If you follow no less than 5 people on Twitter you’ll quickly realize that this country’s literacy problem is like a drug-resistant strain of AIDS that even Magic Johnson couldn’t fight off. It just keeps evolving and mutating to the point where some people look like they’ve given up trying to spell and just threw a fucking bag of Scrabble tiles on the floor and then picked up random letters using their sweaty, bare ass cheeks. Then they take the tiles, throw them at the computer like a chimp hurling his own shit, and press “Enter”.
Americans’ choice of reading material seems no better than their ability to coherently combine a subject and predicate, either. Lucky for them, e-readers and iPads are rapidly growing in popularity, so nobody in a Starbucks, airport terminal, subway car or city bus will be able to judge them by the cover of the 700-page abortion of literature they’re struggling to comprehend. Rest easy, you closeted Dr. Phil fans – nobody can see you reading weight loss tips from a fat guy.
Personally, I haven’t the luxury of free time to read since I decided to get married and abandon various forms of contraception such as pulling out (Sure, I could skip this blog post and pick up a book, but then there’d be nobody to salvage Dustin’s sagging site traffic and waning credibility). However, when granted the rare opportunity to kick back and read with no interruptions I generally prefer dark humor, history and especially biographies. As much as I’ve enjoyed Stephen King’s tales of ghostly alien transsexual rapists from New England, somehow I doubt any of it really adds to the little knowledge my aging brain is able to retain.
Sadly our digital and brick & mortar book stores are stacked to the ceilings with more worthless material than an Ed Hardy factory outlet store. Our taste in what we read is as bad as our taste in the food we eat, so it came as no surprise to me to hear that Demi Moore has approached various publishers to shop around her autobiography, quite possibly the literary equivalent of the KFC Double Down.
If I took life more seriously, I’d almost be offended at the notion of a washed-up actress pushing age 50 thinking anyone gives a shit enough to buy and read a book about her life. First, let’s get the obvious out of the way – if you have to “shop around” your autobiography, that means nobody’s banging down your door to buy it. It’s like finding Cuba Gooding Jr.’s Best Supporting Actor Oscar at a yard sale and then going to every pawn shop in town trying to get the best deal for it. I guess acting school doesn’t offer a course on economics, because Mrs. Kutcher has no sense of supply and demand.
Second, what the fuck’s so interesting about Demi Moore? She’s lucky if the tabloids run a back-page story about her leaving a shitty tip at a trendy L.A. restaurant. Most people with popular autobiographies have already had their exploits fully disclosed to the public, but writing their own book gives the readers a first-hand account of what really went down. As far as I can recall, I don’t remember hearing any juicy tales of Demi Moore getting sent to drug rehab or her controversial acquittal of double-homicide. The most interesting thing about her is that she’s undergone more plastic surgery than the Jackson family, and at this point most likely douches with formaldehyde. She’s boring as shit. Even her high-profile divorce from Bruce Willis was amicable, and she probably has the Die Hard Trilogy (sorry, there’s no part 4 as far as I’m concerned) on the same shelf as her family home videos.
“Yippee-ki-yay, mother-of-my-children-fucker!”
Here’s the entire chapter list for those of you wondering what such a fascinating, in-depth peek into the life of Demi Moore may look like:
Chapter 1: A Bunch of Boring Shit About Growing Up
Chapter 2: People Actually Start Paying Me to Act
Chapter 3: I Marry John McClane
Chapter 4: My Career’s Slowing Down
Chapter 5: I Make My Plastic Surgeon an Overnight Millionaire
Chapter 6: I’m Hot and Still Can’t Find Work
Chapter 7: I Divorce John McClane and Marry the Guy from Punk’d
Chapter 8: Wrote This Book and Can’t Believe You Read This Far
Chapter 9: The Book is Too Worn by Now – No Refund for You
I think if I ever saw anyone actually reading this book, I’d grab it from their hands, set it on fire, scorch their eyes with it and throw them down a flight of stairs. This is the kind of book women buy when they don’t want to look dumb reading Star Magazine and feel they’d appear smarter with a thick, hardcover book in their hands. It’s like soccer moms listening to the Black Eyed Peas and thinking they’re hip and modern. Shit is shit is shit, and I wouldn’t use Demi Moore’s autobiography to wipe my ass (mostly because my hemorrhoids need something with aloe).
Some words have double meanings. Take the word “penis” for example, it could refer to two things: most obviously, the male genitalia — but it’s also my nickname for you.
“Groundhog Day” is another term that means two different things. Groundhog Day was an awesome movie starring Bill Murray, but it’s also an asinine holiday invented by some jerkoff who had a sexual penchant for rodents — no, not Richard Gere.
According to folklore, groundhogs can predict the weather. On February 2nd, if a groundhog sees its own shadow, we’re in for 6 more weeks of winter weather. But if the groundhog fails to see its shadow, then winter will supposedly end sooner. Yeah, OK.
People gathered in large numbers today all over the US and Canada to see if the almighty groundhog in their town would see his shadow. And the result: WHO GIVES A FUCK?
Take a moment to consider the pure absurdity of Groundhog Day. Since groundhogs can’t speak, each town that holds a Groundhog Day event must elect a “groundhog ambassador” — his job is to interpret groundhog emotions and convey them to the public.
“Fuck my life.” — Groundhog
Canada completed a study in 13 cities to measure the “groundhog weather prediction success rate” for the last 30 to 40 years. According to the study, groundhogs were only correct 37% of the time — in conclusion, groundhogs don’t know shit.
If someone wishes you a happy Groundhog Day today, just give them a cold stare because they don’t even deserve a response from you. You’re better than that.
Quality Comments:There ain’t none yet!
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I was just sitting here, relaxing, and smoking marijuana. I felt at peace with the world, but then I started to remember how goddamn stupid some human beings are.
“Someone should make a Facebook application for virtual weed smoking. It would be like smoking a joint in real life, except you click a button and pretend you’re high.”
(This was actually a real idea that came to fruition)
I was invited by a friend on Facebook to install this “Pass a Joint” application, which would allow me to virtually share weed and joints with friends. Wow… thanks, “friend.”
I’d just like to point out the ignorance here in the description of the app, which reads:
Pass a joint to your friends. Smoke their joints. Get stoned. We’ll keep count. The more you Roll and Smoke weed – the better you get at rolling and scoring kind bud. Earn 70’s Circles! Not some cheesy ready-made app.
I promptly canceled the install, not because I have something against weed (obviously), but because VIRTUAL WEED SMOKING IS FUCKING RETARDED.
Why’d they stop at weed? Where’s the “Pass a Crackpipe” app? You can trade your AIDS for my meth and then have an abortion!
People are starving all over the world and you’re sitting at home playing a low-budget virtual drug smoking game. I suppose the only thing worse than that is sitting at home and reading about people playing a low-budget virtual drug smoking game.
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Alberta, Canada is an amazing, beautiful place. I recommend that you plan your next vacation there. Imagine beautiful white beaches, blue ocean, coral reefs, cheap booze, drugs, and people with braided hair.
WELCOME TO ALBERTA, CANADA.
Oops, that’s Jamaica. Hey, don’t get mad at me – I was just copying Alberta and their $25-million public relations campaign.
Very recently, the Albertan government ran a campaign ad to promote tourism to their poopy province. However, it was discovered that a beach scene photo used in one of the ads wasn’t from Alberta at all, but ENGLAND.
The phony ad.
Cat’s out of the bag now, Alberta. What do you have to say about this deception, Tom Olsen, director of media relations for Alberta?
Tom: “There’s no attempt to make people think that this is Alberta. There’s no attempt to mislead. That picture just fit the mood and tone of what we were trying to do.” (his exact words)
You lying sack of shit. Admit it… you didn’t think you would get caught.
Tom:“But, how could anyone know where that beach was?” (a pretend question)
Uh, Tom, IT’S A FAMOUS BEACH in England where tourists go to see Sir Lancelot’s castle. No, seriously, look:
The same beach pictured in the ad for Alberta.
Oh, and we all know that this is what a real Albertan beach looks like:
Alberta has given us nothing but Nickelback and lies.
