Is it just me, or is the Burger King way out of his jurisdiction here?
Mom and I are watching ‘Ball of Fire,’ a screwball comedy from 1941.
Mom: Do I even have to say it?
Me: All these people are dead now?
Mom: Yep.
This is happening.
“The Sixties, I suppose, were a different time. Hunting black people for sport had just been outlawed, women were finally guaranteed adequate grazing lands and Congress had officially declared war on trees. And science, having successfully burdened the heart and mind of every child with the knowledge of impending thermonuclear apocalypse, contentedly turned its attention to frogs and stuff. Their findings? Hawks may not be as evil as we thought.” — My pal Matt Louv has begun a blog about the 1964 Audubon Nature Encyclopedia. It is already excellent and worthy of your attention.
“Factual errors: Any time Data plays the part of Sherlock Holmes he’s shown as wearing a deerstalker cap and smoking a goose necked pipe. Holmes only wore a soft cloth cap (drawn as a deerstalker though never said to be one by Holmes creator Arthur Conan Doyle) when in the country, not in the city. Also Holmes never once smoked a goose necked pipe. That was an alteration made by an actor who found that it was the only pipe he could hold between his teeth and still be able to say his lines clearly. Finally, Sherlock Holmes never once spoke the words ‘It’s elementary, my dear Watson.’ That was something else added in a script but never once written by Doyle. An android would get these details right.” — These are the things Star Trek fans get angry about, and I love them for it.
Sometimes dreams are confusing and meaningless, like my Lisa Simpson/goat killing dream.
Then other times you’ve gone off your PMDD-controlling birth control (because you found yourself wondering if that was a real thing, and doing so seems to have answered that question with a resounding YES, IT IS A REAL THING) and you’ve had a particularly difficult evening of controlling your upsetting anxiety-induced OCD problem and you go to bed and have a comically literal dream in which you get yelled at BY YOURSELF, DRESSED AS A DOCTOR for going off your birth control.
RIGHT?!
(via My best buddy Donald via asilentflute)
Wow
Lady version: a C-cup and an IQ 20 points lower than whoever put you in the Friend Zone.
Hey-O!
Or: Mario’s driving that car to a dumb Princess with an ample rack who doesn’t know how to make him laugh and hates his friends. Off screen there’s a girl who liked him before the ugly car and bank roll that turned him into a douchebag.
Hey-O?
Mom likes giving me shit about my one IMDB credit being a short called Roadside Sex, in which I’m giving a trucker a blow job.
So I rented a movie called Trucker and we’re watching it now. This is the conversation that took place through the opening credits:
Mom: You sure this isn’t the movie you’re in?
Me: Actually, yes. That’s me, giving a blow job off to the side.
Mom: Looks a lot like it.
Me: You mean because it’s dark and everyone’s indistinguishable?
Mom: And ‘cause there’s trucks.
Me: Yes. All movies with trucks are just one movie.
Mom: Maybe this is just what was happening in another scene.
Me: Yeah. They’re about to say, “Meanwhile, in another truck, Lindsay Katai is giving a fake blow job to a dude from her improv class, who didn’t fully explain what this short was all about.”
“Because if smart women who know how smart they are intimidate men (and they do), and beautiful women who know how beautiful they are intimidate men (and they do), there is, logically, nothing more intimidating than a woman who is fully aware that she is both smart and beautiful. I mean, maybe a room full of tigers with machine guns! That could be scarier! Or, a smart and beautiful lady who makes jokes.” — Tiger Beatdown, dropping some insight