The legendary Steve Martin released a book of Tweets earlier this year. It eventually occurred to me that if that iconic Jerk is OK with peddling digital fluff, amateurs like me shouldn't be deterred, either. And so I scoured through every status I've posted on the damn Facebook with the help of that overrated Timeline feature that's never going to make any of us even a little bit happier and selected the choicest jokes.
Experience has taught me that no one should ever do such a thing, but hey, amidst all the regrettable failures, disgusting self-indulgence, and idle threats to kill Lebron James, I found some keepers. For instance...
(Nick) has found that adding two simple words to pleasantries really darkens the tone of the sentence. Here's what I mean: "Have a nice day...or else." "Take care of yourself, and each other...or else." "Peace be with you...or else." It helps to smile glowingly for the first part and then narrow your eyes and scowl for the second part. Try it some time!
I dozed-off on the couch while a boring tennis match was on TV, but the players woke me up with their noisy grunting. So I turned to the screen and shouted, "Hey! Keep the racket down!"
(Nick) recalls watching Nightmare on Elm Street as a kid. I felt struck with bad vibes by that Freddy Krueger guy right away. "I don't trust that fellow with the claw-hand," I told my siblings. "Maybe I just need to give him a chance, but then again, I'm pretty sure he's up to no good." I was right, of course, and ever since then, I have considered myself a capable judge of character.
Wait. So, Titanic was based on actual events but Independence Day WASN'T? Whoa! I've had that ass-backwards for YEARS...
At a certain point in a heat wave, you're just asking to be punched in the face for asking the question, "Hot enough for ya?!"
At work today, I thought I heard a flawed and absurd weather report on the radio ...but as it turns out, 97.7 FM was just playing "It's Raining Men."
I wonder how Fred Flinstone settled on the catch-phrase, "Yabba-dabba-Doo!" Why, that's nothing but caveman gibberish, if you ask me.
In the '60s, women used to burn bras. It was an act of liberation, I guess. Far out. If I had to burn an article of clothing to make a statement of some sort, I'd set some neck-ties ablaze. They don't really serve a purpose other than fulfilling loopy social norms about formality. If a man doesn't have a vertical strip of cloth tied around his neck, all-too-often he is considered a slob. It's senseless! Someday I'd like to torch a neck-tie.
A nihilist once asked me what time it was. I replied, "What the fuck do you care?”
Earth Day. The one day a year I feel bad about dumping grease from my George Foreman grill into the neighborhood creek.
It'd be funny if, underneath every Easter Bunny costume at the local shopping mall, was a Jesus lookalike. He could hand out toys and candy to kids, then remove his bunny head and say, "And don't forget about ME!"
A flurry of snow in mid-April is almost more incomprehensible than the lyrics to "Informer" by Snow. (People stuck in 1992 are sure to like this one.)
I love it when Piggly Wiggly has a sale on bacon because their cartoon pig logo is shown grinning and presenting a package of pork. He should have a word bubble that reads, "Eat my cousins. They're delicious!"
Apparently some Christians believe it's a sin to do yoga. This means the following conversation may have taken place in Hell: "What are you in for?" "Rape, Theft, and Murder. You?" "One-Legged King Pigeon Pose.”
All the Mollys have been Flogged. All the Murphys Have Been Dropkicked. St. Patrick's Day is over, but I'm looking forward to April Fool's Day. Spoiler alert: I'm going to fake my own death.
Thanks to everybody for the birthday greetings. Did you know March 6th is also Shaq O'Neal's birthday? I only mention it because Shaq and I are starring in a buddy-cop flick together this summer. (Working title: Alley-Oops!)
Today's top story: "Would-be Sniper Pleased by Early Spring, Spares Groundhog's Life." (February 2nd, 2010. Get it?)
There is no harsher weather forecast than "Bitter Cold." I wish the weathermen acted bitter when telling us to prepare for Bitter Cold. "This is George Graphos. You're gonna have a God-awful time driving to work in the Bitter Cold of this frozen wasteland, you scum-bags. Now here's a babbling jack-ass to tell you about high school sports. Yippee!"
Weathermen name winter storms, which means that if 15 winter storms occur in the same season, we could be hit by an actual Blizzard of Oz.
I celebrated the New Year by screaming, "I'll see you in hell, 2009!"
Have you seen the new AMC series The Killing? It's about the investigation of a sordid murder mystery, and although he has yet to be introduced as a character, I'm pretty sure O.J. did it.
Whenever I cash in a massive jar of spare change at the bank in exchange for dollar bills, I say to the bank teller, "It's time to turn these caterpillars into butterflies!"
"Too weird to live, too rare to die." I think of that Hunter Thompson quote every time I spot a bald guy sporting a pony-tail.
I watched The Curious Case of Benjamin Button in rewind so the story was more conventional.
(Nick) goes to Wal-mart whenever he needs to feel less ugly.
(Nick) is loyal to the people he cares about as long as they don't turn into zombies. If or when that horrific transformation happens, then I'll be the first to smash your noggin with a shovel.
White supremacists must have terrible Fantasy Football teams.
Here's my impression of a morbidly obese person venting angrily on Facebook: "Dambn thease styubby fringers of mi9ne!”
Look, Smokey the Bear, I realize that forest fires are terrible, but as far as this accusation goes that we're the only ones who can prevent forest fires, I'd like to see you bears step up your game, too.
Amelia Earhart? The Wright Brothers? Sure, they've got their perks, but the only aviator to make the bold career move into peddling frozen pizzas is the Red Baron. And that's why he's my favorite pilot.
(Nick) only juggles chainsaws when no one is watching.
What ever happened to the VH1 series Where Are They Now? The conundrum is: We have no way of knowing.
King--no, wait--Queen James is never going to win a championship. My hand-grenades and I are going to make sure of that.*
(Oops. I was supposed to omit that one. Oh, well. Standards have fallen.)
Anyway, here's the last one I posted: I came into this digital world in much the same way that I'm leaving it: With zero Facebook friends.
Twist ending! Sorry, Facebook, but I'll be taking my talents to the same remote cabin in the woods that was once inhabited by the Unabomber. There I will live in seclusion, grow a beard down to my chest, and vent a scathing manifesto about modern times...on Twitter.
*Kidding. Please don't try to murder Lebron James by throwing hand-grenades at him.
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