I've posted this before, but it's one of my favorites, and amusing myself is priority one. Sorry, Canada, no Hulu for you.
Thursday, November 13, 2008
... dogs howl and children scream.
A rerun of one of last year's most popular posts. I've purposely excluded the old Golden Throats cuts we've all heard -- Leonard Nimoy, Jack Webb, William Shatner, Telly Savalas, etc. -- and instead offer this look at the "music" of newer (mostly) stars.
Click a pic or name to hear what each of these goblins foisted upon the public without warning or provocation. My personal favorites are Herve and Hulk.
John Travolta says "Let Her In." But for god's sake don't let him into the recording booth again. Ever.
Eddie Murphy wants to "Party All The Time," and we want that, too, because as long as he is partying, he won't be singing.
Patrick Swayze - "She's Like The Wind." I don't understand this song. I think it's about a chick with bad breath and/or gas.
Hulk Hogan - "When The Hulkster Gets To Heaven," the doors will be locked. "I used to tear my shirt/Now you've torn my heart."
Ted Knight - "Hi Guys." And this was the best song on the album. The first time I heard it, I nearly peed myself. But then, I'd had about 17 beers at the time.
Mr. T - "The Toughest Man in The World" is the one who took T's microphone away after this song.
Don Johnson is looking for a "Heartbeat" -- in the audience at his first (and last) concert, because not one ticket was sold.
Someone let Engrish-mangler Herve "Tattoo" Villechaize sing "Why Do People Have To Fight?" Why do people have to sing?
David "Hutch" Soul - "Don't Give Up On Us" was actually a radio hit in the 70s. That tells you how slim the pickins' really were. Dave still has his looks, though.
"Macho Man" Randy Savage - bitch-slaps the Hulk in song. Because he's so much cooler.
Chris "Corky" Burke - Oh, sweet Jesus, who allowed this? Seriously. The sad part is, he's actually better than the dorks helping him.
From our amusing English rose, Siress Yorkie.
Free to a Good Home
Data: 2005-08-29, 10:33AM EDT
So I have this cat. Actually it’s my girlfriend’s cat. Actually we have two, a small grey tabby named T**** that is a blast to have around, and the “other one”.
It’s corpulent, bright orange and has medium length hair, so of course to me it’s name has only ever been Fat Bastard.
(I’m not kidding, this cat is obese enough that it’s gut leaves it’s own trail in the middle of it’s footprints after I vacuum the carpet, uniformly triangulating the food dish, the litter box, and the hammock it has steamrollered for itself in my underwear hamper.)
Fat Bastard has a problem. Its very existence revolves solely around consuming anything organic. I mean anything.
We can’t have real plants anymore, not even cactus. (My girlfriend didn’t laugh when I, tired of the green vomit, suggested Poinsettias)
We have all of the food stored in cupboards that have child locks on them.
Opening the fridge involves holding a broom. (I’d love to teach the fucker a lesson by trapping it in there for a little bit, but beyond the cessation of all sexual activity when my girlfriend finds out, I’m pretty sure this thing is as well-insulated as a walrus and I’d only open the door and discover carnage, not to mention fuzzy rage propelling itself to freedom with one of it’s signature exertion farts.)
We have a bungee cord holding the lid on the trash can, which also happens to be attached to the wall to prevent, as my girlfriend calls it, “accidental tipping”.
Ordering pizza involves trapping it in a bedroom, then listening to it scratch furiously at the door as soon as it gets a whiff of oregano.
It drinks pop.
We can’t walk away from the stove while preparing a meal, as even scalding hot pots and pans have proven no match for it’s powerful, powerful lust. I love bacon, yet it’s become contraband since the “incident”. (Which my girlfriend still somehow regards as my fault, as if I encouraged the fucking thing to snatch sizzling bacon right out of the pan, headfirst, then tear-ass around the house alternating between muted howling and ragged, gasping swallows.)
It has, on a number of occasions, snarfed an entire pack of cigarettes.
Christ, this cat has eaten soap that smelled like melon.
It was entertaining at first, playing the “Let’s see what we can get in there” game, but when this fucking beast blew right through wasabi, jalapenos, mustard, lemons, live grasshoppers, Skittles, and an extra-shot latte, I got the point.
I’m tired of having to treat simple food items like they’re plutonium.
I miss having a bag of chips or a cold pizza on the coffee table while I’m watching the game.
I’m fed up with having to wait to do laundry because the basement has been fouled by a particularly rank dump.
Enough is enough.
If you want her, she’s yours.
The girlfriend or the cat, it’s your call…
(Either way, you don’t even have to get out of the car; I’ll just unwrap a Kraft single and throw it in the backseat.)
Please, help a guy out…
It's funny because it's true. From Keva, whom I thank.
I would add: someone in camouflage, a baby in overalls with only a diaper underneath, three guys arguing in a foreign language about a pair of off-brand jeans, gold teeth, someone wearing jeans shorts (jorts), someone buying a case of Mountain Dew, an obese person squatting down with half their ass-crack showing, a kid with a black eye, a kid eating a corn dog, an article of clothing in memory of #3 - Dale Earnhardt - The Intimidator, a braless woman with boobs hanging at her waistband, and someone overheard saying, "Fuck all y'all!"