Talking Box

I have writer's block.  I guess that's what they call it.  I think I should call it "not being an asshole."  I have a strong case of not being an asshole.  I used to write.  When I was a child.  Now, as an adult, I know that I have nothing to say that hasn't been said better and more eloquently by someone a hundred years dead.  What balls I must have had to think that there would be anyone in this world that wants to read what I have to say!

If Andy Rooney had never been born, I'd have a sterling career ahead of me!  My head is full up to here with his style of pointless outrage.  I can't get myself really worked up about Benghazi, or whatever the fuck the newscasters are on about, but by God, if I see that cartoon bear with dingleberries again, I'm going to lose it!

I have a filthy mind.  If Larry Flint could look in there, he'd exclaim, "My goodness, Chi, that's disgusting!  By the way, would it be too much if I actually showed her cervix in the centerfold of next month's Barely Legal?"  But when I'm watching TV, I'm shockingly prudish.  Actually, "Prudish" is imprecise.  I just want decency in my TV commercials.  For example, I know exactly what diapers are for.  I know that they are sometimes leaky, and that can be gross. But I don't need to see a commercial for Luvs in which the concept is that there are babies on stage for a pageant, and the winner of the pageant is the baby who shits the most into their diaper!  I mean, seriously, they're about to shower the crowd in feces!  And don't get me started on tampon commercials.  We're all adults here, and I am fully aware of how the human reproductive cycle works, but dammit, I know for a fact that my wife doesn't want to "celebrate" her period.  Sometimes I think she'd pay me to kick her in the head to take her mind off the cramps.  Sometimes I want to pay her for the same service.  But no talking box is going to make anyone around here celebrate.

Hmmm.  Maybe I'll send a resume to 60 Minutes...