Dr. Brian’s ‘Learn to Layer Your Insults’ quote out of context #451:
“Second only to overcoming a scent best described as ‘backed-up sewage near a wharf’, the hardest part of doing your mom was training my penis to ignore its own gag reflex.”
“The first-ever BMW 2-series.”
Just great. Now we can have people with even lower credit scores driving like complete fucking assholes. At least the Mini Cooper owners will have some competition.
On a much more positive note, I imagine a future where the leading Kickstarter campaign utilizes alien-level tech to siphon some of that perpetual right-turn signal energy from every Toyota Avalon to allow a percentage of Infiniti and Lexus drivers to experience the thrill of illuminating at least one blinker bulb at some point in their vehicle’s life cycle.
“‘There have been complaints as well about him leaving sandwich crumbs behind, falling asleep during interviews, using an exorbitant amount of talc in the later rounds…'”
[family member who asked not to be named enters room]
If you’ve ever abandoned all fear and simply wanted to know the thoughts that go through my head, here’s a sample from the “Television in BrianLand” File:
“Tonight on Miming Towns of the Old West, Marcel Montana. We’ll visit a place where the winds rip so violently through the main square that residents have evolved to walk at a near sixty-degree angle.”
[cut to scene of cowboys leaning against non-existent boxes while one pulls on an imaginary rope to lead an equally imaginary horse – VOICEOVER: “Yes, it’s never a dull day here in Marcel, sister city to Paris, France. Here we see Bose ‘Mr. Pockets’ Ketchum wrangling some lunch!”]
“We’ll visit the high-security prison [wide shot of three men “trapped” in an imaginary cube], and get to know a four-hundred pound local known only as ‘Tumbleweed.'”
Sit back and enjoy another “Conversation Borne of Extreme Misunderstanding of Terms and Conditions” or “Brian’s Wishful Thinking, A Ride Through Old Town on a Holiday Weekend” Edition:
“Look at that, will you? ‘Greatest Furniture Sale!’ That’s some lofty expectation.”
“What are you talking about?”
“The sign stretched across the street with the huge red letters proclaiming GREATEST FURNITURE SALE! and then repeated on every pane of glass on their facade. That’s some self-assurance, sale-wise. Good on them.”
“Maybe it’s in some proportion to the other stores right here in the neighborhood.”
“They’re the only furniture store in the neighborhood. That’s almost defeatist if you see it like that. We went from sixty to zero with that kind of local thinking.”
“What if it IS the greatest furniture sale then? What if you went in there and were amazed by it? Like the sort of a sale that becomes etched into the history of the town, eclipsing even the importance of the holiday weekend it was held.”
“Maybe they give you a blowjob.”
“That would be great. I’ll take the sofa!”
“Sir, this purchase includes fellatio. Would you like that now or…? And the sales guy is holding the intercom all ready to page someone over for ‘assistance’ and some customer is all deep in thought like ‘Oh! I could do this now OR maybe at delivery, but this stuff looks heavy, and what if they outsource delivery and some burly dudes show up all like ‘No overtime this week, so I’ll be providing the perk included with your purchase’ and that would be bad, so he’s all like ‘Honey, wait here,’ and then gives a thumbs-up to the sales guy and he pages ‘Destiny to End Tables. Destiny, End Tables for Greatest Sale promotional assistance, please!’ ”
“You’re implying that only men buy furniture.”
“This store IS in the ‘Heritage District.’ Also, you can’t really give a woman a blowjob. The fine print probably states this clearly. OK, in this new world order bullshit, maybe. Like Bruce Jenner buys a nice armoire and settee and…”
“…and we’re done with this conversation.”
The Ted Kennedy Collection promises to be a huge draw at next January’s Barrett-Jackson Scottsdale auction…
Having had the song stuck in my head for nearly three days, I have concluded that I am NOT a rock, and I am no island.
I’m somewhere between a Nerf-like consistency and soapstone, perhaps, bordering on doughy, depending on what I ate for dinner the night before. And possibly more of a jetty or an isthmus or a peninsula, even. It’s not a commitment thing by any stretch, but more of some Darwinian deal, in which I’d prefer some form of diversity, yet I select to have this marshy land that’s difficult to traverse to get to the core of my land mass, you know? Not fully secluded, but certainly not to the point of having an Applebees and four Starbucks. A small town with some cultural history, yet not enticing to hipsters. Like sort of dangerous-looking, but mostly due to the abandoned, half-stripped car sitting on the corner near that really tasty rib place.
I’m sorry, Paul Simon, but while you touch no one, and no one touches you, I simply cannot keep my hands off of myself. And this isthmus/jetty/peninsula-man thing cries.
Words are your friends. Especially when you take the time to spell the fucking things correctly.
I’d imagine that Hell, for many people anyway, is just a never-ending Scrabble tournament. Or in many cases, a round of “Wheel of Fortune” featuring only palindromes with silent consonants, or phrases with an apostrophe.