What type of blog entry are you?

I'm getting really sick of these "What type of _____ are you?" deals that I keep seeing. Seems like every damn person has one on their IM profile, and a new one pops up every week or so. But they're things that don't make any sense, because they're not really things that people can be. There's never one that says "What type of person are you?" Or "What kind of learner are you?" Or "What type of eater are you?" It's always something ridiculous that has nothing to do with human beings. What type of book are you? What kind of beverage are you? What sort of cloud are you? I've got news for all of you. None of you are any of those things.

Well, just to take this thing that sucks, and make it mine, I present to you my "What type of poo are you?" You're gonna have to just pick out the one that fits you best because I have neither the time nor the inclination to explain myself to a man who rises and sleeps under the blanket of the very freedom that I provide, then questions the manner in which I provide it. I mean, I don't really feel like trying to make a quiz.

You're common brown poo. You're the boring sort. You're just a face in the crowd, but don't worry, most other people are too. You're almost always around, but nobody really pays close attention to you. You lack style, but you make up for it in substance.

You're hangover poo. You serve as our conscience. When we party too hard, you're always there to let us know. We're not quite sure exactly what you are sometimes, but we usually feel a little better once you're gone.

You're liquid poo. Lots of times, you show up when you're not wanted. Sometimes, you even come to the party early. You're nothing but a nuisance. When you do show up, you usually stay around for a while.

You're exceptionally large poo. You're the sort that people are proud to be associated with. You're a monument. People will call their friends to come take a look at how spectacular you are. Even when people are tired of you, it often takes more than one try to get rid of you completely.

You're electric green poo. You come around only once in a great while, but when you do, you get noticed. People are shocked when you show up. You're an enigma. People don't understand you, but they love you nonetheless.

Finger foods

You may have heard recently about the woman in California who "found" a finger in her Wendy's chili, and decided to sue the restaurant chain. Then, when the police investigated it and could find nobody at that Wendy's or at the supply warehouse or anywhere else that was missing a finger, the woman decided that she didn't want all that publicity and that she wouldn't sue Wendy's afterall. She was soon arrested on charges of grand larceny, and it's clear that she faked the whole thing. But, the finger was real. SHE put the finger in the chili. BUT WHERE DID SHE GET THE FINGER????? Fingers don't grow on trees. You don't just find them laying around any old place. You don't go to the deli and ask for a pound of salami, half a pound of swiss and a HUMAN FINGER. What, did she ask her friends? You guys got any fingers laying around you don't want? Or maybe she went a different direction. Ok, Ralph - I have a plan where I could win millions of dollars in a lawsuit against a major fast food chain. And if I do, I'll split it with you. How's that sound? But here's the rub. I need one of your fingers. I bet Ralph is pretty pissed now. He's got a missing finger and nothing to show for it. Good thing she didn't want to go a little more dramatic with it and find a testicle in her Frosty.

I'll see you in hell

Here is something I never understood. How can there be such a thing as "attempted suicide"? If you really want to kill yourself, you'll do it. It's my feeling that anybody who "tries" to kill himself and doesn't actually succeed in doing it never really wanted to in the first place and was just looking for attention. Because that is something for which people will DEFINITELY pay attention to you. They'll put you on suicide watch for that shit. Then you're boned, because you really won't be able to kill yourself but you'll wish you had. If you really want to kill yourself, you don't take too many Tylenols, or slit your wrists. That's pussy stuff, and when you do that any sensible person can clearly see it's fake. If you're gonna do something, do it right. There are plenty of foolproof methods of killing yourself:

1. Put a bullet in your head. If you survive that, you weren't meant to die anyway
2. Jump off of a bridge or tall building. Disclaimer: make sure it is high enough. The LAST thing you want is to break your neck but not die, and then be a damn quadriplegic for the rest of your life. Kevorkian is in jail, so good luck getting help killing yourself after that. You better hope that stem cell research is as good as they say it is. Just to be absolutely sure, you may want to make it an airplane you jump from. But if you do that, do NOT bring a parachute just in case you change your mind. Because you definitely will.
3. Get yourself a guillotine and put that bad boy to use. On yourself, of course. If you do this, you can take it to the bank. This method of suicide has the Ron Popeil Guarantee.
4. Chug an entire bottle of Everclear. If eight shots-worth did what it did to me, I think we can safely say that downing the whole bottle at once will be a definite way out. It's not guaranteed to be pleasant, but it should work nonetheless.
5. Sew your sphincter closed, and just start eating. What a way to go.
6. Jump into the pit of a campground outhouse. You will soon be overtaken by the noxious fumes and slip into sweet unconsciousness

These are just a few of the methods that have Brad's Seal of Approval. There are others out there that you can try that I'm sure will work. Be creative. The way you kill yourself is your last message to those of us who remain alive. It tells us what kind of a person you were. If you pop a few too many pills and are such a pussy that you actually to die from that, don't expect to see me at your funeral.

I was molested, ya see

I've got something that I've been meaning to tell people but I've been too afraid. But now since so many other people have come forward with their stories, I think I can as well. I was sexually assaulted by Bill Cosby. It was about two years ago, and I was in the bathroom of a service station in Buffalo, New York, when the one and only Heathcliff Huxtable walked in. I said, "Wow, Ghost Dad! Can I have your autograph?" That was a mistake. He gave me his autograph, but not the way I wanted it. He pissed it onto my white t-shirt like a child writing his name in the snow. I just stood there with my mouth open. That's when he went for Mr. Johnson . . . oh god, I can't continue. It's too traumatic for me to relive like this. That Ghost Dad is a bad, bad man.

What what WHAT? Another blog?

To anyone who is too stupid to notice, I started another blog about religion. Religion you say? Yes religion. Read it. After you do, you will no longer believe in god. Either that, or you'll get really pissed off at me. But that's fine. I don't know how I'm gonna find time to update both of these blogs with how extremely busy I am, but I will try my best.

Why women shouldn't drive

A 16-year-old girl who had a legal learner's permit was doing what teenagers everywhere do: practicing parallel parking with her mother. But something went terribly wrong.

The Associated Press reports that the mother, Ryta Z. Deriso, and her daughter had set up cones on a quiet street near their home in Marlboro, N.J. to practice parking. The girl was backing up the car when she pressed the accelerator too hard, causing the car to jump up onto the curb and hit her mother who was standing there watching her daughter. Deriso, 44, was pronounced dead last Thursday. The girl's name is not being released since she is a juvenile. No charges will be filed, Robert A. Honecker Jr., a Monmouth County prosecutor, told AP. "This is going down as a tragic accident," he said.

A similar freak accident occurred days later in Philadelphia when a 15-year-old girl, who did not have a learner's permit, was getting a driving lesson from her father in a parking lot on Sunday afternoon. The Philadelphia Daily News reports that she mixed up the gas and brake pedals and lost control of the car, which crashed into a front yard and killed a young mother. The vehicle narrowly missed the mother's 1-year-old baby. Sarah McGinley, 18, had been playing with her daughter outside when the accident occurred. An eyewitness described the incident, saying he saw the car "flying through the air." McGinley managed to toss her baby to safety in nearby bushes, but she was unable to save herself. The car struck her and trapped her beneath it. About a dozen men in the neighborhood rushed to the accident scene and lifted the car off McGinley, but she died about three hours later. So far no charges have been filed against the teenager or her father.

How can shit like this possibly happen? Mind boggling. YIP YIP YIP YIP YIP YIP (inside joke). If you can't figure out which pedal is the brake and which is the gas, you probably shouldn't be behind the wheel of a car. Even if they don't get these kids on manslaughter, they should at least get them for being so goddamn stupid. If you kill someone with a car, purposefully or not, you should never be able to drive ever again. Not even a Power Wheels car. This is exactly why I'm never having kids. One of those little bastards will end up killing me. I say that you should not be able to have a driver's license until you're 35. If you can't be president, you can't drive. That's the way I see it. And once you turn 65, it gets taken away. After that, it's too much of a risk to humanity to have your old bones behind the wheel. You could drop your dentures and take out a town.

Who am I?

I wear gym shorts to class.

I wear inside-out t-shirts.

I wear polo shirts with the collar up.

I wear a backwards baseball cap.

When I'm not wearing a cap, I deliberately make my hair look like I just woke up in the morning.

I wear sandals 24/7.

I go by my middle name.

I carry two cases of Natural Light around, and I'm proud of it.

If I take a multiple choice exam, I need to borrow a pencil.

I talk about my weekend until Wednesday, when I start talking about what I will do the next weekend.

I play cornhole with no shirt on--every day.

Who am I?

Gimme a literacola

Probably my favorite thing is watching the water in the toilet change from blue to green. You know what I'm talking about?

Sometimes I'll be sitting in class, and I'll space out for a while. Then I'll come out of it, but forget that I'm in the middle of class and start to whistle or drum on my desk. People will start to look at me, and I soon realize that I should not be doing that. But I can't just stop right away. I have to kinda fade out so I look like I knew what I was doing the whole time. Yeah, I know I'm doing a Marching 110 drum cadence on my desk while the prof is lecturing. So what? Let me just finish up here and . . . GO OHIO dooba dooba doo.

Sometimes people get mad at me for using the word "retard" as an insult, saying it's insensitive to people who are actually retarded. But I look at it this way: I was once called a retard by an actual retard. Well, not exactly. It was more like, "you a wetawd." But I got what he was saying. And I think that gives me immunity. You homo.

wanna gO Up on a mOUntain tOUr?

People here at OU have an extremely annoying habit of capitalizing the O and U in any word they appear adjacent to one another. Do yOU know what I'm talking abOUt? I'm talking abOUt something really annoying here. It seems like every hOUr I see this shit, and I just want to punch the author's lights OUt. I don't mean to pOUt, but next time this happens it's gonna be trOUble.

Attention Associates

I think it's funny that large companies give their employees that do menial tasks job titles that make them sound way more important than they actually are. For example, Wal-Mart calls all of its employees "associates." So when you're there, you'll hear an announcement over the P.A. system like, "will an associate in Toys please call extension 277?" Associate? You mean Joe Blow who's stocking the shelves. Is that supposed to make them feel better about only getting that far in life? Hey, Brian, I haven't seen you in like 10 years! What are you doing these days? Well, I'm an Associate for one of the largest corporations in the world. Wow, Brian, good for you. You've really made something of yourself. You probably won't be impressed that I am a lawyer now. I don't get it, you always got such bad grades in school.

Fast food restaurants will also give all of their employees important-sounding titles. Everyone who works at Wendy's is Shift Manager, or Safety Coordinator, or Operations Associate. Look at their nametags. None of them say "Fryolator Operator" or "Ketchup Squeezer" like they should.

If this kind of stuff really makes a difference to people, it makes me wish I had my own store. I'd give all my employees important-sounding titles if it means that I can pay them minimum wage. "Any President of the Company, cleanup in aisle 5 please. Any President of the Company, cleanup in aisle 5."

For me, personally, it's the opposite. I don't care what title you give me. I want the money. If you pay me enough, I'll be a Goat Ball Licker.

(no title)

Sometimes I like to run up to someone on the street, or in a restaurant or other public place and say "OH MY GOD! IT'S YOU! CAN I HAVE YOUR AUTOGRAPH?" I also like to carry around a polaroid camera and take pictures of random people, and have them sign it. "To Brad, my #1 fan --Charlie Jones (or whatever the name may be)." Then I like to hang the picture up in my room. Then when someone comes over, I show off my autograph. "Can you believe I got Charlie Jones' autograph? Yeah, I just saw him on the street one day. It was amazing."

What's the deal with people who weigh 800 pounds? You would think at some point before that they would say "ok that's enough," and go on a diet or something. If you have each foot on a different bathroom scale and are still going over the weight limit, that is a problem.

Why is it that every boxer ever has the nickname "Sugar," but nobody in any other profession? Hey, did you see Sugar Jim Riley bag those groceries? If you bag groceries, chances are you don't have a nickname, unless it's Slow or Special. Aww, man, Special Sam put the rock salt on top of the bread again.

I got punched by a pregnant woman yesterday. At least I thought she was pregnant. That may have been the problem.

Hedberg-esque

On March 30, Mitch Hedberg died at the age of 37. He was one of my favorite stand-up comedians, and was recognized as being one of the very best around. If you haven't heard Mitch before, his style is unique and difficult to explain, but I suggest picking up one of his albums or looking for his special on Comedy Central. Here is a bunch of Hedberg quotes - you'll get a sense for his comedy but if you understand his delivery style it makes it so much more hilarious.

As a tribue to Mitch Hedberg, I will conduct this blog entry in the style of one of his acts. Hopefully you can picture Mitch delivering these lines, or at least me doing it in the style of Mitch.

I went to Japan to tell jokes, and I was there for quite a while. I started to develop a Japanese accent. Problem is it did not go away when I came back. The clerk looked at me like I was crazy when I asked for some Engarish Murfins and Chocorate Mirk.

When something is done in a style that is reminiscent of something else, I like to use the suffix -esque. I saw a guy using some squeeze jelly the other day. Hey, that jelly is shampoo bottle-esque. That donut is bagel-esque. Alright.

A homeless guy asked me if I had any change. I said no. Then I said, "do you have any stay the same?" Man that joke was ridiculous.

When I was in school sometimes I would get bored in class. I would do the crossword puzzle while the professor was lecturing. But sometimes one of the clues would be about the same subject we were discussing in class, so I didn't feel bad asking for help. I'd raise my hand and say, "What was the name of the guy who was in charge of the Manhattan Project? J. Robert something. I think his last name was 11 letters long. And I think the third letter was a P."

thoughts of the day

Have you ever seen a woman somewhere, maybe the store, who is pregnant or has a baby, and you think to yourself, "Who the hell had sex with her?" This woman is so hideous she doesn't need to dress up to win the best costume contest at Halloween, you know what I'm saying? Then you might get a glimpse of little Biff's daddy. And if you do, you immediately understand.

Speaking of this, I think that two good-looking parents will generally produce good-looking offspring. But I also think that two ugly parents will produce attractive offspring. And the uglier the parents, the better looking the kid will be. It's like multiplying two negative numbers - the result is positive. That said, one attractive parent and one not-so-attractive parent can be BIG trouble.

I really get irritated when people say "pardon me" when they don't hear something someone said. And they say it like it's a question. "Pardon me?" It's not a question. It's actually a demand. Please, just say "what?" It's quicker, more effective, and not quite so English. "Pardon me, Guvnah, could I trouble you for a wedge of cheese?" Yuck.