There was recently a severe toilet-clogged fiasco at my work. Let’s just say the toilet was out of order for a whole week, and there’s still a discarded mop sitting in the trash can that has been rendered “unusable”. And there’s no culprit. We don’t know who it was, but all we know is someone got in way too deep and then fled the scene.

When we asked our late-night security guard about it, all he said was, “Fucking Plunkett”. Apparently, the last name of one of the temp graveyard-shift security guards at my job is “Plunkett”. Which I found to be hilarious, given that we’re talking about a toilet clogged with shit here.

Ahh, Plunkett. Why’d you do it, man?

Have you seen these new commercials for KFC, where they show some wholesome, white-bread chick saying she’s the “chef in the kitchen” and that “there’s one in every restaurant”?? Have you seen this laughable bullshit?

I mean, come on KFC! Who are you trying to fool?? I’ve been to your ‘restaurant’ and I’ve eaten your shitty food. If you have one person in back that even speaks English, I’d be surprised. Let alone a “Chef” that knows how to do anything more than tie their own shoes. The most effort I’ve seen these “chefs” exhert is dropping some frozen chicken into a fryer, and screwing up my order.

And I got no problem with that. Just don’t lie to me about it.

I’m well aware that it’s an advertisement, and I also know that Axe Body Spray has lead to wild orgies in the shower (i’m still keeping my fingers crossed on that one), but come on! You’re KFC. A global fast food chain. You make 99 cent sandwiches and fake mashed potatoes. You also make me shit liquid for two days. (Not cool, btw)

So man up, accept what you are. You don’t see Burger King saying they got BBQ specialists making Whoppers in back, because that’s just fucking stupid.

OK, I’ll lie. Your show looks good.

All these years, I see these skeleton’s of blogs and websites floating around the internet. Half-realized dreams of fellow bloggers and newbies, that somewhere between a bong hit and a trip to Tijuana, have been forgotten about — left to wither and collect the occasional spam hit.

And then I created this brilliance, and shame on me, haven’t updated it in a month. I apologize, life is crazy, I got sidetracked. I went to TIjuana. But as of now, let’s try to get this shit back on track.

I mean, honestly. You get paid to poop. It’s fantastic.

Best 15 minutes of my work day. Every day.

I’m not sure if you watched the Heroes premiere last night, but there was a moment that I feel defined the character of Mohinder Suresh last night. After all the Heroes were captured, masked, handcuffed, and locked into seats on the death plane — it was the first moment in the show where all of the heroes were faceless, totally unidentifiable.

Except for Dr. Suresh, who was easily identified by his thumb ring. Haaahaha. What a herb.

I saw this business card in a local restaurant this past weekend, and I actually got physically upset. Nauseous. If I wasn’t such a cheap slob, I might have considered throwing up my food. But that omlette I just ate was $12 freakin bucks, and there was no way that was happening.

“My own personal paparazzi”? What?? I was disgusted. Not only did some shmuck have the balls to think that a fake paparazzi business was a good idea, but the fact that there might be a market for such filth made me sick. Stupid little skinny brats that want to pretend like their celebrities. Hey, skank-face, you know that cottage cheese on your ass? That’s what they’d actually be taking pictures of, not you cutting your Ferrari cake.

But then I had a revelation. Maybe this isn’t such a bad idea. So I booked them for my next birthday party. And as soon as they run up with their cameras flashing, I’m gonna scream, “Get the fuck out of my face, asshole!” And proceed to beat the shit out of them with my umbrella. Maybe even run over a couple of them with my Subaru SLK-Class Hatchback. So if you see this happening, don’t worry, it’s all “fake”.

I was in the airport the other day, sitting in my row of sterile, attached seats — and I looked up to a kid sitting in the row in front of me. His back was to me.

The kid starts ferociously jolting his arm up and down around his crotch. Repeatedly, in hard, fast jolts. I was like, “Hey, uhh, is — is anyone else seeing this?” It looked like a monkey who had just discovered his pecker, going to town.

Then his brother came over and sat next to him, all while he’s beating ferociously. Brother just staring towards his crotch. I was like “Ummmm…this is weird, guys. You should probably not be watching this..”.

And then, from the depths of this beating of pantomime, I saw a new iPod emerge mid-shake. I was like, “ohhhh…”. That makes a little more sense. I guess the kid was just trying to find a random song with that new iPod “shake” feature. And all I have to say to that is: Apple, you’ve got a sick sense of humor.

I love “Lost”. And I have been particularly enjoying how they’ve used Extras in this season as human targets. Like last night, two extra dudes were walking with those Scientists — and I was like “wait, who are they?” And then they got blown up by a bomb about…three seconds later. “Oh, ok. Nevermind”

If you see some Extras in a scene, you better believe those poor bastards are getting killed off momentarily. And god forbid they actually get a line of dialogue, that means they’re gonna get killed even more intensely — like with a random flaming arrow through their chest.

Way to go Lost, I like where your heads at.

I hate dressing up in sweat pants and a beater to go to Wal-Mart. Dollar Palace let’s me do it right. A sock and nipple tassels…that’s the only way to shop.