Friday, June 11, 2004

It Wasn't Not Funny

Last night as I was bustling about the kitchen preparing dinner, in full house frau mode, I realized how much I did NOT want to watch the MTV Movie Awards. This is because of one of two things: 1.) I am a house frau, or 2.) I'm not a total moron. Perhaps a combination of both. Regardless, the all-American boy I reside with did want to watch, most likely due to the fact that a.) he has testicles, and 2.) Lindsay Lohan's bigguns were sure to be flying about recklessly all night. So we tuned in.

Let me just get the following off my chest: When I think of the great improv talents of our time, I don't think of Peter Jackson. In fact, my mind rejects his image completely, as if he were a plaster wall and I a magnet searching for metal. So when I was forced to endure what seemed like hours of banter between the great Vince Vaughan and the short Ben Stiller while Peter Jackson tried to play the straight man, I realized how pathetic and lonely the MTV writers must be. I imagine them watching "Punk'd" on a continual loop, grasping for what is 'hep' in the warped minds of teenagers everywhere. The whole thing had an awkward feel, like The Man was trying to express himself.

Summarily, it was boring. I could feel the hemorrhoids blooming on my ass as I stared at the flashing lights.

The Jimmy Fallon part was funny though.

And now it's time for some Random Thoughts, Completely Worthless as Their Own Posts:

My best friend had a great idea: she's going to start a blog called "I Carried the Watermelon," and it will consist entirely of things she's said while nervous in front of good-looking people.

Every time I hear anything about the Janis Joplin movie(s?) I want to scratch my eyes out.

I read this on Gawker and I laughed and laughed: Spotted Andy Dick going in and out of the Bryant Park hotel lobby Wednesday morning. He was wearing a white Hanes beefy t-type shirt, black pants and his nasty-ass hair. Was with an assistant type with a clipboard. He did one of those trip-over-nothing-but-your-feet moves and then said to nobody in particular,"Whoops."

Bloomsday is next week. My office is celebrating by downing whiskey and purchasing hookers.

Vive Reagan.

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