i go away a lot, but i always come back.
november ninth, twenty sixteen: i woke up and thought to myself ‘something’s…..different.’ i soon found that biff tannen had ripped his way through the fourth wall of cinematic fiction and into this supposed reality, regained possession of the futuristic sports almanac, and wrested control of the white house (bob gale, a writer for back to the future II, has acknowledged that the rich, powerful tannen is based on someone who recently became king of America—google that), giving rise to a wave of ‘alts’—facts, wings of the right, and of course timelines. within these alternative timelines, expect quite a few of them to legalize pussy grabbing (some in more lawyerly language, some not so much), and in those where a female version of tannen assumes power, an equally degrading form of something called dong conking.
none of that really matters, though. the only thing i ever worry about is me, of course, which is why i have emerged from a months-long hiatus to make it known that i am not fake news. that’s all. i’m expecting many of these alternate timelines to produce executive orders shutting down any and all outlets that do not acknowledge the supreme insight and godliness of our new *rutaceaecean* figurehead of american greatness. so, as of this writing, the official stance of the philosophunculist blog is that america has been made great.
and speaking of biff tannen, was it really so bad that he got to be rich, if only in one timeline? in all three movies, dude gets smothered in poopy, which is what we have to assume is happening to this current commander in chief in every other timeline. just let the guy have one feces-free life, alright?
back to me. this blog is very real. it’s not even news, therefore it can’t be fake news. when the witch hunt for publications of ill repute commences, please don’t censor me. i’ll do anything. grab my pussy (in a timeline where i am a woman). conk my dong (in the timeline where the king is a woman. or even a man. i don’t care. if the masculine king of america wants to conk my dong, i’ll take it. years after this, when i’m homeless because all workers have been replaced by robots and the children and friends of the king, i can tell passersby that the king of america once conked my dong, and they will reward me with a russian ruble.) just let me keep this blog. it’s really all i’ve got, until america achieves an even greater level of greatness and me and everyone i know gets rich from working at our jobs (before the robots take over) because america will be that great
*i sort of made that up, but it has a base in rutaceae, which is the citrus family, and i know that doesn’t help my ‘not fake’ spiel, but due to its base on a real word, it can’t be classified as fake*
Issue: you just don’t see funny tampon commercials.
Cause of issue: lack of innovation and creative stagnation in marketing this product stems from the lunar-like cyclicity of the feminine, ahem, time, which leads tampons to be designated as a need, not a want, causing top napkin producers to take sales for granted.
Solution: rebrand the product.
For this rebranding, our ideal situation would have been to land famed pitchman Billy Mays, but as we all know, it’s been seven years since he mainlined his last speedball of OxiClean, sending him screaming enthusiastically into the Great Void.
It’s okay, with the internet, we can find an impersonator.
So then we move on to the name. The most obvious choice was to christen the product Tampon Daddy.
That probably needs an explanation.
Well I’ve got one.
The name adds a subtle masculine aspect to a product that has, historically, captured nearly 100% of its sales from a demographic of child-bearing age females. It’s time for tampons to break into a new market—a market that has the potential to double sales.
How are we going to sell Tampon Daddy to men? You make tampons sexy again.
And how do you do that? I……don’t know.
Oh yeah, back to the beginning: the issue was that tampon commercials aren’t funny.
So I guess come up with a tampon commercial featuring a Billy Mays impersonator that portrays the product in a very hilarious, sexy light, and somehow opens an educated discussion on why men aren’t using these things, all while not alienating women.
Boring tampon commercial problem solved.
*caution: the following post mentions bodily functions. why? i don’t know. perhaps they are being used symbolically as a way to say that we all need to find some sort of common denominator in these divided times. or they’re a metaphor shining light on the crumbling infrastructure of…..something. but maybe, just maybe, if you highlight every fourth letter of this post, it will reveal a hidden message.
We all have annoying Facebook friends that shellac us with political posts, gym selfies, and pics of their butt-ugly babies—nothing new to talk about there.
Personally, I like to stay away from ‘putting myself out there’ on the internet. I have boundaries. I don’t need people to know everything about me.
When it comes to social media, my movements are few and far between. Every now and then, I guess, I’ll crowdsource a question that seems important to me. Like lately, for instance, I’ve had this thing going on with my bowels. Without getting too deep into the problem, here’s the gist: I will go about three days without defecating, and then BOOYA—like a warm and cold front colliding, a frenzied twelve hour period ensues in which a torrential downpour produces up to twenty four inches of excrement (to put that in scale: one inch of excrement is equivalent to 36 inches of snow, and 72 inches of rain). If someone knows what would cause this, by all means, pipe up. Yes, you there. What’s that? Who am I going to vote for in the upcoming election? Your mom. Did you not just hear, a moment ago, that I prefer not to share those things on the internet?
Anyways, after this purge, my intestines will lay dormant for another 72 hours. Sure, they’ll bubble, they’ll gurgle, and sometimes even squeak, but there will be absolutely no productive action. Nada. Pardon? Where do I stand on people using the pubic bathroom that they identify with? I’m not going to comment on that, but if I happen to be in one of my violent defecation cycles and a women’s restroom is the only one available, let’s just say I’m going to start feeling very womanish for a brief period of time. I’m not going to sit over here and apologize if some little girl has to listen to that.
This brings us to the color of my pee. For example, I drink a lot of water, so normally my urine is pretty clear, like a mountain creek, or saran wrap. In the morning though, it’s more yellow, probably because I am not able to take in as much water while I am asleep, which results in a deeper urinary shade. Hmmm? Repeat that please. Ah yes, the Confederate flag and free speech. This is similar to the restroom situation above. If I were in dire need of bath tissue and a Confederate flag were the only thing lying around, I suppose I would use it to wipe. I would use any flag to clean myself if that was all that was available.
So back to my pee. Sometimes I have trouble going, and OH GOD WHAT NOW? Fine. You want me to share something personal? Here goes. I’m going to hand you a filthy, dirty secret. I try to use public bathrooms as much as possible. I do. It’s gross, and it’s part of my life. It slashes my toilet paper budget, and if the thing clogs, hey, not my problem. Some teenager named Ashton or Aiden or Sean’Trell gets to clean it up, and it’ll probably learn some sort of valuable life lesson in the process, like the fact that a guy with a spinach-rich diet who only poops every three days will produce thick tubes of green feces capable of clogging a jet-flush public toilet. That’s something you just don’t learn sitting in a government-funded classroom. There. I said something about the government. Now I suppose you want me to click ‘love’ on the picture of your fat, stupid baby. Not gonna happen.
And by the way, sometimes, when I’m in the public restroom, I’ll unwind a little extra toilet paper and take it home with me. Is that a crime? It is a public bathroom. The things inside belong to the public. I am part of the public. Now you probably think I’m some uber-liberal Hillary supporter. Yes, I’m going to vote for her, provided she delivers a solution to my mysterious bowel thing. If Trump can figure it out, then I’m in his corner. Maybe I’ll be in the Dollar Tree bathroom one day and a friendly woman dressed like a man will recognize my symptoms and help me out. There’s no way of knowing.
Some jerk, played by Jack Black, or whoever, somehow gains the ability to see the true inner self of people he encounters. Maybe we could get Tony Robbins or Doctor Oz to hypnotize him to make this possible. Hell, he could just get struck by lightning instead. That would be a lot easier, plus I feel like Doctor Oz would show up on set with quinoa salad to share with everyone, and then give some pitch about a new weight loss drug he just invested in. It would set back the schedule. I run a tight set. I’m also the director now. Writer-director.
Back on track. And by the way, the main guy doesn’t have to be Jack Black, maybe Neil Patrick Harris would be interested, or we could bring back some broke television star from the ’80’s that probably hasn’t tasted hot food in a while. So, this main character meets a really hot chick that doesn’t seem to understand why our main man is interested in her.
We fill in the middle with enough low grade bathroom humor to get the running time up to 90 minutes, then at the end, the Shyamalanian twist comes: the hot chick was the person’s inner self, remember, and when Jack Black or Michael Newman comes out of his altered state, we find that the person he was attracted to was a flamboyant junior high kid. Don’t worry, they didn’t get it on or anything. The other people in the film notice that the guy is acting really creepy around this kid, so they call the police.
The guy goes to jail, I’m thinking Michael Newman is my main choice now, because I’m the producer too. Writing, directing, producing. I do a lot of stuff. While in prison, the guy somehow becomes hypnotized again, and finds true love, this time with a legal adult, maybe a morbidly obese Hawaiian man, or whatever juxtaposition would be funny in this scenario. Who would look funny as Michael Newman’s boyfriend? I’ll have to look through some headshots. Or maybe I’ll just play the main guy, because I also act. I’m an actor that writes and directs and produces. And then the guy I fall in love with in prison is actually me, because by this point I play everyone in the movie.
The thing is, I don’t really want to get involved in the whole Hollywood-Industrial complex, so in order to get this thing made, it’s all going to have to take place in my spare bedroom, with no cameras, because I don’t like seeing videos of myself. Actually, I’ll probably just sit on the couch and imagine all this happening, then the second Shyamalanian twist will flop out: I find out that I am actually M. Night Shyamalan, or he is me. Haven’t thought that out yet.
I’m going to end this post now.
I’m sitting here watching the MLB All Star Game. Joe Buck’s forehead, which is somehow simultaneously advancing up over his scalp and down into his face, raping and pillaging any hair or sensory organs that cross its path, gave me the idea for a joke.
It will amuse nature lovers.
Sports fans might get it.
It incorporates the ancient art of rhyme.
The very masculinity of Buck himself is brought into question.
Sports, nature, poetry, and machismo in a delicious multi-layered taco dip of a joke. Here goes:
Joe Buck? More like Joe Doe!
I never said the joke would be funny. I’m very sorry.
It’s Saturday. Here’s a joke to tell at that house party, weenie roast, or fish fry you’re attending tonight:
Q/ What is black, white, red, and can’t think?
A\ A nun with a beet for a head.
A beautiful August afternoon was recently ruined by a local woman, known as Jane Everymother, who sat on a park bench talking about her toddler, Titus, to anyone within earshot. “Look at him,” she said as the tiny human picked up a discarded candy wrapper and licked it. “So curious. He could be a scientist someday, don’t you think?” she asked, nudging the elderly man next to her, not realizing that he was blind, and also defecating into his adult diaper.
“He looks just like his father,” she said, referencing her husband, the owner of both an ever-expanding waistline and equally contracting hairline, who also suffers from mild albinism, which lends a horrific red tint to his eyes. “He’s going to be a lady killer someday. I just hope there’s a girl out there good enough for him.”
The toddler’s nine-year-old sister, Gertrude, was asked to weigh in on her mother’s comments. “People thought I looked like my dad at that age too, now look at me,” the balding, red-eyed second-time first grader pointed out. “Lady killer? I’m calling it right now, I will be that turd factory’s prom date.”
Jane then brought out a book designed to teach colors to children, and let Titus page through it. “What color is that?” she asked, pointing to a red fire engine.
The child made a farting noise with its mouth.
“Red! He said red! Red is correct! He’s so smart!” Everymother exclaimed. “How about this one honey? What color is the big yellow sun?”
The boy looked at the image, then yelled “POOP!”
“HAHAHAHAHA!!!!!! The sun does look like poop, doesn’t it honey! It really does!” she said, forcing herself to believe that the bright yellow sphere actually did look like fecal matter.
Gertrude again lent her opinion. “That kid ain’t goin’ anywhere. We share the same genes, for Pete’s sake. I failed 1st grade math. 1st grade math. Think about that. We never did a problem that added up to more than ten.”
At that moment, Titus took off running, tripped over his own feet, and landed in the sandbox.
“Ooooh, did you see how far he jumped?! Does anyone know where the Olympics are in 2033? I can taste the gold already!” Jane squealed, garnering the heartfelt sadness of surrounding parents, who realized that she wasn’t joking.
“I don’t understand why they praise him so much,” Gertrude said. “He craps on the kitchen floor, and they act like it’s a goddam Bernini sculpture. I crap on the kitchen floor, and they literally rub my face in it and put me to bed without a bath.”
Moments later, Jane Everymother vacated the bench when a man sat next to her and pointed to his five-year-old nephew, who was doing pull-ups on the monkey bars. “Ugh, nobody cares,” she said, walking away disgusted. “Let’s go, Titus. We’ll watch Inception before your nap. Because you can understand it.” She paused for a moment, wiped a tear from her eye, then repeated, in a low whisper, “Because you can understand it, dammit.”