Wednesday, June 22, 2005
Dr. Phil
A lot of people have been talking shit about Doctor Phil recently, calling him an ignorant hick and making fun of his accent, and deriding his television show based on its content. For example, a typical episode of "Dr. Phil," begins with an overweight or goth teenager, dressed in church clothes and sitting on a cream-colored, over-stuffed sofa, flanked by his or her parents, one of whom is dabbing tears away with a kleenex.
Dr. Phil: "Johnny, why are you sad?"
Overweight and/or Goth Teen: "I dunno, I just am."
Dr. Phil: "YOU'RE GAY! That's why. Your child is gay. You're GAY! You're GAY!"
At least I think that's how an episode of Dr. Phil goes. I haven't really seen the show ever, but I know it comes on during the daytime on those weird channels with shabby news broadcasts, like UPN 55 or WB 7. I do know one thing for sure, though... Dr. Phil is paid.
Fuck you for talking shit about Dr. Phil. Motherfucker is PAID. Do you realize how paid this motherfucker is? Listen, bitches: Dr. Phil was already a motherfucking DOCTOR before he got on the TV screen. Doctors make a LOT of money. You ever seen a doctor waiting for the G train? Hell no, you haven't, because doctors get paid like a motherfucker and live in the city and don't have to ride no stinkin' train, no filthy, stinkin', piss-covered, rat-covered, salt-smellin' train. Doctors ride in big old sedans with black leather seats and dudes in caps driving. I know because I hang around Park Avenue a lot.
Dr. Phil is down with Oprah. I mean seriously down. You might have gone to a taping of Oprah when you were a kid, with your sister and some shit, standing in line outside Harpo Studios, clutching a pretzel that you got from some street vendor, all gassed and shit cuz you about to see Oprah in person. Shit... Dr. Phil LIVES that shit. He walks in Harpo Studios and motherfuckers SOUND THE ALARM. Because he is a PAID MOTHERFUCKER. Bitches in skirts come up to him with TRAYS of pretzels while your stank ass is out in the cold. MOTHERFUCKER MAKES THAT MONEY.
And you don't want to know about Dr. Phil's free time. MOTHERFUCKER GETS PAID OUT THE ASS. Dude has to practically insert a wine cork in his rectum to keep all the cash from flowing out. I know because I study business, you see.
So the moral of the story is: stop hatin' on Dr. Phil. Sure, he sounds stupid, he looks goofy, he's a terrible doctor, but MOTHERFUCKER MAKES THAT MONEY. Dolla dolla bills ya'll. I'm sorry to be yelling and all that, especially in the middle of a grocery store, but I just overheard your conversation and I had to interject.
Thanks.
A lot of people have been talking shit about Doctor Phil recently, calling him an ignorant hick and making fun of his accent, and deriding his television show based on its content. For example, a typical episode of "Dr. Phil," begins with an overweight or goth teenager, dressed in church clothes and sitting on a cream-colored, over-stuffed sofa, flanked by his or her parents, one of whom is dabbing tears away with a kleenex.
Dr. Phil: "Johnny, why are you sad?"
Overweight and/or Goth Teen: "I dunno, I just am."
Dr. Phil: "YOU'RE GAY! That's why. Your child is gay. You're GAY! You're GAY!"
At least I think that's how an episode of Dr. Phil goes. I haven't really seen the show ever, but I know it comes on during the daytime on those weird channels with shabby news broadcasts, like UPN 55 or WB 7. I do know one thing for sure, though... Dr. Phil is paid.
Fuck you for talking shit about Dr. Phil. Motherfucker is PAID. Do you realize how paid this motherfucker is? Listen, bitches: Dr. Phil was already a motherfucking DOCTOR before he got on the TV screen. Doctors make a LOT of money. You ever seen a doctor waiting for the G train? Hell no, you haven't, because doctors get paid like a motherfucker and live in the city and don't have to ride no stinkin' train, no filthy, stinkin', piss-covered, rat-covered, salt-smellin' train. Doctors ride in big old sedans with black leather seats and dudes in caps driving. I know because I hang around Park Avenue a lot.
Dr. Phil is down with Oprah. I mean seriously down. You might have gone to a taping of Oprah when you were a kid, with your sister and some shit, standing in line outside Harpo Studios, clutching a pretzel that you got from some street vendor, all gassed and shit cuz you about to see Oprah in person. Shit... Dr. Phil LIVES that shit. He walks in Harpo Studios and motherfuckers SOUND THE ALARM. Because he is a PAID MOTHERFUCKER. Bitches in skirts come up to him with TRAYS of pretzels while your stank ass is out in the cold. MOTHERFUCKER MAKES THAT MONEY.
And you don't want to know about Dr. Phil's free time. MOTHERFUCKER GETS PAID OUT THE ASS. Dude has to practically insert a wine cork in his rectum to keep all the cash from flowing out. I know because I study business, you see.
So the moral of the story is: stop hatin' on Dr. Phil. Sure, he sounds stupid, he looks goofy, he's a terrible doctor, but MOTHERFUCKER MAKES THAT MONEY. Dolla dolla bills ya'll. I'm sorry to be yelling and all that, especially in the middle of a grocery store, but I just overheard your conversation and I had to interject.
Thanks.
Tuesday, June 07, 2005
Where Have All The Monkeys Gone?
by Jesse Sneddon, Attorney At Law
Day One:
I mean really, what the fuck?? I've been living in New York City my whole life, and I've never seen fewer monkeys tooling around in enormous '50's Cadillacs than right now. Where the hell did they all go? I know they're not on vacation, because they don't have jobs. I also know they didn't move because their sense of direction is appalling, and they don't have any road maps. So where did those fuckers get to?
I asked Old Man Petersen if he'd seen the monkeys recently, and he said "Well, the thing about that is that my wife went out for pizza 28 years ago and never came back!"
Obviously Old Man Petersen was in on it. That's why he's always got that gun pointed at his head. Then it hit me. If anyone would know where those fucking monkeys went, it'd be good ol' Blue Ball Roy. Blue Ball Roy knows more about science then anyone else I know.
Blue Ball Roy lives in an abandoned turd factory just off the West Side Highway, so I figured I'd take the bus. The bus was full of apes, so I asked them if they knew where the monkeys were, but they just stared at me. I didn't want them to be embarrassed so I stared back at them for a while. After 6 hours of this, the Apes simultaneously pulled out copies of The Daily News and started commenting on Mike Lupica's latest article about the new rage in sports: Rat Fucking. It was a very uncomfortable ride.
Day Two:
Blue Ball Roy doesn't know shit! That idiot just went on and on about the latest Rat Fucking match. I mean, come on! Can't two men have a conversation that doesn't involve sports for once?? I asked him about monkeys, for fuck’s sake! When I told him I was leaving, he got real quiet. Then he threw a pile of moldy tangerines at me. I mean was that really necessary? Of course not! So to show him how hurt I was, I duct taped his balls to a pile of spiders. That'll learn him! It was quite satisfying, but it didn't bring me any closer to learning about those disgusting, smelly-assed little bitch monkeys!
I decided I needed to cool down, so I grabbed a cab and headed over to my favorite restaurant, the Reginald Vel Johnson Diner for a nice hot plate of Laura's famous candied moose balls. Nobody really eats candied moose balls anymore for some reason, but they're delicious I tells ya! I like them with mustard, but many people disagree and say mayo is the way to go with balls. Fuck them.
38 moose balls later, I was ready to resume the search for those monkey fuckers. I figured that the cars would be easier to track down then the monkeys themselves, so I went down to my buddy’s used car lot. Honest Jack Onionfrump may look like a seven-hundred-pound sack of horse shit, but he's a noble man, and the leading salesman of vintage 50's Cadillacs to monkeys in the whole damn city. He'll know where they are. Jack's lot is fortunately right next door to the diner, so all I had to do was walk over to his place. Inside I saw the craziest fucking thing ever: Every single monkey in Manhattan was in there! They weren't gone, they were just getting their Caddies tuned up. That shit fucked up my brain. On the plus side though, now that the mystery is solved I can get back to my normal routine. There's a Rat Fucking match on TV tonight that I've been dying to watch.
by Jesse Sneddon, Attorney At Law
Day One:
I mean really, what the fuck?? I've been living in New York City my whole life, and I've never seen fewer monkeys tooling around in enormous '50's Cadillacs than right now. Where the hell did they all go? I know they're not on vacation, because they don't have jobs. I also know they didn't move because their sense of direction is appalling, and they don't have any road maps. So where did those fuckers get to?
I asked Old Man Petersen if he'd seen the monkeys recently, and he said "Well, the thing about that is that my wife went out for pizza 28 years ago and never came back!"
Obviously Old Man Petersen was in on it. That's why he's always got that gun pointed at his head. Then it hit me. If anyone would know where those fucking monkeys went, it'd be good ol' Blue Ball Roy. Blue Ball Roy knows more about science then anyone else I know.
Blue Ball Roy lives in an abandoned turd factory just off the West Side Highway, so I figured I'd take the bus. The bus was full of apes, so I asked them if they knew where the monkeys were, but they just stared at me. I didn't want them to be embarrassed so I stared back at them for a while. After 6 hours of this, the Apes simultaneously pulled out copies of The Daily News and started commenting on Mike Lupica's latest article about the new rage in sports: Rat Fucking. It was a very uncomfortable ride.
Day Two:
Blue Ball Roy doesn't know shit! That idiot just went on and on about the latest Rat Fucking match. I mean, come on! Can't two men have a conversation that doesn't involve sports for once?? I asked him about monkeys, for fuck’s sake! When I told him I was leaving, he got real quiet. Then he threw a pile of moldy tangerines at me. I mean was that really necessary? Of course not! So to show him how hurt I was, I duct taped his balls to a pile of spiders. That'll learn him! It was quite satisfying, but it didn't bring me any closer to learning about those disgusting, smelly-assed little bitch monkeys!
I decided I needed to cool down, so I grabbed a cab and headed over to my favorite restaurant, the Reginald Vel Johnson Diner for a nice hot plate of Laura's famous candied moose balls. Nobody really eats candied moose balls anymore for some reason, but they're delicious I tells ya! I like them with mustard, but many people disagree and say mayo is the way to go with balls. Fuck them.
38 moose balls later, I was ready to resume the search for those monkey fuckers. I figured that the cars would be easier to track down then the monkeys themselves, so I went down to my buddy’s used car lot. Honest Jack Onionfrump may look like a seven-hundred-pound sack of horse shit, but he's a noble man, and the leading salesman of vintage 50's Cadillacs to monkeys in the whole damn city. He'll know where they are. Jack's lot is fortunately right next door to the diner, so all I had to do was walk over to his place. Inside I saw the craziest fucking thing ever: Every single monkey in Manhattan was in there! They weren't gone, they were just getting their Caddies tuned up. That shit fucked up my brain. On the plus side though, now that the mystery is solved I can get back to my normal routine. There's a Rat Fucking match on TV tonight that I've been dying to watch.
