Holy crap! Don't drink the water!

Apparently, drinking water gets you pregnant.

There's no sperm & egg joining.

There's no stork.

This oven thing never gets a bun put into it.

Cabbage patches only create ugly, little cloth dolls.

Sex is nothing more than a recreational activity (between two people who love each other very much, blah blah blah). It doesn't make babies.

Only drinking water creates babies. So if you aren't ready to be a human incubator, ladies, stop drinking the tap water. Because it's making us all Fertile Myrtles.

Just take a look at Hollywood. EVERY UTERUS IS OCCUPIED! Or at least a good percentage of them have temporary residents.

A noticeable percentage of my female acquaintances are knocked up. And the bellies around my workplace have been swelling.

Babies are everywhere. And where there isn't a baby, there's a spot waiting for one.

There is no way this many woman are just getting pregnant. No way. It's not that easy. So the only logical explanation is that there's something in the water. Something in the water that causes pregnancy.

So I vow from this moment forward to not drink unfiltered tap water. Not until I'm married, at least.

My old boss* needs me to spread the word.

The Bossman created a commercial.

And he asked me, his loyal minion forever, to help it spread across the world. This man gave me my first job in advertising despite my total lack of experience.

So I owe him.

Watch the vid. Pass it on 'cause it's freakin' awesome.

(Upon seeing this video, you (if you know me) will understand why Bossman and I get along so well.)

Enjoy.





*By "old boss," I mean he was once my boss. Not that he's my current boss and he's an old dude. He'd punch me in the arm for saying that.

Marc Summers will always be my hero.

I am of the Nickelodeon generation. It's not a very exclusive group. Many many many children (who are now twenty-somethings) grew up watching the game shows on the little MTV sister station.

We wanted to live with Jeff the Mannequin at a mall on Today's Special.

We wanted to be W-w-w-wild Crazy Kids.

And more than anything in the whole world, we wanted to be on Double Dare.

We all secretly knew that we'd kick the ace out of the final obstacle course. We'd slide down the big tongue and grab the flag in under ten seconds. Digging for that red scrap of plastic in the over-sized waffle would be easier than the dolts on TV made it look. And that tricycle would rip down the greasy runway faster than a cracked-out Superman circling the Daily Planet.

After winning a pair of British Knights shoes and brand new VCR, we'd jump and shout for victory. And we'd do it all over again not for the glory, but for the praise of Marc Summers.

Because Marc Summers was the reason the world revolved.

When he started hosting What Would You Do, we all kept on watching. After all, Marc Summers was the king of cool. That and whenever he was around, someone was getting hit with a pie.

(Side Note: Amazing that such an openly OCD person could tolerate such a messy career.)

Once I grew up, I missed seeing Marc Summers on my TV everyday.

But then I discovered the Food Network. And there's a new slew of Marc Summers programs to sate my appetite.

He shows me where Country Crock butter comes from. He teaches me about gum balls and cookies. He hosts cake and brownie competitions.

I have a new hero. And he's my old hero. And I feel seven again. And it's fantastic.

Where did that Muse go?

The tired writer entered the coffee shop. Her feet were heavy on the waxed floor. She approached the counter and ordered the biggest, most caffeine-packed drink on the menu. Then she asked for more caffeine.

As she paid for her toxic beverage, her eyes wandered to a far corner of the shop.

There sat the Muse.

The writer smiled. She hadn't seen her friend Muse in a long time.

"I should have figured I'd find you here," she said as she sat across from her inspiration. "Where have you been?"

"Around," Muse answered with a voice like liquid. "I've been laying low." Her words effortlessly flowed form her diaphragm as she lazily observed her long fingernails.

The writer sipped her coffee feeling energy run through her arms. She needed to write. Now.

So she pulled out her laptop and cued up the word processor. Muse moved closer to the writer. She caressed her hair and watched the screen as it filled with words.

Muse planted a loving kiss on the writer's cheek. Then she stood and quickly left.

The writer didn't even notice, for she was too busy creating her story. She hadn't been able to write like this in weeks.

Then, when she was nearing a pivotal part in her tale, she froze. She had no idea what should happen.

The writer looked up from the computer screen and finally noticed that Muse was no longer with her.

"Damn," the writer whispered to nobody in particular. She saved her work and closed the laptop. She sat back and sipped her now cold coffee. Where did Muse go? Did she go to another coffee shop? Was she sitting in the passenger seat of the writer's car? Perhaps she was in a nearby park.

The writer stood and walked to the door. And as she left the coffee shop, she wondered when and where her Muse would turn up next. After all, that is the nature of the Muse. She comes and goes as she pleases.

The goal was to write everyday even if it killed me.

And it did.

But have no fear, dear reader. For I shall rise from the ashes like the Phoenix!

But not like Jean Grey Phoenix. That bitch has mental issues.

My sister and I like to bastardize songs. Part 2

Gotta love hits of the 90s.

Can you guess the songs?


(1)
My person is strolling amongst the geometric byproducts of arachnids.


(2)
This man is the person who enjoys the sum of beautiful music created by us.


(3)
Inside one's personal dwelling. Sketching illustrations of hill apexes with himself at the crest. Citrusy amber celestial body.


(4)
Oh, Christian oasis of the afterlife, allow your radiance to beam below.


(5)
And I note, many things vary in accordance to the climate. Is there precipitation in your dormitory?

Censorship doesn't live here.

So you can say the word fuck here and not be judged for it.

Fuck yeah.





I'm writing this on my phone. The laptop and the wifi are having a lovers' quarrel.