So I’m going to be hanging out with Patton Oswalt in a few hours. Let’s hope I don’t make a total ass out of myself by saying something like, “You’re not actually a rat, right? You can tell me.”
Fingers crossed, America.
This is how it's done, fellas
Inside a restaurant. There are two bathrooms for one person - one for men and one for women. They are both occupied. An attractive woman gets behind me in line. She smiles at me unprompted.
Her: Normally there's only a line for women.
(Ok Lee, time to turn on the charm.)
Me: I'm a woman.
Her: (laughter)
(Not your best effort, champ.)
Whilst I’m in LA, I have someone following me with a boom box playing this song at all times.
Yes, it does count.
I’ve been in Los Angeles for about two hours now and not only is the number of douches you pass on the street sizable, but the varieties of douche seem endless.
Of course I should probably count myself. Does “jew in a dark blue hoodie from American Apparel and a week’s worth of facial hair” count?
(via movieoftheday)
Suggested response:
“The skirt convention was canceled because the skirts we bought had a deadly chemical agent on them. You see, they were made by cheap labor in sweatshops in Bungladesh (not to be confused with the similarly named country - this place is a private island that is solely populated with sweatshops). The chemical clung to the fabric of the skirts and caused the wearer of said skirts to die from poisoning. I am the only survivor. I wear this skirt even though it may be causing me to die a slow, painful death. But no matter. I do this for my fellow woman.”
My company’s office calendar just came out and it looks like we have the day after Valentine’s Day off (for President’s Day)!
I’m glad because I’m gonna be super tired from fucking playing the drums in Rock Band 2 all night long for an hour.
A red-band trailer for porn would just be porn.
God is my copilot, which explains the constant turbulence and this fucking baby next to me that won't shut up.
I've got a feeling that you can't count on me
“Nah nah nah nah nah nah nah nah,” I sang.
“Are you na na na’ing from ‘Hey Jude’ or ‘A Long December’?” my friend asked.
“Weird you mentioned just those two songs, as thousands of songs use na na’s. It’s actually a mashup song I’m making called ‘Hey Jude, It’s A Long December.’ I’m going to call myself Crows and Beatles.”
“Ha! You should call the album Pet Sounds!” my friend said.
“That’s dumb. No one keeps crows or beetles as pets,” I said and wished he would go away.
“They do when every dog they adopt runs away and their cats won’t go near them,” he said.
I laughed openly at him. He was the only person in the world I could look down upon.
“Sorry,” I said. “You can stick around for as long as you tell me funny stories like that.”
Chicken butt
“Hey, you know what?” I asked my son.
“Chicken butt,” he replied.
“Are kids still saying that?” I wondered out loud.
“No, that’s what mom said your face looks like in the morning when you wake up. It makes her sad to see how old you’re getting and you’re not even thirty. She said it looks like your hairline is receding, you have bags under your eyes and that your balls are so old that they’ve started subscribing to AARP The Magazine. I don’t know what makes balls old,” he said.
My wife walks in the room.
“What’re you guys talking about?” she asked.
“Chicken butt,” I said.
“That doesn’t rhyme,” she said.
I pointed at my face. And then again at my balls.
“Oh. That. You know, it’s becoming more common for men to get plastic surgery, honey,” she said softly.
“Why would you say those things about me to my son? Why?”
“Chicken thigh,” my son said.
“Are kids still saying that?” I asked.
