I am busy preparing for a case, so this random communique will be rather brief – and won’t include any references to the Dire Straits album…except that one:
Who nude that Patrick – the cartoon character who looks suspiciously like the “little man in the boat”, and hangs around with everybody’s favorite fashionably dressed kitchen utensil, SpongeBob SquarePants – would be the brains behind their insane operation? Even though upon more repeated glances than cyclops trying to read the fine print with bifocals, the show appears to consist of nothing more than them doing dumb stuff, and going to the underwater equivalent of White Castle all the time. Maybe the better question is, why is an underwater cartoon restaurant seemingly based off a fart factory like White Castle. But in its reincarnated cartoon version the place is called Crabbie Patties, or something that sounds more appropriate for that old, angry and smelly lady that wouldn’t talk and you never wanted to sit by in church. Not that I ever experienced anything like that in person…
Not too long ago I experienced a colon cleansing meal at a certain hospital cafeteria, and I can honestly say that looks have never been more deceiving since that “Sheila” Crocodile Dundee tried to pick up in that bar was actually a bloke. This particular one appeared to have somewhat swanky food, and multiple choices. All the food groups were represented. Hell, I’d never even heard of the “grain” group, but sure enough, there it was. They even had sushi! Oh yeah, if you’re ever going to eat something raw, what better place to do it than at a hospital? I mean, you could open the stuff up, eat it, and start walking to the ER all in one swift motion if necessary. What a country! The tempura shrimp roll I had sucked more than a dehydrated leech. The rice on the roll was hard enough to patch the part of the sidewalk they were working on outside the window. I can confirm that the country fried steak was fried, but I’m not sure how much steak there was to it. The hash browns looked liked greasy doll hair, with the occasional brown strand thrown in for coloring . Maybe Ragedy Ann was on the fry daddy that morning and didn’t wear a net, I don’t know. I did eat half of a biscuit, and it wasn’t that bad – plus, the other half worked well as a coaster. The tots were tatered, and they were high school cafeteria grade. Not much more you could say about that.
Does anyone know if there are separate office pools around the country for the Not Interested Tournament? If so, I imagine they’re probably like the college basketball equivalent to those hotel pools that are max 5 feet deep, and have so much cholorine in them that you look like you’re a leper from Nagasaki once you get out of it. Are there like meetings of people who remain anonymous that meet around town to talk about how embarrassing it is to follow a team that is in the NIT? The meetings would probably be take place right after Militant Breastfeeders Who Advocate Toplessness. Does an actual newspaper publish NIT brackets, or do you have to pay to get one? I heard they don’t come out until like 5 minutes before the first game, because they don’t know who is going to be in it, or if it’s going to be played in a middle school, high school, or church gym. Do they even have seeds in the NIT? If so, do they start at 65? What are the regions called – Got Screwed, Didn’t Have A Chance, Terrible, and Only Here for The Gate Money?
It is nothing new for celebrities to take legal action against companies when they feel their image/likeness has been used without their permission; but I would be very surprised if there is a precedent for the recent suit Lindsay Lohan has filed against the makers of a popular commercial. Per an article on MSNBC:
Lindsay Lohan has sued E*Trade Financial Corp for $100 million, saying the “milkaholic” baby girl who appeared in a recent commercial was modeled after her. Lohan alleged that the online brokerage’s use of the girl, also named Lindsay, in the ad improperly invoked her “likeness, name, characterization, and personality” without permission, violating her right of privacy…the 23-year-old actress sought $50 million of compensatory damages and $50 million of exemplary damages. She has also demanded that E*Trade stop running the ad and turn over all copies to her.
First, how insecure/egotistical/self-conscious/paranoid/crazy do you have to be to see a graphically enhanced infant on a commercial for approximately two seconds (who says two words), and automatically think it is modeled after your “likeness, name, characterization, and personality”? I don’t know about you, but I would be worried about more than just a lawsuit if I thought a baby had both my likeness and personality – either real or imaginary. Now if the little E*Trade girl appeared in the camera frame with a face full of freckles, a cig hanging out of her mouth with a visible cocaine ring around her nostrils, and flashed her fire crotch to the viewing audience, I could see where Lohan might have a legitimate argument.
Now of the four things that Lohan is basing her claim on, the only one with any merit is that they both share the same name. According to some site that I’m ashamed I visited, Lindsay has ranked as one of the top 200 girls’ names from the 1970’s to the 90’s. Not to mention that there are over a dozen different variations in regards to how this handle can be spelled. According to the census, there are over 143 million women in the United States alone; so let’s say 1 of every 250 girls born in the states is named Lindsay (or some derivation thereof). If my math is correct, and it probably isn’t, that means there are currently over 57,000 girls/women in the U.S. with that name – now there’s a class action lawsuit just waiting to happen. But according to Stephanie Ovadia, Lohan’s lawyer, Lindsay has “the same ’single-name’ recognition as celebrities like Oprah Winfrey and Madonna.” After reading this comparison, there should be no doubt in anyone’s mind that this no-talent, freckled ginger thinks a little too highly of herself. As far as the baby name game goes, the stats on how many Oprahs and Madonnas there are in America were nowhere to be found - it’s probably somewhere in that fabled “one in a million” range. I am also not sure how the measuring stick for this sort of thing works in a court of law, but wouldn’t most jurors probably have a hard time putting the star of Freaky Friday & Herbie: Fully Loaded in the same class with a woman who is worth $2.5 billion dollars, and the most successful female recording artist of all-time? That’s just like, my opinion, man.
If by some chance Lohan does happen to win this lawsuit, I foresee a rash of future litigious actions being taken by other “celebrities” who now feel they also have a case. Here are just a few examples that I could think of off the top of my head:
Carl Weathers sues the creator of The Simpsons, claiming their character Carl is obviously a tribute to him.
John Mayer will sue the Oscar Mayer Weiner corporation, citing several similarities between their hot dogs and his genitalia.
Vin Diesel will take on several of the large oil corporations for modeling a grade of gasoline after him.
Kanye West will file a suit against the Rand-McNally corporation for putting his last name on all of their road atlases, maps, and globes.
Paris Hilton will file a lawsuit against the government of Paris, France for like, totally naming their city after her.
Like pretty much every other year, I didn’t watch any of the 82nd Academy Awards this past weekend. I’ve never really cared about seeing red carpet fashions (although I do like redheads), or listening to lame acceptance speeches for three and a half hours; plus, there a lot of “award-winning” movies that suck just as bad – and often worse – than those with no critical acclaim. The only major drawback to my yearly Oscar snub is that I will occasionally miss some things that turn out to be classic live TV moments – like an old man doing one-armed push-ups, or some guy who sounds like Borat goin apeshit. With the exception of some crazy chick who has since been dubbed “Lady Kanye” and Ben Stiller’s lame Avatar bit, I didn’t hear about anything too controversial or memorable happening at this year’s ceremonies. However, I did apparently miss the chance to get a peek at Logorama, which is the film that won the award for “Best Animated Short Film” of the year. Well thanks to word of mouth and the wonders of the Internet, I got a chance to watch the 17-minute film for the first time today – and it is pure genius. Instead of explaining what it’s all about and giving away the best parts, I’ll just let you check it out for yourselves.
(Contains language and hilarious animated violence):
Sleep apnea is either a disease, or a disorder where “pauses” occur in your breathing while sleeping. In other words, you’re trying to suffocate yourself. It’s like you’re involuntarily playing pulmonary chicken with yourself. You’re choking yourself like a chicken, I, unlike everyone else, just said.
Other than just constantly waking up all the fucking time, a person can get official papers proving they are into the pulmonary equivalent of bondage by having a polysomnogram. Polysomnogram does not mean a polygamist let you feel all of his wives tits, and rate them using a series of celestial bodies. It does not mean there was an orgy of breast cancer awareness at the radiologist’s office. It does not mean you had something about boobs stitched on a towel, or piece of clothing suitable for high falutin’ catered affairs. It is simply a sleep study. Sleep study does not describe a student snoring with their head down at a desk in the library at 2:13 a.m. during finals week. It does mean you show up at the hospital late in the p.m., get all tethered up to primary colored wires via the application of the dermatological equivalent of super glue, and fall asleep. Your sleeping is monitored via closed circuit sleep-v, and the wires essentially give a neurological polygraph proving you’re choking yourself (or that you’re lying about choking yourself). When you wake up the next morning, a doctor comes in the room to tell you if you passed or failed, and what your score is. A “clinically significant” apnea level is where you attempt to snore yourself to death 5 or more times during an hour. Some in the unlearned and completely falsified knowledge community refer to this as being “attemptedly massively suicidal”. It’s like your lungs stutter, and are trying to kill you like a fucking character in the “Director’s Cut” of Goodfellas.
Before I go any farther, I’m going to put this in the terms of the greatest man to ever sport a jerri curl and blue jean overalls simultaneously. “You’re goddamn right, I got this too.” If you don’t know who Buddy Guy is, well Buddy, all I can tell you is that this Guy is one bad motherfucker. He’s such a bad motherfucker, people go get DNA tests after they see him live just to make sho he didn’t fuck their momma cause it damn sure felt good. Anyway, after you’ve been diagnosed as a Bedtime Strangler, you get fitted with something that’s a little bit Darth Vader and a little bit Scuba Diver. This monstrosity is called a CPAP Machine. No, you don’t have air tubes shoved up your genitals, and no stirrups of the gynecological or baseball variety are involved. This is a machine that provides Constant Positive Airway Pressure. Sounds like something that overcharges your for tiny bottles of liquor, and will give you worthless frequent breather miles doesn’t it?
The machine itself looks like a 1960’s vacuum. Instead of a medical supply store you’d think some dude with a JC Penny suit, an old bowler hat, and an Eddie Haskel-like persona guilted and/or conned you into buying it so they would get the fuck off your stoop. It also has an equally old school, smaller vacuum-like hose made out of see through plasticish elastic shit. It looks like the last pair of drawers you thought you could easily rip off of who or whatever, only to cause them a low degree burn and you to question both your strength and dietary habits. The shit looks flimsy as hell, but it gets you all the oxymoron you need to allow you to sleep through the night – while forgetting how ignorant it is that you try to pull the plug on your own breathe bags on a hourly basis. The mask does have the “however you’d spell Darth Vader’s breathing” sound. It also makes you sound like Admiral Greer when you talk. If you open your mouth with the mask on, you can feel air pushing through your throat and nose. It’s like getting an air dick shoved up your throat, and into your sinuses.
The hardness and tubular aspects of the mask also makes sleeping in any position other than “visitation style” impossible. If you try to roll over on a side, you’re going to cut off the PAP and be tangled up and blue quicker than a Bob Dylan impersonator who had a net thrown over them while trying to escape the Looney Bin. Sleeping face down is going to keep your head at a higher level, and give your face a long lasting imprint that’ll make all the boys in the band think you blew the biggest triangle player in the Tri Global area. The goddamn thing only made sleeping impossible for me before I went back to trying to kill myself softly every night. I wake up so much, there are some times when I wish that racist Fugee Lauren Hill would come and put me out of misery. You can also try these rubber nostril implant like things that are attached to what looks like the straps you saw on braces in the movies. They are to sleep deprived nerds what Lebron James is to basketball players. I’m not even sure that made sense, but I haven’t slept in a while so what the fuck do you expect? The nostril implants are referred to in the industry as “nasal pillows”. Big, soft natural tits are what I think of when the word “pillows” is used. Nasal makes me think of that branch of the military with those sperm-like uniforms. Mix them together and I don’t come up with a soft, rubbery mechanism designed to fit comfortably in my nostrils to facilitate continuous breathing. My math equals some member of the armed forces trying to facial my nasals. Beyond the physicality involved with being able to sleep, you can tell I’ve got way too fucked up of a mind to handle any of this type of shit.
Well, if you can’t tell, I can’t go to sleep. I wish I could get to sleep so I could start trying to strangle myself, because sleeping in between involuntary strangulation is still sleeping, no matter how you wrap your hands around it. Sleep Apnea sounds like a minor mountain chain in the Himalayas by the way. And Himalayas sounds like the name of a tranny version of that chick from Star Wars with the danishes on the side of her head. Tranny makes me wonder which Transfomer is gay? And with that inability to turn off my mind, I bid you a happy audios.
