It’s absolutely ridiculous that he’s famous.
He must have a helluva PR firm behind him.
Yeah, who else? He hits a few hundred casual B&E's in a night, absconds with his body weight in milk and cookies, and calls it a year. Hustle 'n' Grind twitter must be in regular conniptions over this jolly shyster.
I have to imagine it's the fact he spearheads the trillion-dollar "spreading cheer" industry that's earned him some well-deserved R&R. Besides, how would you like it if a few million husky children pissed on your lap every year while whispering their greedy hearts' desires into your ear?
Damn. His beard must get absolutely befouled with animal cracker crumbs. Aye alright, that part might be a bit taxing. I'll grant him that much.
So doesn't that make him more relatable?
Horseshit it does. It's not like he's Hercule Poirot.
Am I supposed to know who that is?
Agatha Christie's gift to the literary world. Belgian detective with an immaculate flavor-savor perched upon his lip.
How is that at all more relatable?
I assumed Belgian men with facial hair rank at the top of faces you can trust. Look at King Leopold II. He was voted "Least Suspicious Beard" in the Colonial Times five years running.
Am I wrong?
Regardless, Poirot is miles better than Sherlock. He's on BBC and PBS all the time. Kenneth Branagh played him in the "Murder On The Orient Express" reboot and was at least 86% mustache for that role.
I’m sorry. Are you somehow under the delusion there is this mythical, untapped cross-section of 73-year-old British pensioners who enjoy their serials of Poirot after tea and perusing your stream-of-consciousness drivel before bed?
I mean technically, all literature is stream-of-consciousness since the author writes what they’re thinking.
Technically, all authors think about what they write. That is why they are published and why you and your ever-vacuous mind never will be.
Well, maybe I don’t want to be published!
Bet you never thought about that did you, Bud Bundy? It’s called sticking it to the man and telling him to shove his HBO On Demand up where the sun don't shine.
You still want to watch Westworld right?
What about Veep?
Of course, let’s not get crazy now.
And sit around in your boxers, day drunk on Benadryl, pretending that you’re on Entourage?
Come on man. You know I’m about 62% positive that Entourage was loosely based on my life.
You were nine when it premiered right?
Exactly. It was a classic case of abusing child labor laws.
I had to get a job as an unlicensed chimney sweep because they refused to pay me the royalties I was undoubtedly going to be due when I lived out Vinny Chase's, I mean my life. I could have at least been Turtle’s sidekick man. That’s the only thing I had left to look forward to.
What’s the trickle-down like at that point when you’re already bottom of the barrel?
I’ll admit that morale is...not high.
So how are you going to stick it to the man when he’s got you by the short and curlies?
Sticking it to the man is all about vague gestures of protest and empty threats to boycott that he and I both know shall never be followed through upon.
It’s a symbiotic relationship of his parasitic capitalism sucking me dry and my continual essence of self-loathing retail therapy consumerism that unsuccessfully tries to stave off the inevitable onslaught of mortality.
Death serves to remind us of the unflinching and unforgiving nature of life. As we age and face the inescapable truth of our demise, doesn’t depression lose its sting?
Some of its oeuvre? A bit of oomph? Its je-n’ai sais quoi?
When you’re old, it's like...no shit man. Could have happily told you that for free. By then you’re pounding sixteen Cialis a day. Those nitrates are getting punched in the throat by your synthetic hard-ons like it’s going out of style.
What about the rest of us who haven't had the good fortune to be sponsored by the fine folks over at AARP?
Well, you don’t immediately perk up and start bottling sunshine as rays fly out of your ass. But the black clouds do slowly part.
Maybe leaving slightly gray skies that do not discourage adventures nor boldness yet serve as a gentle reminder of the eventual thunderstorm which sweeps us all away.
Wow man, that’s deep. So deep I believe I’ve fallen underground and can’t get up. Where’s my gosh dang life alert?
This whole day has gone totally cloudy with an old-fashioned chance of meatballs.
I’m pretty sure the forecast didn’t call for a side of marinara you greasy goon. For the last time, stop using body wash as shampoo. You're bringing a tear to everyone at Sports Clips' eyes.
Axe Body Wash told me that I must be a meteorologist cuz I gave your girl plenty of meat last night.
Firstly, stop shot-gunning Axe Body Wash. It's exacerbating your latent schizophrenic tendencies.
Secondly, you poor, poor bastard. You must have known my bird was gonna peck you to death with that schnoz of hers.
She called me Dr. Oz because I went in raw and unvaccinated.
Wait. Raw like chicken or the wrestling federation? Please tell me you didn’t suplex her. She’s got type 2 scoliosis.
Is that like type 2 diabetes?
Yeah pretty much. Because while you should change your lifestyle choices, you won't until your foot is amputated.
Did you know that the accumulated molasses wrung from your peg leg is used to make a new bottle of Mrs. Buttersworth?
That can’t be sanitary.
Neither are massively clogged arteries but between you and me, that was less fact and more of an industry secret.
I just got off the phone with the big boys at Conagra Brands. They recommended I cut out your tongue to prevent you from blabbing to TMZ.
Then they’re missing a trick since I’m reporting you to PETA.
I never could pronounce that, is it like pet-a? Or pee-toh?
Like when you nearly got honey-potted in Budapest by those underage Irish backpackers.
“Do you want to kiss her in there?”
“No not particularly darling. I’m not trying to find myself on ‘Locked Up Abroad’."
Although my agent did say that could have been the big break my career really needed.
I think she was implying that she would welcome the five years and change you’d spend behind bars so she wouldn’t have to pretend and try to find you work anymore.
Well, the joke’s gonna be on her when I’m released severely malnourished and incapable of mustering a passable smize.
"Sorry love. Can’t make it to your annual tacky Christmas sweater soiree tonight. Bit tied down with a lack of Vitamin C at the moment. Got some rather wicked scurvy."
Would you rather have scurvy or be Steve Harvey for a day?
I’d rather be hit by Hurricane Harvey than have that stache for an hour.
You couldn’t possibly handle that much power brother.