John Legend Proves There Is No God

It’s been a crazy busy summer.  You’d think that after being fired from my midday radio gig that I’d be lounging around with nothing to do.

Not so.

In addition to searching constantly for the right gig, I’ve been playing daddy day-care for my two amazing (and yet sometimes very high-maintenance) boys.  I also served a two-day stint as a juror for a case involving five different felony counts.  Oh, and I’m going on vacation with my family next week.  (Hell, we made our rental deposit back when I had a full-time job.  Might as well use it.)  But during the crazy roller-coaster ride that marked the last month-and-a-half, I did find time to make the following observations.  Nothing too great, just a little something to keep the ol’ SEO chugging along.  (The interwebs are filled with folks searching for things like…)

 

John Legend Proves There Is No God

It’s not just a snappy, click-bait title.  In fact, I should’ve titled this thing “John Legend Did Something Amazing to This Toddler.  You’ll Never Believe What Happened Next”  or perhaps “Doctors Hate John Legend, Because He Discovered This One Trick To Reducing Belly Fat.”  I mean, that’d start a virtual STAMPEDE to my blog.  Sadly, the simple truth is this:  I’ve come to the conclusion that if there is a God in the traditional sense, then he/she is a sadist.  Forget about the AIDS and Ebola running rampant through Africa.  Pay no attention to the clear-cutting of rainforests in the Amazon to make way for superhighways and World Cup stadiums.  Don’t fret about the changing salinity of our oceans and the unsettled nature of the over-fished and finned shark population.  No.  None of that matters.  God hates you.  I know this.  It’s the only possible explanation for hearing that GODDAM “ALL OF ME LOVES ALL OF YOU” or WHATEVER THE HELL IT’S CALLED EVERY HOUR ON THE HOUR FROM THE TIME I WAKE UP UNTIL THE TIME I GO TO BED.  Seriously, I have a ska-punk station on Pandora.  Motherfucking John Legend shows up there.  Scanning your terrestrial radio dial?  Good fuckin’ luck.  And for the sake of all that is good and kind in this world, do NOT step foot into a department store or mall.  It’ll find you.  HE will find you.  John Legend.  He’s waiting.  He knows.  He’s coming for you.  For all of us.  And it’s all God’s fault.

Behold...Death, the Destroyer of Worlds.

Behold…Death, the Destroyer of Worlds.

 

New Parking Lot Idea

Speaking of the tween-filled over-air-conditioned halls of the local mall(s), I had the greatest idea the other day.  Automakers need to add a new indicator, much like turn signals and brake lights, that would tell other motorists “I’m just straightening up, not leaving.”  Think about it: busy holiday shopping season, you’ve cruised around the entire sixty-acre parking lot with no viable parking results, when suddenly you see the flash of back-up lights and think “HALLELUJIA!!  BUILD-A-BEAR, HERE I COME!” Only to have your hopes dashed against the rocks of commerce as you realize that the silver mini-van was simply trying not to crowd the maroon Durango in the next parking stall.  Now, what if there were a pulsing blue light right below the third brake light?  A serene, lovely lamp that would tell passers-by “Move along, friend.  This spot ain’t available.”  Everyone would be much better off.  When your kids screamed “There’s one!  There’s a spot!” you could sadly shake your head and say “No, hon.  They’re just flashing blue.”  Maybe one day the technology for such an improvement in our fine American-made automobiles will exist.  Our lives will be much improved, despite the continued presence of John Legend and his death-anthem.

Sorry about the epilepsy, BTW...

Sorry about the epilepsy, BTW…

 

Sturridge.

Been watching a lot of World Cup footy, and as a Liverpool supporter was sadly not terribly shocked to see Luis Suarez go all “28 Days Later” during the tournament, as this ain’t his first buffet. His subsequent departure to Barcelona was almost a relief, although I harbored fear for the Pride of Merseyside’s continued attacking dominance.  Then I remembered that we still have Daniel Sturridge, and he started the season without Ol’ Bitey and was a forced to shoulder the goal-scoring burden pretty much all by his lonesome.  During this soccer-related reverie, it occurred to me that “Sturridge” is exactly how Charles Barkley would describe the passengers belowdecks in “Titanic.”  See, like this: “Man, all them folks wouldn’t have drowned if they hadn’t locked up them doors to sturridge.”

[INSERT "BITE TO EAT AFTER THE MATCH" JOKE HERE]

[INSERT “BITE TO EAT AFTER THE MATCH” JOKE HERE]

Chap Stick.  Hee Hee.

I emptied my pockets the other day and found my Strawberry (a somewhat rare flavor) Chap Stick.  I giggled, because for some reason my brain decided to say “Chap Stick” with an old-school stereotypical  Cockney accent.  See, I think that maybe in olden days, maybe during the Industrial Revolution, the term “Chap Stick” might’ve been a good slang for the male member.  “Ow, g’wan wi’ ye.  She ain’t got naught on below them petticoats.  Just wait, love, I’ll be showing ‘er me Chap Stick straight away!”  Oh, how I laugh and laugh.

 

Thank you, internet.   Thank you.

Thank you, internet.
Thank you.