Proof Of Life
Let us all gather round and celebrate Me. There are two reasons for celebration.

1) I have realized a dream that has existed since the birth of this blog. If any of you were to go to Google and type in Vietnamese hookers, do you know what the #1 result would be? That's right: the Bucket. Many thanks to the skeevy disgusting perv who did just that search so Sitemeter could alert me to my status. Thank you sir, whomever you may be.

2) Also Sitemeter-related, very early this morning the Bucket had its 10,000th visit. I would like to thank all those who have graciously patronized this fine pretend establishment. It just goes to show that the world has an insatiable appetite for meaningless bullshit. It has been my pleasure to provide that for you in volume. I recognize of course that 10,000 visits is really many, many, many repeated visits by a small cadre of devoted obsessives rounded out by a bunch of accidental search-engine hits, but I'm not going to let that put a damper on my delusions about my own popularity. Self-deception worked in high school and dammit I'm going to make it work now.

As a gift to all of you, regular readers and new, I'm not going to spend any time talking about the Terry Schiavo case.

It's not bad enough that the goddamn thing has completely overrun the blogosphere, turning my few minutes of happy diversion into a festering suckhole of depressing-ness, but when the idiot morning radio show I listen to devotes my entire drive-the-kid-to-school time to talking about it, that's just the last fucking straw. I rely on that program for half-baked lame-ass comedy complete with bad celebrity impressions interspersed with cheap, lazy jokes about sex and racial stereotypes. If I want to be bored to death by something I'm supposed to give a shit about but don't, I'll listen to NPR.

I think the fact that the federal intervention is being led by Rep. Tom DeLay, a man so morally bankrupt the House of Representatives had to change its own ethical guidelines in order for him to keep his job, says all I want to know about it.

I would, however, like to take this opportunity to lay out in public and in writing a directive for my care in the event that I find myself incapacitated.

If I am merely comatose, please let me live. Brain and autonomic nervous system functioning normally, that type of thing. Could be that I'm only really really sleepy, so I would appreciate no pillows over the face or horse-tranquilizer injections. OK, I'll take a little horse-tranquilizer, but only if you're having some too and it's only enough to get a decent horsey buzz working.

If I am actually brain dead, I would like you read that two-word phrase very closely, especially the second word. With zero chance of recovery (hence the term "dead", yes?), I would like to be allowed to die completely. Not that I'd know one way or the other. If you have plans for my otherwise lifeless body I guess that's OK, but my personal preference would be to fade away with some dignity. That way I can be cleaned out, stuffed and mounted on a pedestal and then placed in a corner in my wife's bedroom. Like I said, dignity.

I blame all this on Clint Eastwood. He put out that damned movie that broaches this issue and then had to go and win Best Picture with it. Thanks a lot, Clint. Fucker.

People are just too sensitive these days. Nobody gave a shit when the giant Indian dude did the same thing to Jack Nicholson thirty years ago. Hell, people even cheered. Back then we could litter, cocaine was harmless fun and cars got 3 miles to the gallon. The good ones did, anyway.

If any of the positions taken or defended in this piece has offended you, gentle readers, I offer you my most sincere indifference. Eat it, suckers. You can't take back the 10,000 visits you've already given. I figure if you've already taken that much abuse, you're up for anything.

One love.



This post on the Narcissus Scale: 8.3


Pops
- posted by Pops @ 9:46 AM