Eating sushi with a majority of people who don’t partake in it is a somewhat weird experience.  Not that they are giving you sushi or anything, it is just weird to hear people discuss their distaste for the type of food you’re ingesting right there in front of your face.  I mean normally, most people have the decency or respect for the decorum of the moment – which I think decorum means “of the corum” in Espanol – but when you ingest somewhat raw fish, distastes of people around you come out of the wood work like a casting call for termites in a gangbang movie.  Is gangbang one or two words?  I bet that is definitely not something you studied “officially” anywhere.  You may have contracted tennis elbow in an attempt to figure it out, but you sure as hell didn’t tell anybody that you were silkin’ the corn for purely diagnostic purposes.

Playing bingo with someone who has Alzheimers can’t be all that bad.  You’ve only got to buy one card, and then the Alzheimer’s inductee can go to town on that bad boy.  If they ask you if a number was called, whether you heard it or not, just say “yes”.  Who really gives a damn?  Either way, they’re still going to blot the same dot enough times to make you think a fucking chicken with a red Sharpie on its beak was peckin’ corn; but you’d have to let it go due to their cruel situation, and because your conscience wouldn’t let you take them back to that geezer prison so soon.

What do you do when a guy you know has decided to get his hair cut like Telly Savalas?  At first you don’t even recognize him – even though he is a mere two feet away - but then you get a text message from another friend within viewing distance of this unknown encounter who wants to know if you see any Aryan Nation tattoos?  Do you speak and act like you’re not aware of the distinct feeling that you’re in a re-run of The Shield?  Do you offer him a Dum Dum pop and say, “Who loves ya baby?”  Do you shield your eyes from the glare and ask, “Hair’s it hanging?”  What about asking if the curtains are made from the same material as the drapes?  Why a straight dude would ask another straight dude that question, I have no idea.  I just couldn’t resist the play on whatever type of thing fancified linguistical types refer to it as.

Truvia is some product that is apparently the grass juice drinker’s answer to sugar.  It has zero calories, and it looks like very good crystal meth in the commercial – or what I imagine good crystal meth would look like.  They show what seemed to be sky tears rolling off a big Mean Joe Green leaf and then the crystals on blueberries.  I’d say it looks Splendad.  I wonder if there is a strain of non-sugar, chemical based sweetener call Newtra Sweet?  Do you think it would be made out of bodily secretions from tiny lizards?  Neuter Sweet could be a faux sugar made for those who no longer worship the Greek god Testicles (Test-ti-clees).  I mean after all, Sweet’n Low sounds like some sort of bizarre sexual act you would perform on a midget/dwarf.  Why in the hell fake sugars have to have these ignorant, innuendo-type monikers I haven’t a calorie.

(Sometimes when I watch movies, weird and random associations began popping into my head at will.  The following is my twisted take on another crappy Brandon Frazier flick)

The Mummy Returns is apparently about some undead hag that continues to nag a bunch of dudes by not dying, and being able to know exactly where they are when it is nag time.  To those who are mummified, it’s like an instinctual GPS.  Kind of like those salmon that swim back to the creek of their birth to get there freak on before being poached, roasted, negiri’d and turned into caviar.

To be honest, the only mummy I’ve seen in the movie so far is Brendan whatever’s wife.  She’s got the typical potentially big science fiction rack: nice wig, tight clothes, seemingly bountiful breasts restrained at all costs, and shoes to match all of the above.  Fraser and what’s her nuts have a kid whose role is a mix of toddler Indiana Jones and that crime fighting kid in Home Alone.  He’s always running around ruining some type of historically significant ruins.  Seemingly, none of these fools saw what happened to the Nazi’s when they broke open that fancy medicine chest Indy had found in some Middle Eastern dirt.  Simply put, unless Dr. Peter Venkman is there, I’m not playin’ with no ghosts.

This version of Who’s Your Mummy is apparently really about a mummy who has dangling dice.  He’s an old, wash rag wearin’ mofo who talks in a dialect that seems to be a low fat version of Jabanese – mind you, Brendon’s hoetater ain’t wearin’ a Mad Max bikini, and isn’t chained to him or sharin’ space with a muppet, but it is quite similar.  I take it mummies must not have very good health care from the looks of this guy.  As I’ve said, their rags are all dried out and some even have holes in them.  The Scorpion King looks like that skeleton from Biology class, except he’s missing a part of his head.  I’m sure he probably lost his job at Mummies R’ Us, his insurance was cancelled, and so he tried COBRA.  In case you don’t know, COBRA is a little start up company that came out of G.I. Joe, and now guarantees coverage to all evil villains, spooks, specters, aliens, transvestites and Saved By the Bell junkies.  They’ve also got a prescription plan which helps you get the pills that help keep your clothes the right sex.  That same plan can also be used to purchase the newest drug on the market – Slateroxydone- which will help cure anyone of their obsession of the Dancing with The Stars “star” before he really became a star.  Within 36 hours, you will no longer want hair like Zachs, know that Screech is two shades of gay, and have any desire to watch an ignorant show with enough canned laughter to start a laugh bank - Laugh Banks are the humor equivalent to food pantries/soup kitchens.  They are key to getting through unfunny times and help keep laughter in the hearts of many unfunny people who can’t come up with jokes of their own.

There are also some pasty gents from some land with an English accent who apparently want something their mummy never gave them; so they are also on a quest to take something from the Centipede Queen, or whatever the hell it is.  One of them was talking to Frasier’s kid and throwing out one liners like a fly fisherman at a nightclub.  Anywho, The mummi (is that the plural?) start coming at them, and these geniuses come up with the idea of shooting at them.  Shooting at an undead fool made of sand who is wearing a toga made of papyrus isn’t gonna get yer slinky slung. If anything, we all know you need to run them near a freezer or some type of H2O depository.  You also apparently need some overly dressed Arabian chaps who ride horses as opposed to carpets - I’ve been telling people for years that Steppenwolf were a bunch of goddamn liars.  These cats are out in an after meal special, and they’re wearing what appear to be high thread count black sheets and head garb.  Maybe they’re Snuggies for Arabians. 

A bald Arabian Telly Savalas-looking fool just used his superpowers to push two swanky hotel robe wearing hooligans off the top of a roof, and managed to smash them together in the air.  They continue to speak those funky, made up languages that would be more fun if you just let the viewer make up their own dialogue.  That way, “Yan ne A ho ho E”, could mean, “Get me another beer.” or whatever you wanted it to mean.  Now the Arabian Kojak is doing things with water that haven’t been seen since Moses parted his wig, or Jesus went on a walkabout.  There’s a water storm that’s like a huge water mullet.  The waves in the front are all about the business of sinking your ship.  While the waves in the back are having a good time trying to drown you after the ship sinks.

Oh hell, now they’re on a balloon that looks like a prehistoric Jiffy Pop bag with a fruit crate attached to it.  The dude driving may or may not be Ole Dirty Bastard, a/k/a Dirt McGirt, a/k/a Big Baby Jesus a/k/a Osiris.  As in Hanna Montana’s dad’s name, Billy Ray Osiris.  I don’t think ODB and Hair Helmet were related though.  I’d like to go on, but I honestly can’t take anymore.  The last straw was seeing their stereotypical jungle walk, which was lighted all the way by torches – like lanterns, candles and flammable newts weren’t available in that era.