Substitute for another guy.
Dear geeks and/or David and Kelsey Capps,
I apologize for the late post. I really do. I had no idea it was Sunday until I sold my seventh Sunday New York Times today at work. I believe that makes me a day late (and undoubtedly a dollar short). Please forgive this trespass. I know Hair Guy followers (Hi David! Hi Kelsey!) get pretty peeved when they don't get their bi-weekly dose of snarky science fiction-related humor. Anyway, if Truman ever asks me to do this again, I promise that I will be on time. Hell, I might even part my hair like a huge dork to prepare for the role.
Anyway, now that you've accepted my apology, I'd like to present you all with some good news. Truman is not only surviving his adventure, he's actually thriving in his new surroundings. He sent me this photo on Friday:
Great shot, Jen!
So you see, he's doing just fine out there in the wilderness. Now, to the blog. I have a confession to make. Although Truman and I are Best Dudes Forever, I rarely ever read his blog. I refrain from reading for the same reason I refrain from boring holes into my forehead with a power drill or taking a cheese grater to my genitals. However, I am roughly familiar with the Truman Capps Method of Humor Writing and Tomfoolery, having read most of his work for the award-winning Oregon Daily Emerald. With that said, I'm afraid I must reject the format with which the 12 of you are familiar and break new ground. I know change can be scary, but think of this like a rebirth, if you will. A baptism by fire. There will be no coherent essay today, friends. No social relevance. No Keith Olbermann impressions and definitely no "the truth probably lies somewhere in the middle, and we all learned something today!" In short, this is Truman's blog on drugs.
Question:
How many friends do you have? Go ahead and think about it. Got a number? Good. Now, if you answered more than about seven, I'm going to have to call bullshit. Your friends are not your acquaintances. Your friends are the people who you fart in front of on purpose, end of story. Unless, of course, you are of the female persuasion, in which case you are ruled out by scientific evidence published by Stanford's biology department in 1999 confirming what many had already assumed: girls do not have anuses.
Observation:
As a formerly unemployed college graduate and general scumfuck, I have found that the longer one goes without showering, the easier it becomes to continue to not shower. Once you get over the three day hump, the rest is cream cheese until you hit what I like to call "the ten-day paradox." If you hadn't guessed, this involves a lot of wild screaming and throwing of fecal matter coupled with gross self-mutilation. Happy Day 18, everybody!
Recommendation:
Watch the first six Star Trek films. With the exception of the fourth installment, the hexology is one of the more underrated in the history of cinema. Don't believe what anyone says, friends. Wrath of Khan is NOT the only awesome film starring the original cast. Trust me on this one. In two weeks, you're going to be emailing Truman about how awesome The Undiscovered Country was. And no, before you ask, I haven't seen the new film. Pansies.
Half human. Half Vulcan. All sexy.
Question:
Have you ever been in the bathroom getting ready to pee and been terrified for a moment that you'd lost your penis? Let me just say this, friends: it's all fun and games for about 15 seconds. It's amusing that you can't locate that little slot in the front of your boxer briefs because they'd gotten slightly twisted throughout the morning. Then, out of nowhere, absolute terror sets in. Pure panic. I'm not even joking. "OH GOD, DID MY PENIS JUST TURN INVISIBLE??? OH NO, NO NO NO...DID IT...DID IT FALL OFF??? OH NO PLEASE GOD NO NO FUCK FUCK FUCKFUCKFUCKFUCK."
Think I'm mad? Just wait till it happens to you.
Observation:
Starbucks Coffee Corporation does not count on its customers being movie dorks. They play a lot of classical music at the store that I work. Most of the time, it works like elevator music. I tune it out and forget that it's even there. But on certain occasions, I will come alive and breech the still waters of my work trance when I recognize a particular tune. Here are the tunes I recognized:
So there I am, all these cronies sipping on their double tall skinny cinnamon dolce flat extra hot lattes like they're something special, and all I can think about is Dr. Lecter painting himself in Sgt. Pembry's blood before slicing off his face and creating an art exhibit with his partner's intestines. Oh, and this:
Well, I'm not much for conclusions, so I guess that's it. You're welcome.
Mike Whitman has found that writing proverbial graffiti on the Truman Capps Wall of Ninny-Words has not helped him conjure up the stolen data tapes, nor has it given him clairvoyance enough to find the rebels' hidden fortress.
I apologize for the late post. I really do. I had no idea it was Sunday until I sold my seventh Sunday New York Times today at work. I believe that makes me a day late (and undoubtedly a dollar short). Please forgive this trespass. I know Hair Guy followers (Hi David! Hi Kelsey!) get pretty peeved when they don't get their bi-weekly dose of snarky science fiction-related humor. Anyway, if Truman ever asks me to do this again, I promise that I will be on time. Hell, I might even part my hair like a huge dork to prepare for the role.
Anyway, now that you've accepted my apology, I'd like to present you all with some good news. Truman is not only surviving his adventure, he's actually thriving in his new surroundings. He sent me this photo on Friday:
Great shot, Jen!So you see, he's doing just fine out there in the wilderness. Now, to the blog. I have a confession to make. Although Truman and I are Best Dudes Forever, I rarely ever read his blog. I refrain from reading for the same reason I refrain from boring holes into my forehead with a power drill or taking a cheese grater to my genitals. However, I am roughly familiar with the Truman Capps Method of Humor Writing and Tomfoolery, having read most of his work for the award-winning Oregon Daily Emerald. With that said, I'm afraid I must reject the format with which the 12 of you are familiar and break new ground. I know change can be scary, but think of this like a rebirth, if you will. A baptism by fire. There will be no coherent essay today, friends. No social relevance. No Keith Olbermann impressions and definitely no "the truth probably lies somewhere in the middle, and we all learned something today!" In short, this is Truman's blog on drugs.
Question:
How many friends do you have? Go ahead and think about it. Got a number? Good. Now, if you answered more than about seven, I'm going to have to call bullshit. Your friends are not your acquaintances. Your friends are the people who you fart in front of on purpose, end of story. Unless, of course, you are of the female persuasion, in which case you are ruled out by scientific evidence published by Stanford's biology department in 1999 confirming what many had already assumed: girls do not have anuses.
Observation:
As a formerly unemployed college graduate and general scumfuck, I have found that the longer one goes without showering, the easier it becomes to continue to not shower. Once you get over the three day hump, the rest is cream cheese until you hit what I like to call "the ten-day paradox." If you hadn't guessed, this involves a lot of wild screaming and throwing of fecal matter coupled with gross self-mutilation. Happy Day 18, everybody!
Recommendation:
Watch the first six Star Trek films. With the exception of the fourth installment, the hexology is one of the more underrated in the history of cinema. Don't believe what anyone says, friends. Wrath of Khan is NOT the only awesome film starring the original cast. Trust me on this one. In two weeks, you're going to be emailing Truman about how awesome The Undiscovered Country was. And no, before you ask, I haven't seen the new film. Pansies.
Half human. Half Vulcan. All sexy.Question:
Have you ever been in the bathroom getting ready to pee and been terrified for a moment that you'd lost your penis? Let me just say this, friends: it's all fun and games for about 15 seconds. It's amusing that you can't locate that little slot in the front of your boxer briefs because they'd gotten slightly twisted throughout the morning. Then, out of nowhere, absolute terror sets in. Pure panic. I'm not even joking. "OH GOD, DID MY PENIS JUST TURN INVISIBLE??? OH NO, NO NO NO...DID IT...DID IT FALL OFF??? OH NO PLEASE GOD NO NO FUCK FUCK FUCKFUCKFUCKFUCK."
Think I'm mad? Just wait till it happens to you.
Observation:
Starbucks Coffee Corporation does not count on its customers being movie dorks. They play a lot of classical music at the store that I work. Most of the time, it works like elevator music. I tune it out and forget that it's even there. But on certain occasions, I will come alive and breech the still waters of my work trance when I recognize a particular tune. Here are the tunes I recognized:
So there I am, all these cronies sipping on their double tall skinny cinnamon dolce flat extra hot lattes like they're something special, and all I can think about is Dr. Lecter painting himself in Sgt. Pembry's blood before slicing off his face and creating an art exhibit with his partner's intestines. Oh, and this:
Well, I'm not much for conclusions, so I guess that's it. You're welcome.
Mike Whitman has found that writing proverbial graffiti on the Truman Capps Wall of Ninny-Words has not helped him conjure up the stolen data tapes, nor has it given him clairvoyance enough to find the rebels' hidden fortress.