So we published an article today about minicows. Minicows you say!? Yes, that’s right, minicows. Smaller versions of cows. If cows are big, minicows are not as big. I believe the correct term is not minicows but minicattle…that’s the PC term. But I’m gonna call them minicows, cause minicows is funnier.

Here’s the deal in a nutshell. The economy’s tough and minicows are more thrifty. Because they are smaller they have smaller stomachs and they eat less so you don’t have to spend so much on that expensive cud. But they still provide plenty of milk and meat and, of course, pet companionship.

But there is one fatal flaw, from what I can tell. They’re adorable. A little too adorable. So you buy all these minicows thinking you’re gonna become a wealthier farmer, and then you watch it grow up, to a much smaller stature than regular cows of course. You watch it eat and moo and make milk. And then comes that fateful day when someone somewhere has that hankering for prime rib. You get out your slaughtering gloves and your blood-splatter goggles, and look at the minicow, and realize how mini it is and…and..you just can’t do it. “I’ll use this one for milk,” you say. But then you get too attached to the other minicows, and before you know it you’re a broke farmer living off of your own cud.

Here’s my other thought. All cows used to be mini. You see, we created the fat, fat cows that exist today. Let me rephrase that. Cows weren’t mini in the past. They were normal. Now our cows are abnormally uber fat. We wanted more meat and this is what we got. So here we are in 2008 realizing, hey, mini is the way to go. Larger SUV cows waste too much gas and aren’t energy and financially efficient. It’s just like back to the future without the flying cars and crazy old man.

Who knew cows used to be small and now we’re dealing with gigantic mutant freak cows? It would be particularly cool if we would do this with more animals for fun. Like, instead of minicows, we could make minihippopotamuses. Or, we could go the other way and make giganticized chickens. Just for fun!

But in all seriousness, we can’t let our guard down with these minicows. If we’re miniaturizing them, for all we know they’re gaining an ability, like intelligence. Soon they’ll be smarter than us, and there’s nothing we will be able to do except be their slaves.

And then they’re gonna miniaturize us. Then we’ll see who’s minilaughing.

I finally purchased an iPhone. I don’t know if you’ve ever heard of it…it’s this new contraption from the makers of the Apple Macintosh computer, first produce in the year 1984. Now if you’re not aware, essentially the ownership of the iPhone makes me a better person than you. It’s simple mathematics: 1 iPhone + me = 2x(as cool as you).

Owning the iPhone puts me in a special club of other people who own the iPhone and scientologists. Not only do I now possess the telephone capability, but I also have the music and Internet capabilities. Unlike you, I can now look at pictures of monkeys whenever I please. If I’m walking on 63rd street, and suddenly someone comes running up to me short of breath and says, “Excuse me! Excuse me! I need to look at monkeys now, can you help me!?” I’ll just smile and be like, “What type of monkeys?”

I used to have a Razr. That put me in an elite club with only everybody else in the world save Africa and owners of the Crazr. Don’t get me wrong, it was a sweet phone at first. It flipped. It flipped good. I looked forward to receiving a call and saying, “I’m sorry, I have to take this, and then flip it up,” even if I didn’t really have a call.

And the Razr was a sturdy phone, indeed…I could drop it, feed it to my dog or implode it, and it might develop a scratch or two. The sound quality coupled with the “network” of Verizon with that creepy guy with glasses who follows you everywhere, and I had everything I needed. All those losers bought the iPhone #1 and I was like, “Have fun listening to music and calling people, freaks.”

But I came around, just like I came around with my computer. I was a PC person my whole life, even through college when my roommates all went Mac. Finally, when my PC commit suicide from massive virus intake did I go Mac. And I love it. So clean and virus free.

And now I have my iPhone. I’m content, don’t get me wrong. I can call people, text people AND listen to music, as aforementioned. I can download mad cool “apps,” as our iPhone street slang calls them. And now instead of going on the Internet all day for work as my job dictates, I can also go online after work, and on weekends. I will never be more than 1 minute late reading a new email again! If that isn’t heaven on earth then I don’t know what is.

But you know what, I don’t need those monkeys. I don’t even need to watch YouTube videos of people being tased if I have nothing else to do on the bus. I miss the vintage Nokia…8th grade…it had everything you need in life and more. Not only was it the smallest phone of all time to that date, while at the same time being as thick as a brick and available in colors like magenta and hot pink…but it had SNAKE. Remember Snake. Only the greatest game ever created, with the exception of Fat Princess (see prior blog entry). Can you imagine how high our scores would be today if we still had that phone? The snake would literally take up the whole screen…that high.

I’m telling you now, the rate of people being hit by cars while watching YouTube on their phones is going to skyrocket. And Nokia’s just gonna laugh. Now if you’ll excuse me, I’m gonna go download an “app” where I can simulate my iPhone being a mug of beer, and I can literally and figuratively pour my iPhone’s beer into another person’s iPhone. And that’s why I’m cooler than you.

So I wrote an article today about a video game that has upset the feminist community. The Playstation game is called Fat Princess. You’d think the name in itself would not indicate that it would cause problems by any means, of course. Fat Princess. But it did. Feminist bloggers…thats right, you heard me, feminist bloggers, have expressed disappointment and anger with the game. But these aren’t just usual feminist bloggers. These are video game feminist bloggers…the most intense kind, to say the least. By the way, I’m saying “feminist bloggers” because they are actually advertised as feminist bloggers.

The game has a very simple premise. Like capture the flag, a team has to capture the other team’s princess and bring her back to their home base. But here’s the rub…in order to impede the opposing team’s efforts, you can feed your princess cake to make her nice and fat. That way, it’ll be harder for them to lift her up and they’ll have to go get some more oxen to pull her, or whatever it is they do in games now. Hence, Fat Princess.

Personally, I think it’s a hilarious idea for a game, but then again, I’m a guy. So, I suppose I lose some credibility. If I were a portly feminist my argument would bear more meaning. But it doesn’t seem like a very controversial idea. If your princess is fat, she’s hard to move around. That helps you win the game. There are no judgments here; nobody’s saying the princess is a horrible person for being fat–in fact, the fatter she is the more of a hero she becomes. If you had the standard skinny princess a bird could swoop down and take her, or the wind could blow her to the other side, and you’ll lose. The fat princess should be empowering.

One of the feminist bloggers suggested an alternative idea: couldn’t the gamers just use the same concept and instead of a fat princess use treasure chests that could be filled with heavy items. No. No they can’t. Because the actual game doesn’t seem very good. If they followed that idea, they could just call it, I don’t know, capture the flag. The potential for greatness lies in the fat princess. Plus, I don’t think this is gonna set a bad example, causing young people to grow up and force feed their wives until they explode. Although, that would be an awful twist of fate, indeed.

But, in general I don’t buy the whole violent games are evil argument. Grand Theft Auto is not the downfall of humanity. And Mortal Combat came out like 40 years ago, and I’m pretty sure violent crime has not increased (warning: sweeping statement based on my memory, but it doesn’t matter cause it’s a blog entry, so, whoops). Maybe, maybe, police report one FATALITY (read in scary voice) a week now. On average.

By the way, in an effort not to get sued I didn’t include a picture of Fat Princess here. Check out the article for that. So instead, for your viewing I put the first picture I encountered on Google images when I typed in the statement “fat guy.” I hope this serves to boost my argument.

Kids today. Too many handshakes if you ask me. Back in my day we had one handshake for the lot of you…crazy kids and your drugs.

I’m not “with it.” For example, handshakes. It’s too complicated. Makes my head hurt, and causes much unneeded discomfort for my brain and for my soul.

Life was much easier when there were three handshakes: the strong handshake, the “eh” handshake, and the dead or dying monkfish handshake. That’s it. They’re all done the same way. Each participate looks at each other, preferably in the eye, unless one party has a glass eye, in which case it might be considered impolite to stare. Both parties goe for the kill with their right hands, unless one party has a hook right hand, in which case he probably also has a glass eye, in which case you probably shouldn’t be shaking his hand anyway, because he’ll kill you.

But if it’s a normal situation and both parties have the proper extremities then it’s only right to shake firmly, manly, like Bear Grylls would do. Your status in life is deciphered solely by this process, and it’s really not difficult.

Now all has changed. As far as business is concerned, yeah, the standard handshake should suffice. As far as coolness is concerned, it’s a whole new ballgame. You got the fist bump, the fist bump with the “mock explosion at the end,” (according to Yahoo Answers). You got the handshake that starts by connecting the space between the thumb and the pointer finger. You got that handshake with an added “slide.” You got that handshake with the slide and then an added snap. You have a standard handshake followed by the slide. Of course, you then have the standard handshake with the slide and the snap. Don’t forget the fist bump preceded by an exchange of up and down fist bumps, one after the other. There’s also the always easy, but sometimes strange, slap. And then, of course, if you’re all about the early 90s, you can add the “mock explosion” to that. Or a good ol fashioned high five.

Sometimes it gets really interesting and you can combine almost all of the above and add your own little shindig, but those are usually special circumstances involving parties who are perfectly comfortable with their mutual coolness. For example, there could be some jumping up and down, singing, headbutting or kicking.

I also forgot to mention that many of these handshakes could be followed by a full-hug, a semi hug or a little bump.

It all makes my head hurt. I asked my roommate Josh, a self-described handshake expert, how to know when to do what handshake. “It’s all about the level of friendship,” he told me. “What about the bouncer we always see at the local bar,” I said. “I don’t know,” he replied.

Apparently, this knowledge is innate. Your either born with it or your doomed to awkward handshakes. Somehow, some people are able to walk around to various levels of friends, and both parties magically know which handshake from the list is appropriate.

You might say, “Well, that’s because one party takes the lead from the other party.” True, I’ll give you that. But, there’s so little time! You need hockey goalie reflexes for the handshake. But if one party goes for the fist bump and the other whips out the thumb-pointer finger job. Oh…my…God.

Awkwardness is taken to a new level. “I thought you were my friend?”

“I..I…I am.”

“Then why did you go for the fist bump? Am I trash to you?”

“No, I thought it was OK…”

“You thought wrong. Get out of my life.”

My example involved two decent friends. But what if you’re just acquaintances? What if one person goes for the regulation, firm handshake, and another attempts the handshake-hug. Then the person going for the hug can’t back out…it’s too late…there’s no time, the die has already been cast. So he tries to pull back, slam on the brakes, and….the result is a slight tap of a chest bump with the other hand ricocheting into his groin. Oh dear.

Matters like the one I just mentioned don’t need to happen, kids. Life was so much simpler back in dickedy-aught-two. It’s a scary world out there…so many mini explosions it’s like a war zone.

I’m back! I’m sorry about the lack of blogging, I just got back from my two month long trip to Tahiti. It’s quite nice this time of year, Tahiti is. There are beaches. And fish. Pretty, colorful fish. And Tahitians.

If you read that and thought, “Josh wasn’t in Tahiti,” then you’d be right, I just made that up. I wasn’t in Tahiti, I’ve just been LAZY. But I would have preferred to be lazy in Tahiti than New York, obviously.

Shockingly, my blog traffic hasn’t been doing too badly for my lengthy hiatus. Blogs have a fantastic stats feature, so I can learn a good amount about how many views I get. I can even watch you all as you read my blog. I’m looking at you right now. “Is he lying again, like Tahiti?” You’ll just never know.

But I do learn if someone checks out a certain blog post, and what people searched to find my blog. For some reason, I’ve been pulling off a solid 30 views a day, even though the only thing on my blog for like a month has been a picture of a happy cartoon bug. I figured my parents, grandparents and girlfriend would probably check the site about every other day at least…but 30 views, how’s that possible? Humanity must have lost faith in my ability to post by now, right? That bug is really not that awesome to look at.

Every day I get about 20 people finding this blog by searching, “Bear Grylls.” That’s right. Remember that incredible version of masculinity who eats snakes and sky dives into the ocean for no apparent reason? Well, I wrote a blog about him in JANUARY (when I started the blog), called “Not Really Surviving Man,” about Bear, and Les Stroud of Survivorman, and who would win in a fight and what not; I also wrote about what would happen if I were on those shows, and how quickly I would perish. So, Internet users cannot get enough of my Bear Grylls and Man vs. Wild diatribe.

Thank you very much Bear and Bear Grylls lovers for keeping this blog alive during its darkest moments. And to widen my fan base I will make an attempt to use the name Bear Grylls in all the rest of my blog posts.

BEAR GRYLLS BEAR GRYLLS BEAR GRYLLS BEAR GRYLLS BEAR GRYLLS BEAR GRYLLS BEAR GRYLLS BEAR GRYLLS

Thank you and God bless.

I was sitting on the couch, watching Game 2 of the basketball finals and basking in the utter lack of air conditioning that our living room provides in 99 degree heat (even at night), when I notice an object jumping from the corner of my eye.

It must have been a bug. So I go in for a closer look and point it out to roommate Adam. We both agree it is a grasshopper and he grabs toilet paper for the kill when it jumps to the floor and shimmies under the TV stand. So it’s gone for the time being. It looked big to be a grasshopper on closer inspection, but no worries.

So we watch another 15 minutes of the game when I see something poke its head out from under the TV stand and scutter across the floor. Hrmm…that’s definitely much bigger than a grasshopper, I thought. And then it took a turn for my room. “Son of a bi…”

We both got up and made a run for it. Unfortunately, the fact that the bug ran into my room was reminiscent of one of those movies, when the murderer/escapee vanishes into a maze hedge garden. Immediately, the chaser stops, looks around and knows the fleer could be anywhere, and he would need the help of a trusty chainsaw.

When I finish wearing my work clothes I place them in a pile to the left of my bed, in order to separate them from the other regular laundry and separate them from the work clothes ready for another wear. The clothes pile up over time, like any pile has a tendency to do. Unfortunately, I split a 2 bedroom apartment with 3 guys and I’m in the small room. Let’s just say there’s not much space to spare for piles of laundry. And then there are the other random piles representing shoes, old printer equipment, and my trusty pile collection, of course.

The bug jumped into the maze and we pursued with shoe and toilet paper in hand. Then I saw the black thing hopping over some clothes. I hit it with my shoe. I hit it again. I hit it again. Then it ran away.

Upon closer inspection, this was not a grasshopper. This was a roach. But you know how people always go around saying, “Why, I saw a cockroach the other day, it must have been the size of a Volkswagon!” And then everyone chuckles. Well, ditto to what he said.

And then it ran behind a desk, and we were left with nothing. “It might be lying dead somewhere,” Adam said. “You hit it pretty good. It should at least be really hurt.”

Let’s just say that didn’t leave me with solace. It didn’t look hurt when it triumphantly responded to my blows by speeding away and grinning. After waiting five minutes for any signs of movement, we retreated back to the basketball game.

But I was in no mood for basketball. The emperor of cockroaches was lurking somewhere in my room, and there was NO way I was getting to sleep that night, knowing that it could just be sitting on top of me, staring at me while I slept and plotting my demise.

So I took the only logical course of action: I went with the chainsaw/or hedge clippers (use whatever analogy you please). I started removing the piles from my floor. And it wasn’t pleasant either, knowing that the roach could leap out with each lifting of a shirt. Finally, the last of my piles was comfortable removed, and my room looked, well, good. Thanks cockroach!

But still, no sign of the beast. I gave up again and went back to watching the game with Adam, still quite distraught knowing I wouldn’t be sleeping. Then…a movement. Something crawled in my room. I jumped up, grabbed the shoe and there it was. I smashed it a few more times and…it got away. Adam ran in…”Where did it go?”

“I don’t know.”

“I thought you just saw it.”

“I did.”

But it vanished. Adam left the room again and then I bumped into my computer chair. I jumped back as the roach flew, not leaped, flew, with wings and all, from its camouflaged position on the chair to the floor. I yelled as I saw it, missed it with a swipe, and then became exceedingly frustrated. It went behind the desk again. As I turned around, Adam said, “I got it!” as he continued to smack it over and over and over and over.

It looked dead. It wasn’t moving, it was turned over on its back in all of its gruesomeness. It’s elusive, winged self was now twitching from time to time. Although I felt kind of bad I said, “Let’s flush it before it gets back up.” So we did. We threw it in the toilet, and watched it swirl around and down…and kept watching for another two minutes. And then we dropped a grenade in there for good measure.

I called my girlfriend Leslie after to tell her what happened. She took some entomology (study of bugs, not to be confused with etymology, the study of words) classes in college and listened to my characterization of the creature. She said it was probably not a cockroach but a “water bug.” I didn’t know what a water bug was, but I was sure that didn’t sound as gross or bad as cockroach, and whatever this was deserved a much worse name than water bug. Water bug sounds like something you can smile at while fishing and possible pet. This was an enormous hideous looking monstrosity…with wings!! It was the perfect bug. We initially thought it was a grasshopper because of its deft movements and unusual abilities…so, I’m gonna call him General Ugly. That seems like an appropriate name.

Well, that’s my story. So are the trials of living in the city when it’s 100 degree weather, the perfect breeding ground for mutant bugs. Big bugs must have caused terrible PR for Volkswagon.

Aliens are here, finally. A man named Stan Romanek of Colorado has found seemingly irrefutable, airtight proof that aliens exist, and they like to stare at him while he’s sleeping. He was on Larry King showing his video of an alien peeping through his window and now he and his supporter(s) want to form an “extra-terrestrial affairs committee” for the purpose of seeking out alien life in the United States. And here’s the alleged “leaked” video that didn’t appear on Larry King.

If you think his video doesn’t clearly show the peeping tom was an alien, the Larry King Show even provided an expert interview from a film analyst indicating that it would have been “very expensive to fake such a creature.” Furthermore, to hammer home the point that this is 100 percent real, the show has a re-enactment of what the alien would look like in the window if the video was of good quality, and what the alien would look like if it was walking around your house, and what the alien would look like if it was playing the oboe.

Looking at the Larry King video, it seems pretty clear that a midget would have fit the bill for Romanek’s alien. A midget who has a funny shaped head. A midget with a funny shaped head who has a crush on Romanek. The “leaked” video alien looks more like a midget from Romania, or maybe Belarus.

But, Larry King is an alien anyway. And so is Sam Cassell. So I don’t see what all the fuss is about here.

And isn’t it just a bit of a coincidence that just before the news of this alien surfaced the Vatican declared that it’s OK to believe in aliens? Just on May 13 the Church happened to have a change of heart–this essentially verifies the fact that a huge conspiracy is taking place involving Romanek, the Vatican, the U.S. government, and Eli Manning (I’m still in shock that the Giants won the Super Bowl).

The good news here is that the alien is adorable. It likes to play Peek a boo and probably won’t destroy the earth, because adorable creatures don’t destroy the earth. For those of you who read one of my previous posts, giant bug aliens from Starship Troopers should be our primary concern. Especially that “brain bug.” He’s a wily one.

As a writer, I never really liked reading much. That, and the fact that I never had formal grammar training in school, explain my sub-par grammar. Once I get involved in a book, I tend to like it. But I have to get over that hump. For example, I much rather do something active and play baseball than read a book. Or, I much rather do something inactive and watch TV than read a book. I’m a equal opportunity book-hater.

My girlfriend Leslie loves reading and she loves Barns & Noble-like facilities. And when I’m in a bookstore, a craving for knowledge comes over me. I want to read everything in the store. Women’s romance section? Who cares, bring them on…I’ll cram everything into this brain that I can.

But then I don’t buy anything because I remember I don’t like reading. Plus, my cost-benefit analysis wouldn’t work out in favor of reading–if I were to spend my time reading a book, I wouldn’t be able to watch that rerun of Scrubs.

So I had an eye doctor appointment on Sunday for the first time in about a year. My vision is fairly awful…I believe it is around 20-300, whatever that means…I think it means I might be able to see a bird flying if it swooped down and crashed into my face. I wanted contact lenses, again. I had contact lenses fitted when I was in high school, wore them for like a week, got annoyed with cleaning them, and gave up.

I have astigmatism, making my awful vision even more awful, and I saw on TV they made a daily contact especially for astigmatism. Meaning, not only do they have decent contacts for my kind now, but I could toss them in the garbage after each day. Jackpot.

The optometrist is a new guy, as my previous optometrist went out of business or something not good like that. But the fact that he went out of business became all too clear when my appointment with my new optometrist began.

He starts out by doing the standard flash of light in the eyes. I blinked a little. “Look left,” he said. “Now look right. Now look at my ear.” He then looks at me and says, “Did you know you have floating eyes?”

Now, I don’t recall if he said floating eyes. Maybe it was hovering eyes. Maybe it was googly eyes. I hope it was googly eyes. Either way, my eyes apparently have a tendency to “float” apart at times. And then he goes, “Do you ever feel like you have blurry vision?”

“No.”

“See double?”

“No.”

“Trouble reading?”

“Umm…yes!” You see, I have always been averse to reading, but it’s not just because of my laziness and love for TV. I get headaches after reading for a while. I lose my space a lot. Reading has always been extremely frustrating, but I figured that was normal. In college I tried something new: I followed along with my finger. Everything went pretty well. But when people started staring at me at the library, I followed along with a pen. Even now at work I read by following along with my mouse cursor or highlighting sentences. I should have realized when I went up to a coworker once and said, “Do you ever feel it’s easier to highlight with your cursor?”

“No. Why?”

“Oh. No reason…”

And who wants to read a book for pleasure when you have to follow along with a pen. I rather watch TV and follow along with nothing.

“So is there anything I can do?” I asked the optometrist.

“You can see someone who can teach you some exercises for your eyes,” he said. And voila. Now I can hopefully read again. It’s not like I wasted 20 years or anything depleting my knowledge base astronomically.

But I still can’t fall behind on the Scrubs reruns that I’ve only seen four times a piece. A man needs to have priorities.

Oh, and add googly eyes to my list of problems.

Picture yourself in 6th grade. You get into a scuffle with some kid, and then you get into a diss-off. A good old-fashioned diss-off. Maybe one of you makes a mom joke and the other most probably also makes a mom joke. But then your opponent goes, “Oh yeah, well, well you’re a herb.”

A herb…What were we thinking? When did that ever mean anything? Were people named Herb really dorky back in the day? I’d feel awful for a kid unlucky enough to be named Herb. Some kid yells out: “Hey herb!” And Herb is like, “Why yes! Did someone call my name?” And the other kid’s like, “No, I called you a herb.” And then Herb hangs his head and goes, “I hate myself.”

If it wasn’t meant to be a reference to the name Herb, then it could have originated from the botanical product or drug. And the hilarity of the situation derives from the  de-silencing of the “h.” Saying “erb” is not funny, I don’t think. But when troublemaking, slick teenagers convolute the word and make it their own, all hell breaks loose. Not only is it hilarious to mispronounce the word, but the act of mispronunciation unleashes potent powers. By inserting an “h” the conveyer of the word releases a world of uncoolness on the poor victim.

Out of curiosity, I did what any self-respecting herb researcher would do, and I took a look at Urban Dictionary. I found this entry to be quite enlightening:

Insult synonomous with loser but can have multiple negative connotations. Pronounced “HURB” with no silent ‘h.’The term was popularized in upstate New York and spread from there.
The word herb has nothing to do with marijuana.
Guy 1: Yo, I saw Melvin in the bathroom crying because he got a 93 on the math test!
Guy 2: Word? That kid is a total HERB!

See, now I had no idea the term was born in upstate New York. That makes me that much prouder to be a New Yorker. Poor Melvin, though. But I’m still not satisfied with the definition…let’s try this one:

used by rapper esoteric, in the song herb. pronounced like its spelled, no silent h. it doesnt mean weed or drugs, its a term for someone who follows trends, or just is a complete bullshitter. basicly one of those kind of people that nobody likes.‘

yo you a herb, if you say you rhyme off the mind
but your hype mans backin up every single line’

‘you a herb, if you steal out the tip-cup
if you still wear a hat with the visor flipped up’

See, now that’s the kind of definition I was looking for. People who continue to wear hats with the visor flipped up are herbs. I realize the term has somewhat fallen out of use since 6th grade, but now it has meaning, substance. I think it deserves to come back. That is my edict.

So I’m gonna proudly wear my ultra wide JNCo jean’s to work tomorrow, walk up to the first guy with a popped-up visor I find, and call him a herb. Hopefully his name isn’t Herb.

I know I said I would only write short, concise blog posts, covering one topic for each one so that I don’t infuriate my readers with mindless awfulness. But I lied, and you should never listen to anything I say. Anything!

First things first. Purell smells bad. That’s right, I said it. Not only does it smell bad, but it’s going to cause our extinction as humans. Not only is it going to create a world of germophobes, but it’s going to deplete our immunity to diseases and before we all know it, we’re all dead, and Purell is just gonna be sitting there, laughing.

Second, my editor Anne mentioned something this morning about Sue Simmons. So I’m like, “What happened with Sue Simmons” (even though it is my job to stay up-to-date with all news). Apparently Ms. Simmons was on the air, but she believed she wasn’t, and she thought it would be hilarious to yell at poor Chuck Scarborough: “What the — are you doing?” Chances are, little kids throughout New York were doing their homework, finishing their little algebraic equations, and then Sue “The Ogre” Simmons decides to ruin their lives. They were probably frozen in front of their TVs with their mouths wide open for hours, until their parents had to tase them.

Speaking of tasing, that brings me to my third topic. I never had any idea what people were talking about when they said “Don’t tase me, bro.” Because I’m ignorant and what not. But that YouTube clip with the kid who was tased by the police is the funniest thing possibly ever. I wanted to tase him myself he was so annoying, but luckily, the police beat me to it. “Help! Help! What are you doing!” They’re tasing you, that’s what they’re doing! Maybe if you shut up they wouldn’t continue to tase you.

Fourth, I just saw the Fantastic Four movie on TV. I feel so bad for that rock guy. Everyone has cool powers and they look normal. But he’s a rock! A giant rock. But his name is Ben, which I must say is an appropriate name for a rock. Wherever he goes, he is a rock. He walks into a diner for breakfast, “Sorry, no rocks.” He tries to wear a suit, “Sorry, this suit is not meant for rocks.” Of course he couldn’t get the power to turn into fire or fly throughout the world and get with all the really hot women…he got to be a rock. A rock named Ben.

Fifth, we just turned on Man vs. Wild and Bear Grylls is hanging out with a remote tribe. Do you think Bear had to ask them to hang out with them? “Excuse me, can I video tape you making me look really manly so I can make more money?” And they just look at him confused with their loincloths. But Bear’s not the first to do this sort of thing. There’s another show on Discovery Channel called “Going Tribal” where they tape these tribes. I wonder how much these tribes know about the rest of the world, and if they know they are on TV…and if they knew so, would they be really pissed. But seriously, in this day and age, how could you possibly stay so secluded…it’s quite impressive.

Sixth, what’s the deal with “.net.” Sites on “.net” must be so lonely and scared. So I wikipedia’d .net, and I found something far more interesting; .net comes in third in terms of domain popularity, behind .com (obviously), and .de. Pardon? Allegedly, .de is Germany’s domain. So .net was beaten out by Germany.

Seventh, an embryonic twin was removed from a girl’s abdomen….gross.

I hope this blog entry was enlightening…if you made it this far, my apologies.