face on a tomato and then stuck a couple of feathers in it, we’re lucky Operation Iraqi Freedom wasn’t called Haji-Shootin’ Oil Grab. Sorry, I should make it official. Operation Haji-Shootin’ Oil Grab. But somehow, Kaepernick sitting during the national anthem to protest racial injustices (injustices uncovered and verified by a division of the government headed by a black woman, a la the Baltimore PD report) is the worst occurrence right now in American sports. Sure, not standing for the anthem isn’t the best way to protest. Even though their recent, detestable history of intentional obstructionism has further damaged Americans’ faith in our government, I don’t make a farting sound every time someone says “Congress”, as fun as that sounds. Even that sentiment is more specific than CK’s protest, but you get the idea. Now I believe, however poorly phrased and executed, Kaepernick is genuinely drawing attention to a real issue through peaceful protest, and attempting to use his status as a celebrated athlete to effect positive social change, for which he has been unceremoniously vilified. Go, Americans! Take to your smartphones to tweet your opinions, provided you complete the necessary research to inform them! Or just, you know… Tweet them anyway. Interestingly, according to the 2002 legal book Collective Bargaining in the Private Sector, NFL players are considered private sector employees in the NFLPA, meaning they forfeit certain Constitutional rights at work, including their First Amendment rights to free speech while “on the clock”. The right to peaceful process was not addressed in my research, and since only three rights seem to be different between the public and private sectors, I assume that to mean that CK probably retains that one. Then again, I could be wrong, because I’ve only performed a cursory search on Google Scholar and evaluated my sources based on the reasonability and objectivity of their methods. As in, I performed what should be considered the precedent for what should be the bare minimum of research to form what is considered almost an informed opinion. Look at me, being all adult-y. That sounded a lot more sexual than I meant it to. That’s what she said? That is what she said. That’s what a lot of ladies said, right before they saw the light of hope in my eyes die like Gary Johnson’s presidential dreams when asked about Aleppo. I know a presidential candidate should know about the city crucial to current American foreign policy, the city where the Syrian refugee crisis, our conflict with the Islamic State, and our tenuous relationship with Russia all intersect, but it’s hard to get a libertarian to pay attention to refugees lazy enough to be born into an impoverished country when he could be jerking off to a framed picture of his bootstraps instead. You’d think he would do some basic research before running for the most powerful office in the land, or he could, you know… Do it anyway. He also could have brushed up on foreign policy after this monumental gaffe to avoid a similar incident, but he didn’t, instead choosing to reference his “Aleppo moment” when unable to name a single leader of another country that he admires. You’d think maybe then he’d do the foreign policy research required of a high school sophomore, but when asked to name the leader of North Korea, the country hell-bent on becoming the world’s most unstable nuclear power, he just refused. He claimed to know without wanting to tell, like Donald on his plan to defeat ISIS, or a six year-old on what Aleppo is. “I know what’s going on, I just don’t wanna tell!” Vote Gary Johnson for President, but only if there are ZERO other countries on the planet! He could learn from his mistakes, or he could just… Run for president, anyway. I know, kids, we’ve covered a lot tonight, and I usually keep things light on here, when I’m not talking about dead animals. Even then, dead animals are still kind of light in a metaphorical sense (they are extra heavy in a literal sense), because that’s how you get stuffed animals. Not like creepy taxidermied household pets, but like the lie my mom told me when I was four that live animals eventually become cute stuffed animals for you to cuddle forever so you never have to experience loss or grief. Mom? Why would you lie to me?? Next, you’re going to tell me Santa’s not- Are you fucking shitting me?? Mom, what’s Aleppo??
I am proud to present to you my blog’s live coverage of the 2016 Rio Olympics! What’s happening during primetime – Men make sport. Happening later – Women make same sport, but less money. I don’t mean to trivialize the Olympics – as an avid sportsmaker myself, I appreciate the dedication and athleticism on display. I also appreciate the several week-long reminder that no matter how hard I try, I will never achieve even a fraction of a 16 year-old Chinese female gymnast’s athletic accomplishments. I’ve been making a stronger effort to remember that Olympic athletes are people rather than superheroes. So, every time the aforementioned tiny Chinese gymnast finishes a quadruple-spin triple-flip with a another flip and then a smile and a flourish, I remember that her parents love her just as much as mine love me… hardly at all. The only difference is, their desire to please their distant parents resulted in Olympic Gold Medals, and mine resulted in a college degree that helps you get into college again and total and complete emotional maturity. Take that, Me! I don’t mean myself, I actually just assume that all Chinese people’s names are English pronouns – Yoo, Mee, Soyeon… That last one was actually one of my college professors. And She was actually Korean. And that wasn’t an accidental capitalization in my last sentence. See three sentences ago. And C-3PO. But my professor named Soyeon was actually Korean. Is actually Korean. She’s not dead – At least, I hope not. I need her letter of recommendation so I can make animal college with my mind. I think I’ve just stumbled onto a great TV sit-com! Animal College – Where humans study animals and then fuck each other and stuff. I should call it Spay’s Anatomy, but let’s be honest – Animal College is much more clever. Cleverer. Many clevers. Clevererest. Fucking nailed it! I apologize, high-brow humor is not my strong suit. My Superman suit is my strong suit. And six minutes without a poop joke is my kryptonite. I should quit while I’m ahead in the “clevererest jokes ever” category, but I’m only at 343 words, so please stop telling me what to do and just let me express myself, Dad. Mee and I are going to get high and then go to the playground monkey bars so we can do flips until I break my neck. Then, Mee will drive me to the hospital where I will be diagnosed as a paraplegic so that I may become the Stephen Hawking of blogging. What exactly does that mean? That I will become such an advanced intellect that I will predict the pre-eminent nuances of astrophysics? That I shall inspire copious legions of scientists and science enthusiasts to quest after the mechanisms of the universe? Or that I have a wheelchair and a computer? I choose the one that will make my parents love me. All these Olympics athletes Olymping together reminds me of my encounter with one, back when I threw against one of the Olympic discus throwers in high school. Back then, he was 6’7″, 315 lbs, and I was 5’10” (in shoes (with thick soles)), 185 lbs. Now I could lie, and just say that I fucking wrecked him in the meet in which we threw against each other, so that’s exactly what I’ll do. I fucking wrecked him in the meet in which we threw against each other. He threw a little over 236 feet, setting a new high school record for the entire country, and I threw a little over 152 feet, settling for disappointed parents and 10th place in state. DO YOU LOVE ME NOW, DAD? DO YOU? DAD?
I feel like posting now because I’m at just the right amount of drunk where I’m not sober but I’m also not sleeping. As such, this post will be less rigorously dictated by my fear of rejection and self esteem issues so it can be more free-wheeling and stream-of-consiousness… ey. Like if Eminem tried to freestyle as Jack Kerouac. I would totally pay to see that. Except I don’t think Eminem has a serious sweating problem or more than 5 T-shirts. But seriously, where else would you set the next great American naturalist novel other than urban Detroit? There’s cigarettes, railroad tracks, broken glass, lots of dirt… All the shit you need. Maybe my love of naturalist novels informs my love of rap, since a lot of really honest rap evokes themes of environmental determinism’s triumph over human agency. Maybe I’m full of shit. But by “honest rap,” I mean “Ghetto made me gangbang to put food on my table and most of my friends never made it out,” rather than “I bought a Lambo with cash, hoes bring me bottles and such.” I probably shouldn’t shit on “club rap” since that could actually be Flo Rida’s version of honest self expression, but even if it is, that’s fucking stupid. You’re a minority in America. I know you’ve got shit to write about. I was told twice this week that Asian men are less manly than “normal men.” To my face. Sorry Eva Braun, I didn’t realize my muscular build, strong jawline, and big cock made me too feminine for you. To be fair, I was wearing light blue scrubs and those people probably weren’t Hitler’s wife since she’s dead and the other person was a man, but all the same; don’t be racist. Even if I wasn’t on the clock, I still wouldn’t have said anything to them because I wouldn’t have been at the work to talk to them. So take that, racists. I’m a progressive. Saving the world, one racist’s companion animal at a time. I’m pretty sure that’s somewhere in the veterinarian’s oath. Right between “I promise to heal and stuff” and “I don’t want to make much money.” I’m having serious problems blogging right now because the Internet is being an asshole. Do you want to see a picture of my balls? Well you can’t, because apparently it’s 1994 and we don’t have the technology yet. Also, if it’s 1994, I’m 3 years old, so unless you’re a pediatrician, you’re a pedophile. Sorry. I like to make false dichotomies when I’m drunk. Sometimes, I have trouble thinking of things to write because I get random boners; I call it “writer’s cock.” But going off that thread, I also sometimes get sleeper’s cock, steak eater’s cock, bowler’s cock… The list goes on. Like, for miles. Just like my di… sorry. My dick does not go on for miles. It’s actually easier to measure in kilometers. I’m sorry about that joke. What is wrong with me?
Wow, I haven’t posted in quite a long time! Blame tax season. I don’t think that actually has anything to do with my posting absence because I didn’t do my own taxes this year, I’ve just found that you can blame taxes or tax season for almost anything and other adults will nod and murmur in an affirming fashion. Like most tax seasons, Obama sent me a check so I can buy pallets of condoms and sandals like a responsible liberal, but this year, I just blew it all on replacing my car’s timing belt. I know it sounds like fun, but this whole “not having money” thing really blows. For instance, last week I wanted to have a couple drinks on a restaurant patio, but because I’m poor, I just ended up losing a game of upright, oversized, child’s version Connect Four in the children’s area of the patio. Fuck Connect Four. I’ve never lost Connect Four because of my opponent’s strategical prowess, I’ve only ever lost because I’m a fucking idiot. I also tried hiking for the first time today, and I have to say; I was the only minority I saw on the mountain. I thought this would happen, which is why I did my white person prep as I laced up my boots. I practiced offering people granola bars, I mentally reviewed the finer points of different Camelback water bags, and I phonated “REI just had a clearance sale” until it felt natural. I had to run down the mountain to burn off some extra energy; I’ve been a little pent up lately. My girlfriend and I usually play “catch the potato” on a fairly regular basis, but sometimes it’s a little difficult for me. I am physically incapable of ejaculation unless “Take My Breath Away” is playing above 100 decibels in my home. That’s usually not a big deal because I watch Top Gun at least 3 times a day, but since application season is underway, I haven’t had enough time to visit my “Danger Zone”. No, it’s not my butthole. It’s the inside of my butthole. That would make the “Highway”… You know. The taint. But I’m a Millennial, that’s how we all masturbate. Actually, a lot of us masturbate as a form of procrastination. If you’re around 24 years old, do you ever wonder why the minute your schedule gets too crowded, your textbook chapters take twice as long to finish, or why your term paper suddenly looks like it was edited in the early 2000’s, even though you don’t have any White-Out? There’s just something about needing to get shit done that makes the world record for Consecutive Masturbation Sessions Resulting In Ejaculation In One Day (28) seem within reach. Why petition your professors for letters of rec when you could fantasize about “petitioning” your professors for letters of rec? Hell, it’s taken me six weeks just to finish this post. So that’s where I’m out right now. Applications need to be filled out, so the jerkin’ off’s real good this season. You’ll have to excuse me, I think I feel a climax coming on. I have to go set my Top Gun Soundtrack CD to play track #5 so I can play with my track #1. I feel dehydrated.
This week marks my two year blogging anniversary! Two years ago, I looked to the future and thought I’d be a retired astronaut Nobel Prize winner by now, but alas, I’m just an astronaut Nobel Prize nominee. 9/11 changed everything. If you look at my first year of blogging, I published a post every 2 or three days, but this last year, I’ve slowed to around one per month! That’s because there are only so many jokes in the world and I couldn’t continue exhausting them at such a rate, so I was forced to reduce both the quality and frequency of my posts. It’s for the good of comedy. Nothing but second-rate jokes from here on out! Following that precedent, let me introduce my new comic book: Star Bores! Immerse yourself in the page-turning adventure of Harrison Fjord and his pal, a wet rat named Chewtobacca, as they frantically paddle their canoe, The Century Pidgeon! Ooh and aah as they dodge… small waves, gasp as they shoot at… well, nothing, and applaud when they triumph over… fish. The characters work well together, because each has a strength that covers the other’s weakness. Harrison Fjord is large enough to handle a paddle, and Chewy always carries a tin of Skoal and cracks wise as he puts in a dip. Dips? Starts to dip? Makes dip with his mouth? I clearly eat tobacco all the time. It’s a great way to bring some color to your meth mouth. Now, Chewy might be small and buzzin’ all the time, but make no mistake; his bowcaster is really just a mouse-sized bow that he uses to defend those he loves most. This is slowly turning into an adult Redwall comic, which I would also like to create. In fact, that’s what this is now, I’m committing to it. It’s now a 70-page comic book about a bunch of mice and rabbits and shrews getting shit-faced during a church feast and then fighting an army of their natural predators with medieval weapons and it will be called Hero Mouse. This is going to be fucking awesome. Just when you think the good guys have lost, the Hero Mouse takes some PCP and hallucinates that he found an ancient sword and he goes on a killing rampage and that’s somehow a good thing, because of tribalism. It’s fine to kill bad guys who dehumanize others because they aren’t human themselves. Though their ideals are just as ingrained and holy as ours, fighting for them means that their lives are worth significantly less than ours. Sorry for the tangent. I just love war so much. Hero Mouse is going to be a hit! Soon, I’ll be able to afford anything, even the suspiciously timely… rent. How does it know when the first of the month is? It’s just a word! Never mind. Soon, it won’t even matter. All I have to do now is learn to draw, find a bunch of money, and buy a pencil. And also Google how to get the paper out of the tree. I keep trying, but the police-people keep telling me I can’t walk around city parks with an axe because I make the civilians scatter like scared pigeons. Shouting at them and asking for money for my comic book doesn’t help either, I’m sure. I think that they think that I’m a crazy hobo. Well, maybe I am. I’m just a crazy hobo. A crazy hobo with an axe and a dream. Now there’s your fucking comic book title.
Internet, I write to you now as a proud post vet school interview… person. I know that finishing a grad school interview isn’t the most impressive achievement, but that’s only because astronauts exist. Either way, I now find myself in Illinois for the first time. I flew in from Denver yesterday, and even though I heavily romanticize airports and air travel in my mind, my trip was rather miserable, even though it started out with so much hope and enthusiasm! I awoke yesterday at 4 am the happiest I’ve ever been at 4 am, except for that time I dreamed that Steve Irwin friended me on Facebook. At 6 am, airport security patted me down and a cute TSA lady touched my butt, so I took her to the room where they finger Arab people’s butts and we had interracial sex for the next 12-15 hours. Well, it was actually closer to 2 hours. Actually, she touched my butt and didn’t apologize and I put my shoes on and ran off because my flight was boarding in 15 minutes. Casanova, thy name is… me. After I found my gate a healthy 4 minutes early, I began to wonder who I’d sit with. One of the most common movie meet-cutes is sitting next to a complete stranger on an airplane who happens to be a beautiful celebrity, and everything just seems to work from there. I have a girlfriend whom I love with my whole heart, but that doesn’t mean that we can’t have a threesome with Olivia Wilde. As I took my seat on the plane, my curiosity intensified. I wondered more than ever before who I’d sit next to. Would it be an actress? Possibly a talented actress and singer, noted for her acting and singing? With brown hair? It was totally going to be Anne Hathaway. I eagerly awaited Anne Hathaway’s arrival in the coach section. A tall man in his fifties stopped next to my seat and and placed his appropriately-sized luggage in the overhead carrier. He leaned down and gave me a curt nod before taking the seat next to mine, and that’s how I met my seat buddy, Chronic Halitosis. His breath smelled like a cat shit outside a litter box and then died next to it. What I mean by that is that he’s never heard of floss. PSA: If you don’t floss, your breath might literally smell like cat shit. Not joking here. After 2 hours and 37 minutes of holding my breath, we arrived in Chicago. I had to wait for my next flight, so I people-watched in the hopes that I would see all of the most common airport TV tropes. I wanted to see a rushed American businessman on his cell phone yelling “Listen, I’ve got a three-hour layover in Chicago, we can talk about it then! In the meantime, don’t let Hansen fuck us!”, groups of tourists huddled together speaking foreign languages and comparing boarding passes and looking around confusedly, and a plucky one-winged airplane who’s perseverance and can-do attitude earned him the respect of his peers. Sadly, I only saw two of those. The American businessmen were yelling about St. Louis, not Chicago. After getting no Anne Hathaway and no American businessmen yelling about Chicago, I was ready to do the anger dance from Footloose, but I realized I was in the middle of Chicago O’Hare and I had an interview to prepare for. I caught my connecting flight and checked into my hotel and killed my interview. Is that enough of a happy ending for you? No, me neither. My girlfriend isn’t here and neither is Anne Hathaway, so I’m very dissatisfied. Also, my hotel doesn’t have a lot of channels so I’ve been watching a Law and Order SVU marathon and now all I can think about is how every person I meet is a pedophile. Well done, Dick.
Hello, my daily reader! What’s on your mind, lil’ fella? I average about 1 viewer per day, so I want to make sure that you really enjoy my posts. I’m going to start tailoring my blog to better serve the interests of my audience. My only viewer yesterday found my blog by Googling “was lavar burton on smoking aces 2,” so I’ve dedicated this entire post to that random internet person who can’t spell who they’re searching for! And here is your answer, drumroll please! The answer is… No. Well, shit. That didn’t take… quite as long as I’d planned. Most of my posts are 500-600 words long, and I dedicated this entire post to that… Fuuuck. What do I talk about now? How can I best serve your interests, viewer? Hello? Answer me! ANSWER ME. I’m known around the internet as a very aggressive blogger. And it turns out, the only two black people in Smokin’ Aces 2 were Ernie Hudson and Christopher Holley, neither of whom is easily confused with Levar Burton. I dedicated this post to a racist. Thanks, Obama. Speaking of movies, all the kids were seeing these fancy movies so I saw some too. Welcome to my new segment, Movie Reviews – With Ben! Did I just use my real name? That’s for you to find out and also for me to find out. I’m drunk AF right meow. The Revenant: Tom Hardy deserves a lot of credit for his work in the role of The Frontier’s Biggest Asshole, as do Leonardo DiCaprio’s shoulders for helping him crawl over 10,000 miles in just one movie. Excellent acting and cinematography, but be prepared to be bombarded with images of rebirth. Alejandro, we get it. I mean, the movie is called “The Revenant,” a term for someone who has been reborn. Spoiler: Though Leo once again finds himself clinging to a sodden piece of wood in freezing cold water, he manages to survive this time, probably because there wasn’t a bitchy pre-teen with him who DIDN’T EVEN FUCKING TRY TO SAVE HIM. Titanic touched my heart. The Revenant MVP: The bear, for mauling Leo enough to make his journey an incredible hardship and a triumph of the human spirit, but not mauling him badly enough to kill him which would have resulted in a 20 minute movie about a bear attack. Alternative names for The Revenant: “Mystical Indian Whispers“, “Rivers In The Mountains In Mid-winter Were Much Much Warmer In 1823 Than They Are Now“, “Pee Before The Movie Starts Even If You Don’t Think You Need To“. Star Wars: JJ Abrams tries to recapture the magic of the original trilogy while avoiding the pitfalls of the prequels. Star Wars: The Force Awakens pays perfect homage to the flawed logic and plot holes of all Star Wars movies while maintaining the original trilogy’s abysmal standards for lightsaber fights. New blood in the form of Adam Driver, Daisy Ridley, John Boyega, and Oscar Isaac helps revive the adventurous spirit of the originals, which is good, because the old blood has a lot of cholesterol and arthritis medication in it. MVP: Harrison Motherfucking Ford. Alternative names for Star Wars: “Why Does Kiera Knightley’s Voice Come Out Of Daisy’s Face“, “Kylo Roid Rage“, “Did Tatooine Lose A Sun And Get Renamed Something Stupid?“. Jurassic World: The special effects team deserves a hand for somehow making the dinosaurs look more fake than they did 22 years ago. The casting team did a great job in landing Chris Pratt, and the writing team did a terrible job in not letting him be Chris Pratt. Big CP is young, energetic, and funny, but director Colin Trevorrow (that’s his real name) chose to focus on how handsome he is. Colin made the artistic decision to mitigate Chris’ energy and charisma by dumbing him down and placing him in the middle of every shot with his chest puffed out while very slowly zooming in or out. Jurassic World MVP: Chris Pratt’s squinting coach. Alternative names for Jurassic World: “It Should Be Hard To Make A Shitty Jurassic Park Movie But Colin Ah Ah Ah Ah Ah Ah, Finds A Way”, “B.D. Wong Aged 4 Years In 22 Years“, “This Is A Dumb Story“. That concludes the segment, and also the post! Thanks for stopping by, my single reader, and no, Levar Burton was Finn in Star Wars.
Oh hey, I didn’t see you there! I didn’t say that just because the you can’t see people through blogs, but also because I felt like opening this post like a bad sitcom episode. When dumb people reference TV it’s just a reference, but when I do it, it’s an homage. I’m an artist. And like a true artist, I occasionally indulge in the marijuana pot. Don’t worry, I live in Colorado, so it’s only illegal in the entire country according to federal law. Actually, last week, I was so stoned that I wrote an entire page of lyrics to a song that I called “N***A WE GOT EGGS!” The chorus is extraordinarily catchy, and according to pop songs, that’s all that fucking matters anyway. It’s just the title yelled out at an even cadence, with lots of emphasis on the “eggs” part. Fear not, there lies a deeper meaning beneath the seemingly genius lyrics! That meaning is that at the moment I wrote the song, there were indeed eggs in my apartment, to my endless delight. So as you can see, the figurative eggs in the song are a metaphor for the literal eggs that the munchies told me to put into my frying pan. Artistry. How do I even do it? That’s probably how conceited Michael Bay feels after making every one of his crappy movies. I was even so stoned that I dreamed that I looked like Colorado Avalanche captain Gabriel Landeskog. Landeskog’s visage is so beautiful and arousing that every selfie he sends is a sext. The sheer amount I ate that night might have contributed to the dream as well. The eggs on my plate were almost as pervasive and ubiquitous as Jennifer Aniston’s nipples in Friends. I mean, they show up more than a lot of the recurring characters. They even got paid for a speaking role in season 4. How do nipples speak? I’m not sure; this joke really got away from me. Artistry. This is fairly par for the course, as I have a long history of screwing up. There was that time I stole a beef jerky stick when I was in elementary school, the time I broke my left elbow in three places, and that year when I didn’t become a world-renowned beat poet. What year was that? IT’S EVERY YEAR! Typical me. In kindergarten I was all peanut butter and no jelly. I was all hand turkey and no hand. I was all glue and no macaroni noodles. That’s because I liked to crunch on the raw macaroni as I smelled the glue. I can see my younger self now, lying on my back during naptime while nursing a glue mustache and eating smuggled noodles from my pockets with all the economy of movement of Martin Sheen’s acting. No wonder I’m so well adjusted! Here I was, sending my weekly death-threat to the writers of Onion Politics as well-adjusted adults do, when you stumbled upon me at the beginning of this episode/post! Those people couldn’t be any more wrong about everything, even if they were Michael Bay. He probably doesn’t even have any eggs. Come to think of it, neither do I, because I ate all of them when I was stoned. Artistry.