I think it would be great if all the cast members from Beat Street and Breakin’ 2: Electric Boogaloo got together and held a bake sale or raffle to raise money that would benefit aging breakdancers who suffer from old breakdancing injuries, and afterwards they could hold some sort of competition to see which cast was the better cast, but they could do something like play chess or try to make the biggest omelette instead of having a breakdancing battle, which would just be playing to stereotype, and then round the whole day up with a Kid ‘n’ Play Lookalike Contest, which should really showcase some creativity because what sort of things could you put on your head to make it look like you had Kid’s crazy tall high top fade? Some sort of industrial air filter, maybe, or a hunk of coral if you lived close to the ocean.
I think that modern popular music might sound better if there was more use of the note C flat. I would like Mr. Kid Rock to consider this.
Today is like cleaning out your closet and finding your eighth grade algebra book, in which you answered all the end-of-chapter questions right on the pages with a pencil, and pulling out two pieces of paper, one being a note from Linda Franken that asks if you’re going to Sandra Thurber’s party tomorrow and if you’d like to walk over with her if you are going and might you know why Bonnie Sanders is being such a bitch today, and the other being a receipt from Crown Books for a paperback you bought with some birthday money from your grandmother in Wisconsin who you haven’t seen in over ten years because of the divorce, which no one in the family really feels comfortable talking about, and the title of that paperback was The Parsifal Mosaic.
I am in a fantasy baseball league, which is a very fun thing to do if you like both baseball and the act of fantasizing. But I really wish someone would expand the scope of fantasy baseball to other baseball-related activities, maybe something like Fantasy Concessions Operation, because I tell you what, I bet no one can pretend to sell roasted peanuts like I can.
I think it’s kind of a waste that every four years Americans vote for electors for the Electoral College who then in turn vote for the President and Vice President, and nothing else. I think that as long as we’ve gone through the trouble to assemble the College, we should get them to vote on some other important things, like which members of Congress are secretly gay, because I’ve always had a sneaking suspicion about some of those guys on the Senate Rules Committee.
I bet more people would have really liked Bill Clinton’s autobiography if the former President had thrown in some stuff about demon-possessed cars, or werewolves in a small Maine town, because when Stephen King writes about things like that people seem to really like it. Either that or some more stuff about all the blowjobs.
I think it should be easier for regular people to purchase urinal cakes.
God does not play dice with the universe, because the universe is a well-known cheat. God prefers playing Yahtzee with shy European children.
I think that Rush would have been a much better band if they had replaced the singing of Geddy Lee with a prerecorded tape loop that played the sound of a large swarm of Africanized honey bees attacking a pack of young wolverines that were feasting on the remains of a family of whitetail deer that were killed by large boulders falling from a three-hundred foot high cliff. I think this would have really helped “Red Barchetta.”
While it is deservedly illegal to make threats against the President, I think it should be perfectly acceptable to make threats against yourself in front of the President, just to keep him on his toes. For example, if you wrangled your way into a $10,000-a-plate fundraising dinner, and you decided to have the salmon instead of the lamb medallions with rosemary, when the President came around to shake everyone’s hand and thank them for coming, you could stand up and say, “Mister President, I’m going to eat this piece of salmon without checking for bones,” which is clearly an act that puts yourself in danger, and the Secret Service should be powerless to stop you. This would be a fantastic scene in a movie where Harrison Ford plays the President and Clint Eastwood plays a grizzled veteran Secret Service agent, although that kind of star power probably attracts the type of catering services that meticulously check for fish bones before serving, so maybe we’ll get Steve Guttenberg and Mark Linn-Baker instead. Otherwise, we live in fascist times.