I Hope Peyton Manning One Day Decides To Endorse The Company I Work For

How cool would it be to work at an insurance company for like 20 years, and then one day thumb-headed Peyton Manning walks in, films a few commercials, and gets paid more money than you’ve made over those two decades?

It would be very cool, because Peyton Manning is a brand, a lifestyle, a man whose skin and your television screen are one and the same. Let’s not ruin this for him, okay? The man made enough money playing football to ensure that no one in his family has to work for the next three hundred years, and that is precisely why he should continue to get paid thousands of times more than the people who are actually employed at the companies he is shilling for.

At our next company meeting, I plan to request a pay decrease to free up some funds in order to lure Manning in, and hopefully he brings the shit-heads from The Voice with him. Given a choice to have a shot at retiring before I’m 75, or watching Peyton Manning tell Adam Levine he should change his band’s name to Maroon 18, well, let’s just say I plan on working for a very, very long time.

Or maybe a guy as rich as Peyton Manning should be paid entry level wages by these companies.

No. He needs this money.

Life Objective: Land A Spot On The Writing Staff Of Dr. Oz

Oh, to be a fly on the wall of the Dr. Oz writing room. No—to be a person on a chair in that writing room.

To make the cut on the Dr. Oz show, you’ve got to know a thing. The thing being, of course, redundancy. When you send the esteemed Dr. Mehmet Oz out into that standing-room-only-lioness-den-and-also-television-studio packed to the brim with bored, middle-aged women, he better be stuffed up to his beady little eyes with tips on how to lose weight.

If not, upon you will the harem of Oz feast.

So, if anyone from the Dr. Oz camp happens to be reading this, I went ahead and drafted a spec script:

Dr. Oz, returning from commercial: “Welcome back ladies, yes, I am a real doctor.” He pauses here to allow swooning. “Now, let’s get right to it: who wants to lose weight?”

Audience: “MEEEEEEEE!!!!! MEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE!!!!!!!!!”

Oz: “Okay then. I’ve got a secret to share, something no other doctor will ever tell you. Quick survey: how many of you eat a cheeseburger and French fries every day? Show of hands.”

Everyone raises their hand.

Oz: “Did any of you know that a diet like that is actually bad for you?”

Everyone looks around in disbelief.

Oz: “It’s true, it’s true. What if I told you that, instead of eating a cheeseburger and fries every day, you will lose weight if you eat broccoli and rice instead?”

The audience collectively bows down to The Oz: “We’re not worthy! We’re not worthy!”

Dr. Oz: “And here’s a bonus tip—it’s also healthier to drink water instead of soda!”

Everyone is now spasming and speaking in tongues.

Dr. Oz: “And one more thing before we go: if you exercise instead of sitting on your couch, your metabolism will speed up!”

Something like scales fall from upon every eye in the audience. A massive rebirth has taken place. They all go forth into the world, ready to turn their lives around. However, in the time between the end of the show and the next morning, all of these brutal truths are washed away by one last binge, followed by the intoxicating coma that comes after eating a box of Cosmic Brownies….

Tomorrow, Dr. Oz replaces cheeseburger with hot dog. Broccoli becomes spinach. Water is now decaffeinated green tea. No one notices.

The unstoppable Oz cash cow continues to feast upon itself.

Ouroboros.

 

 

 

Some Dark Truths About Me

A few weeks ago, at one of them political rallies, Dr. Ben Carson said something like this: Hillary Clinton wrote her senior thesis on Saul Alinsky. Saul Alinsky mentions Lucifer in one of his books. Therefore, Hillary Clinton worships Satan.

Compelling argument, but there’s no way she’s that cool.

So I sat for a while, thinking. Following Dr. Carson’s logic, I learned some very dark truths about myself.

Here are a few:

I read Gravity’s Rainbow, a big novel with a small part featuring coprophilia. Therefore, I am a coprophiliac.

I enjoy using car batteries to torture hookers, because a copy of American Psycho is sitting in my book pile right now. Also, I like to stab small children at the zoo.

I am a homophobic pill popper who hates his mother. That would be from my high school days listening to Eminem.

I cook meth. Thanks, Breaking Bad.

And most horrifying of all, I might not play football next year because I’d rather hang out with Wooderson and drink beer.

 

 

Crime Scene Investigation—Cub Foods

Me: “I’m no expert, and I didn’t witness the crime, but, if I had to guess, and keep in mind that I was nowhere near the scene when this monstrosity happened, I would say that the culprit is some sort of fetishist. That’s just me, I don’t know. I didn’t do it, so I can never be 100% positive of this monster’s motives.”

Cub Employee: “None of that matters. Do you realize that I have to clean this up?”

Me: “That’s what you’re worried about right now? The clean up? Think about the people who were in the line of fire. The parents that have to explain this to their children?”

C.E.: “Well, we’ve got a business to run here.”

Me: “All you corporate butt-puppets are the same. We are at a crime scene investigation, sir. Are you seeing the same thing I’m seeing? If I had it my way, this store would be closed down, and every employee would be interrogated. Then, and only then, should it be pressure washed from top to bottom, not because I have personal knowledge of just how deep the contamination goes, but because it really is disgusting in here. I mean, look at these markings. Something big was dragged through here.”

C.E.: “So what do you think happened?”

Me: “I thought you’d never ask. This is pure speculation here, but if I were to make a guess, I would say that the culprit ate a starchy, protein-rich meal the night before the incident.”

C.E.: “How can you tell?”

Me: “Silence! I’m not done. Then, immediately after, he, and I’m positive it was a he, because this is a men’s bathroom after all, probably went out and had a few beers, to, you know, ‘take the edge off’ before committing the act.”

C.E.: “That’s very specific.”

Me: “Of course it is.”

C.E.: “If I didn’t know any better, I would say you were the one that clogged this toilet.”

Me: “Are you implying that the night before this happened, I had time to go down to Hubert’s in Minneapolis, eat a healthy portion of buffalo chicken pizza, then just stroll over to Target Field, because I have time for that, and then, because I’m not busy enough already, take down a few Surly Benders? Totally logical. And if that wasn’t enough, I topped it all off with a couple more Summit EPAs. Riiiight. Are you insane? Then, the entire next day, I could feel a low, deep rumble in my bowels, for some reason beckoning me to come here, to this public bathroom, not my own, because I could tell beforehand that it would most likely clog my personal toilet, all in order to avoid using a plunger, and a possible overflow? Because that makes a whole lot of goddam sense. Yes, I have that much time on my hands that I can just go out of my way to crap in a public toilet, knowing that there won’t be any consequences, no names exchanged, all the dirty work passed off to some low-level employee whose face I will never see. You honestly believe that I started plotting this out in the early afternoon, specifically singling out this actual bathroom that we are now standing in, because of the anonymity it would provide? And that I never in my wildest dreams would have planned that a maintenance employee would enter, just seconds after I attempted to flush, and flush again, realizing that the plight was fruitless, then go to a urinal, pretending to have just finished there, and wash my hands, acting like nothing had happened? Because that seems like a stretch.”

C.E.: “Our security camera shows you entering the restroom right around the time this was reported.”

Me: “You can Photoshop anything these days.”

C.E.: “Don’t ever come here again.”

Me: “I don’t want to. It’s disgusting in here.”

Kmart Commercial

I think that Kmart commercial would have been a lot funnier if everyone, instead of saying they just shipped their pants, said they had just shit their pants. There’s nothing funny about pants being loaded into a truck and delivered somewhere. And if they used my suggestion, there could be some kind of tie-in campaign with cleaning supplies and laundry detergent.

 

Sean Hannity Enjoys Photograph Of Erect Nuclear Missile

Sean Hannity loves a lot of things. America. Conservative values. Straight people. White people. White people who are straight, conservative, and American. During a recent interview intended to cover the ramifications of Barack Obama’s re-election, his mind seemed trained on a new muse—a framed photograph of a nuclear missile, standing upright, ready for takeoff.

“I can’t stress enough how much trouble this nation is in. The left is pushing their radical agen—wow, just look at this thing,” the nationally syndicated homophobe said as he clutched the photo.

“This missile is the embodiment of the principles America was built on—it’s tough, it’s thick-skinned, it doesn’t take no for an answer. I know if I had one pointed at me, my heart would skip a beat, my knees would weaken, my penis would become slightly turgid—out of respect—and I would submit to its every whim,” Hannity went on. “That’s why we simply can’t spend enough on defense. We need one of these trained on every one of our rival nations. Our enemies—we seem to be making more and more every day—need to be aware that if they mess with us, they will be getting a big ol’ nuclear load of America right between the eyes.”

When pressed to stick to election issues, Hannity continued:

“And the engineering behind it! Whoever designed this got it exactly right. A perfect proportion of length to girth. Enough power to survive a long ride to its destination. And, once it reaches that destination, the right amount of juice to create a massive explosion of American man-power right in the enemy’s face. Ugghhoohh,” he continued as his eyes rolled back and his tongue ran around the “O” formed by his lips. “Oooooohhhh, yes, aaahhhhh. Mmmmm.”

At this point, Hannity excused himself to take a restroom break. As he was almost to his office door, he quickly doubled back to grab the photo. “Reading material,” he said with a wink.

He returned 15 minutes later, perspiring, short of breath, and visibly more relaxed.

“Okay, now where were we? Ah yes, Obama. Prepare for another four years of broken promises, reckless spending, and, and, OH GOD, CAN’T WE JUST FIRE ONE OFF, TO MAKE SURE THEY WORK!?!?! Nobody would miss Kenya, except you-know-who, right? Or San Francisco? C’mon! Let’s go!”

Hannity then stood up, and dashed off towards the cafeteria mumbling something about a meal of hot dogs and bananas, with popsicles for dessert.