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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_white

Ouroboros.

 

 

 

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The People of Trader Joe’s

Browse through People of Walmart for a bit. Pretty scary stuff.

The universe needs balance, though. Enter the yuppies of Trader Joe’s, a force countering the grizzled mass that comprises Walmart’s patronage, not in looks, but in sheer pomposity.

Last Friday, I witnessed a 40-something male, clad in snug, halfway-down-the-quad navy blue short pants and a tight pastel plaid shirt, shaming an elderly woman that may have been his mother, lover—or through some sort of strange sci-fi twist, daughter—for suggesting that they buy frozen corn.

Picture that: unfettered fury, arising from the mere mention of produce stored below thirty two degrees Fahrenheit.

The situation played out like this:

Mother, daughter, or lover: “They have some corn in the freezer.”

Man, through gritted teeth, with a vein protruding from his forehead, talking very slowly: “What did……..I tell you……..about frozen…………………… products.”

Then he stood, glaring at her in silence, as a look of genuine terror overtook the woman’s face.

I feel like I should have intervened, but I got the vibe that this would have earned me a room temperature organic daikon radish stuffed into one of my many unfrozen orifices, courtesy of short pants.

 

A Very Short Story

A man is in a situation where another man produces a smooth object.

Man #1: “That’s as smooth as a baby’s bottom.”

Man #2: “What.”

Man 1: “That object you handed me is as smooth as a baby’s bottom.”

Man 2: “How could you possibly know how smooth a baby’s bottom is.”

Man 1: “I…….just do.”

Man 2: “You shouldn’t know what a baby’s ass feels like. You don’t have kids.”

Man 1: “So?”

Man 2: “Yet you know what the buttocks of an infant feels like.”

Man 1: “Yes, I suppose you could say that.”

Man 2: (Producing a badge) “Freeze, buttwipe. I’m an undercover constable. You’re under arrest.”

Later on, in court, Man 1 was unable to produce a believable explanation as to why he possessed so much knowledge about the topography of baby rumps, and went to jail for a very, very long time. The end.

If #AllLivesMatter, That Means I Can Do Whatever I Want With This Dead Guy, Right?

I recently read on the internet that all lives matter. Read: since only things with lives matter, that automatically means that anything without life, any object lacking that essential élan vital, is second class scum and not worthy of our time. All of this pleases me, ‘cuz I’ve got this dead guy.

This dead guy does not matter one bit. It’s right there in the hashtag. That gives me the go-ahead to really go to town on this corpse. Sex. I didn’t say it. You were thinking it. Anyways, there are a lot of non-sexual things you can do with a worthless body that just wouldn’t fly with a live person. I plan to stab it first. After that, I’m going to throw it off my balcony and see if it explodes on the concrete below.

That’s it. That’s all I want to do with the dead guy.

 

The Democratic Convention Will End With Surgery Or Conception

I think it’s pretty obvious how the Democratic National Convention is going to end: tomorrow night, right during primetime, expect Hillary Clinton and Bernie Sanders to be sown together, legally making them one person, something called Billary Slinton or Hernie Clanders, who will become the new nominee.

Or they’ll conceive a baby.

Then they’ll pump Hillary full of age-accelerating pills—something the government has been hiding from us—in order for the love child to be born and advance to an electable age by November.

Either way, I don’t care anymore.

Rebranding A Classic Feminine Product

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.

tampondaddy

Our Billy Mays 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.

I Like To Keep My Personal Opinions And Beliefs Off Of The Internet

*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.

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