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est. 02.27.02

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January 2005

Happy Depression Day!
fart fart fart | Tuesday, 01.25.05
I'm not sure if you're aware of this, but scientists determined that yesterday was the most depressing day of the year. I'm too lazy to actually read the article, so I'll just assume that they used urine analysis and fancy pixie magic to reach this baffling and totally unnecessary conclusion. With the knowledge that the 24th of January was scientifically proven to suck balls, I took note of everything I did and applied a numerical misery system to rate the day's events. Here are my hilarious findings...

6:55 a.m. My alarm goes off, but since my body isn't aligned properly in accordance with the FCC's rules and regulations, my radio is overly staticy and awful. I blindly finagle and futz with the radio for five minutes in order to get a clearer transmission to no avail. The day is off to a horrible start, and I may not live to see noon.

7:40 a.m. Despite the fact that my windshield wiper fluid is laced with antifreezing agents and magical fire bubbles, it refuses to shoot forth from my windshield wiper fluid nozzles. This, coupled with the remains of a winter wonderland weekend, make driving to work complicated and almost as awful as the staticy alarm clock. I turn the defroster on full blast in an attempt to melt the dirtiness away from my front windshield, but this only angers it.

8:00 a.m. While driving up a giant mountainside on my way to work, my car starts chugging and bouncing uncontrollably like a lowrider driven by dangerous Dr. Dre video extras. Since the car is less than 6 months old, I decide to cry and wet myself. When I arrive at work, I notice that my hubcaps are filled with snow, which must have thrown off the alignment shocks unleaded rack 'em pinion steering oh god I know nothing about cars. I remove all of the snow with an old glove and pray that my drive home will be less sprightly.

10:43 a.m. Has my iPod Shuffle shipped yet? No. How about now? No. OK, I'll give it three minutes. Has it shipped yet? No. F5. No. F5. No. F5. No. Dammit.

3:20 p.m. I decide that my legs and back hurt too badly from shoveling to spend an hour at the gym. I make obnoxious cow sounds in my head and carve the words "DEATH TO PIGS" into my stomach to console myself. Then I decide to eat an entire sheet cake. It seemed like a good idea at the time.

5:10 p.m. The car ride home is as smooth as a baby's bottom. My cunning snow removal plan was a smashing success. I celebrate by running over as many pedestrians as possible because I still can't see out of my front windshield.

6:30 p.m. Rachel comes over and we have soup. The soup is good. Damned good. Halfway through my bowl of soup, I think it would be nice to have a sandwich with my soup. I forget about the sandwich by the time I'm done eating my soup. I remember a few hours later and pout because I forgot to make my sandwich. This is the most horrible day ever.

9:43 p.m. A 2 hour Resident Evil 4 session makes it difficult to walk around the house without checking every corner for deranged Spanish tribesmen. More so than usual. Also, I finally reached the point where Leon has to protect the President's daughter from the deranged Spanish tribesmen. She's very good at hiding in boxes and getting amputated by bear traps. I hope the scary Emperor's virus kills her soon.

12:35 p.m. The scientifically proven day of depression ends as my head hits the pillow. Which is cold. On both sides.

I wrote this update to prove a point about hypnotic suggestion, but then I remembered that there was no hypnosis involved. Then I realized that both Oldboy and Ichi the Killer had plots that revolved around hypnotic suggestion. And they both had violent tongue removal scenes. God that's weird. Anyway, my day really wasn't that miserable, it was all in my word choices. I actually had a great time forgetting about my sandwich, reloading my Apple Order Status page and killing those pedestrians. So once again, I'm rebuking scientific claims with shoddy and unproven personal experiences... and I love it.

The First and Last Annual 2005 TMH Choice Awards
Sponsored in part by The Burlington Coat Factory | Wednesday, 01.12.05
It's the 2005 TMH Choice Awards! Featuring Jessica Simpson's omnipresent father! Snoop Dogg! World Class pitching ace Rollie Fingers! Snoop Dogg! The Wiener Sängerknaben boys choir! The animated hipster stylings of Bebe's Kids! Snoop Dogg! Jamie Kennedy! A special performance featuring Snoop Dogg and his doggiepizzle moneybizzle choirquizzle! A moving five hour Powerpoint tribute to famous actors that died in horrible car accidents featuring Times New Roman and IMPACT! A shouting match between superstar rap sensation Fiddy Cent and ALF! And a performance by some vampire emo punk pop rock band that will sing about losing their girlfriends even though none of them have ever had girlfriends because they've been hardened by the hardening hardships of traveling on "the road" in a "van," if you consider a private jet lined with edible hundred dollar bills a "van!" And Snoop Dogg!

It's the 2005 TMH Choice Awards, featuring celebrity parking attendants! There better not be any loose change missing from my ashtray, you lovable scamps.
As you know, the TMH Choice Awards are picked by me. I make up the categories, I make up the acceptance speeches, and I'll even make up the winner if all of my nominees suck dick. Every winner receives the coveted TMH Choice Awards trophy of honorary tributary culinary excellence as well as a $16 gift certificate to the Burlington Coat Factory, now conveniently located in Burlington, NJ and probably some other places as well, I'm sorry, I'll have to get back to you because I've been so busy putting this awards ceremony together that I didn't have time to call up the Burlington Coat Factory headquarters and jot down the locations of every Burlington Coat Factory in the tri-state area. So without further adieu, let's get this motherfucker started like it's a West Coast party because there ain't no party like a West Coast party because a West Coast party don't stop if it's a West Coast party on the West Coast of America unless it's a weeknight West Coast party because then the West Coast party usually fizzles out around 2 o'clock and the West Coast party officially stops around 3:15, maybe 3:30 in the morning because some of us have jobs, y'know.

Every year, television executives hold a meeting in a hollowed out volcano to pitch fresh and exciting reality shows that will eventually enslave the human race. I hope they all die. The nominees for Best New Reality Show or Reality Based Game Show that Defines New Levels of "Pain That Can't Be Described Without the Aid of Both Barrels of a Shotgun Down My Throat" are...
  1. Who Wants to Abort My Stepsister's Baby?
  2. Whoops! (HIV Positive Island)
  3. Give Me $5 and I'll Eat That Shit Peninsula
  4. Braindead Celebrity Sleepover!
  5. Fat Mamas Chasing Hamburgers on Strings
And the winner of the TMH Choice Award is... oh my god... Braindead Celebrity Sleepover! The guy from Scream who kinda looks like Johnny Depp could not be here tonight, so I'll just throw his award onto the pile on no-shows and move past this tragedy. Coming up next in the television genre category thing is Best Celebrity Gambling Program featuring D-List Celebrities Holdin' 'em and Foldin' 'em. The nominees are...
  1. Flava Flav's Go Fish Spectacular
  2. Celebrity Texas Hold 'Em featuring the wacky janitor from Wings
  3. Candace Cameron's Million Dollar Duck-Duck-Goose Challenge
  4. Old Maid Death Tournament featuring 227's Jackée
  5. MC Hammer's Smash and Grabapalooza
I didn't have the heart to tell Soundgarden that they weren't nominated for a TMH Choice Award, or that they broke up almost ten years ago. They still showed up. It's sad really.
Before I announce the winner, let me just say that we're all winners here. Let me also say that the trophy company fucked up the award for Best Celebrity Gambling Program featuring D-List Celebrities Holdin' 'em and Foldin' 'em, and they're going to receive a nasty letter from the TMH Choice Award army -- academy. Did I say army? I meant academy. We're not an army hell-bent on the destruction of popular media. We're an academy of scholarly gentleman who wear monocles and donate all of our earnings to the betterment of disenfranchised children the world over when we're not voting on our favorite programs and movies. We do burn television executives alive from time to time, and we killed Jim Henson for no discernable reason, but that's it. So, long story short, there's no winner because there's no award to hand out, and I accidentally spent the Burlington Coat Factory gift certificate on some luxury linens because the BCF has more than great coats.

I'm getting a message from our crew that we need to speed this ceremony up, so let's just skip all the crap like Best Lighting in a Claymation Musical Not Featuring or Produced by Gumby and Best Vomit Inducing Operation on the Discovery Health Channel and get right to the meat and potatoes. Our last category is a real "doosie" as we like to say in the "biz" ... the "doosie biz." Here are the nominees for Best Flavored Beverage That I Made Up While Sitting on the Can...
  1. Starbucks Chocolate Mocha Burn Victimachino
  2. Mountain Dew: Armed and Dangerous
  3. Pepsi Holiday-Colored Yankee Candle Drink
  4. PowerAid X-TREME H2O (now with XTRA X-TREME Water Flavor)
  5. Coca-Cola Ultra Light Menthol
And the winner is... I knew it... Mountain Dew: Armed and Dangerous! Accepting the award for me is me. God, this is such a surprise, I didn't even write a speech! Wow, anyway, I'd just like to thank the wonderful people over at Mountain Dew for taking a chance on my imaginary arm-flavored drink. Actually, that doesn't sound right... see, the arms aren't imaginary (we use only the finest, AIDS-free hobo arms) but the entire drink itself is imaginary (so, to be honest, we don't use AIDS-free hobo arms at all because there's no such thing as a hobo who doesn't have AIDS). Since I don't know who else to thank, I'd just like to urge everyone to go out and vote. Shame on you Mr. Bush! I don't care if it's January, go out and vote anyway. Send your votes to Mr. Bush c/o Shame on you Mr. Bush, 123 White House St., Washington D.C., USA. This concludes the first and last annual 2005 TMH Choice Awards. This entire show cost me $600,000 to produce and what do I have to show for it besides this $600,000 jewel-encrusted robot vacuum-cleaner cleaner? Nothing. Shame on you $600,000 jewel-encrusted robot vacuum-cleaner cleaner.

... and there's nothing worse than watchin' a fuckin' fat man weep.
Look at me you sloppy bitch! | Wednesday, 01.05.05
Before I get started on today's mind-expanding update, I'd just like to thank everyone for tracking down the Harvest Bagel ingredients and sending them to me so that I can start making my own Harvest Bagel franchise megaconglomerate superstore. I received about 7,000 emails a day, each telling me how stupid I am for not finding the ingredients on my own. This is what happens when you write an update on the back of a Dunkin' Donuts napkin at four in the morning without doing the appropriate research. Stay tuned for the next installment of my "Secret Ingredients Brew-Ha Ha," where I dedicate 800 words to unraveling the mysteries of salt water, Rum and Coke and poop.

I plan on severely injuring every single one of these muscles within 10 minutes of my first day at the gym.
Anyway, with the start of the new year, I've decided to take a stand against my floppy body and join a gym. Actually, it's not a gym, it's a health club. Actually, it's not a health club, it's a health club with a racquetball court, and if I knew what tools were required to play racquetball, I'd be able to off-handedly say something like, "Sorry guys, I can't hang out tonight, Trevor and I have a racquetball match at 7, and afterwards we're going out for smoothies and sex in our butts." I'm not sure how painfully obvious this is, but I'm not the most athletically inclined individual on the planet. Unless you consider billiards a sport, and I'm not very good at that either. So basically I'm just going to the gym every day in hopes that a homicidal chainsaw maniac will enter the sauna and saw off one of my lumpy appendages and carve me a more manly set of boobs.

I'm totally out of touch with the gym culture. The last time I set foot in a real weight room was in high school, when my nerdy friends and I were offered the choice between the weight room or soccer. After I was nearly crushed by a large piece of equipment that was probably pulled by cattle for working the land at some point, I decided to take my chances with the soccer boys. They quickly discovered that the easiest way to get me out of their way was to pummel my shins with their magical feet, and I slowly discovered that the easiest way to get out of gym was to have my mom write a note to my phys ed teacher explaining that my family was too poor for the appropriate gym attire. Faking a seizure helps, too. In fact, I've found that faking a seizure will get you out of many of life's uncomfortable situations, from getting picked for jury duty to giving a speech at your best friend's wedding... unless your best friend's an epileptic. Then it would be rude, but funny in a "this is why I don't have any friends" sort of way.

During the first month of my weight loss experiment, I'll focus mainly on cardio and keeping my heart from launching itself from my chest. Since I have a dangerously low amount of dietary knowledge and I don't have a doctor to consult, I figure I'll lose about 50 pounds during the first week, give or take a day or two. My body's not accustomed to any sort of movement aside from "going over there to get that thing" and "going back to where I was before because I couldn't remember the thing I was going to get over there," so the weight will literally fly off, and by literally, I mean figuratively. I'll walk on the walker thing and step on the stepper thing until it becomes commonplace for me to stroll into an Italian household and have overweight mothers beg me to "eata more cappacola for Momma, Giovanni, you'rea too skinny." And while I don't endorse bulimia, I think it's a great way to eat all the food you want and still feel great about yourself. Because no one loves you when you're a fat pig.

Now I know what you're thinking. You're like, "Pssh, whatever tubby. You'll be stuffing your face with chocolate covered pork treats before the end of the week." And usually, you'd be right. But now that I've put this in writing, I'm going to stick to it. So far this week I've eaten a ham sandwich and three unsalted crackers, and aside from the constant blacking out and the inability to distinguish my nightmares from reality, the diet is off to a smashing start. If those fat fucks on "The Biggest Loser" can do it with their personal trainers, thousands of dollars worth of equipment, professionally prepared meals and thinner stunt doubles, then I can too.



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