2008 has started on a bit of a rough note. With the economy up in the
air, a very divisive political campaign getting bloodier and bloodier
every day, and the chronic demise of the American dream for many in
this great country, I can't help but wonder, WHY THE F**K DID HEATH LEDGER NEED TO DIE?!!! It is very sad to see an actor with the talent
and range of Heath Ledger die so young and unexpectedly. He was an
inspiration to me and many others out there and he will be dearly
missed. But beyond that, it is just one more reminder that a dark
cloud has spread its shadow over the early days of this turbulent
month. And to you January, I say eat my shit, I am done with your
nonsense. In the next month, here is what is going to happen.
One: The N.E. Patriots are going to have their cheating asses handed
to them on a silver platter by a team that wasn't even expected to
make the playoffs.
Two: Bush is going to wake up on the 1st of February, look in the
mirror, grimace and call an emergency press conference. During that
conference he is going to say, "you know what, I'm an absolute asshole
and I have realized that the best way for history not to paint me in a
pile of rotten cow shit is to step down from this office and take
Cheney with me. I will then move to Texas where I vow never to be
heard from again. Here's to a better tomorrow!"
Three: Barak and Hillary will run on the same ticket with John
Edwards becoming their chief adviser. The ticket of the century is
written and the deep South cedes from the union when they realize
their precious country is now being run by a black man and a woman.
Four: The economy explodes as thousands of jobs open up to middle and lower class Americans when Chinese and Indian labor workers say, "I'm tired of getting paid pennies to make you bastards billions."
Furthermore home mortgage lenders are all forced to individually take
lie detector tests on the new Fox reality show "The Moment of Truth."
When it is determined that they lie to home owners about the subprime
loans, they have to then and there write a check to the victim and get
their house out of hoc.
Five:
Kenya signs a peace treaty and celebrate love day once a week, hugging
a kissing each other; Asian whalers are fed to great white sharks when caught whaling;
Global warming is completely reversed and ice needs to be plowed out
of Dubai, as it is interfering with their indoor ski resort
Gas prices drop to sixty cents a gallon, because everyone has an electric car;
And finally, all of us are given the same treatment that Jim Carrey
was given in "Eternal Sunshine for the Spotless Mind," whereby one
memory, one terrible memory, one dark and unholy memory is erased
forever and with it the pain that is has caused...that
memory...JANUARY 2008. May you rot in hell you bitch!
WE WENT THERE, SO YOU DON'T HAVE TO
Showing posts with label comedy blog. Show all posts
Showing posts with label comedy blog. Show all posts
Tuesday, January 22, 2008
Friday, November 16, 2007
A Studio Head's Response to the Strike
By Josh Gad
I am a Studio Head. I head one of the major motion picture studios that make motion pictures…“movie magic” as it’s often referred to. It is my understanding that the public perspective is that the Writers are the heroes and the Studio Heads the villains. But, I would like to tell you a story.
I was once in a market in Cairo with my family and our servant, Tabitha. From the inside of my luxury 12 seat Ferrari Hovercraft, (there are only three in the universe), I looked out and saw the back of a boy, between the age of 2 and 14 who was screaming. So I threw a wad of cash (ten thousand dollars in ones) at the back of his head, to get his attention of course. When he turned around, I saw it for the first time. Shock corralled through my inner being. I immediately withdrew my index and middle finger from Samantha, (my wife’s), vagina and held my head out the window to ensure that what I was seeing was but a lie. It could not, however, have been any more real. The chilling image sent me into a nausiatic rage. I had my driver cup his hands to allow my vomit to fill his fists. My three kids, (three of which are illegitimate), were immediately told to go to their room and wait for further instructions…(there are three rooms in this car…there are only three of these cars in the universe.)
Next, my wife, me, and fifteen bodyguards exited the car and approached the savage. What I am about to tell you has not been exaggerated, nor has it been embellished, nor flowered with any demonstrative words to make it grander than it is. This small little boy was holding in his hand a knife. On the edges of this sharp knife was a stream of blood, red and thick, like blood. In his other hand was the victim of some petty crime, no doubt. I will never forget the image of its lifeless body hanging there like it was dead, which indeed it was. For no reason that I can discern seeing that every town has a McDonald’s; every small village, a Palm’s restaurant; and every alleyway a nifty themed diner owned by Wolfgang Puck; this sick rageful thing had slaughtered a CHICKEN!
With a “Hunt for Red October” sort of vengeance boiling inside of me, I withdrew from my pocket a pistol once used in battle by the French dilettante, Napoleon Bonaparte, and I held it up to the boy’s temple. Before I could pull the trigger, however, my translator, translated the boy’s English back to me. He said, “Sir, if I have offended you, I apologize, but here we do not have the luxury of dining out. Here if my family is to eat, I must bring them their food. This is our way of life.” And for the first time in my life, I understood desperation. This poor boy and his family lived like dogs. I would rather eat caviar left out for twenty-two minutes then live for one day in this boy’s skin. So, I took Damir back to his home and after touring his small modest two floor shack, I had my men put the beautiful boy and his family out of their misery. To see their dead bodies laid out, finally at peace, brought such joy to my heart that that very night, I bought the rights to “Sahara” and attached Matthew McConaughey.
So when the writers of the WGA, with their food and their homes, tell me that they don’t have enough money, I want to rape their mothers. I want to cave in and let my demons allow me to blow up their cars and hire assassins to kill them. I have seen desperation. These men are not desperate. The dirtiest word that I can think of is “Fucking Cunt Snatch Piggy Dick deathbed.” Yet, three little letters are worse than any words I could possibly utter: WGA.
Rest tonight, for tomorrow you die.
I am a Studio Head. I head one of the major motion picture studios that make motion pictures…“movie magic” as it’s often referred to. It is my understanding that the public perspective is that the Writers are the heroes and the Studio Heads the villains. But, I would like to tell you a story.
I was once in a market in Cairo with my family and our servant, Tabitha. From the inside of my luxury 12 seat Ferrari Hovercraft, (there are only three in the universe), I looked out and saw the back of a boy, between the age of 2 and 14 who was screaming. So I threw a wad of cash (ten thousand dollars in ones) at the back of his head, to get his attention of course. When he turned around, I saw it for the first time. Shock corralled through my inner being. I immediately withdrew my index and middle finger from Samantha, (my wife’s), vagina and held my head out the window to ensure that what I was seeing was but a lie. It could not, however, have been any more real. The chilling image sent me into a nausiatic rage. I had my driver cup his hands to allow my vomit to fill his fists. My three kids, (three of which are illegitimate), were immediately told to go to their room and wait for further instructions…(there are three rooms in this car…there are only three of these cars in the universe.)
Next, my wife, me, and fifteen bodyguards exited the car and approached the savage. What I am about to tell you has not been exaggerated, nor has it been embellished, nor flowered with any demonstrative words to make it grander than it is. This small little boy was holding in his hand a knife. On the edges of this sharp knife was a stream of blood, red and thick, like blood. In his other hand was the victim of some petty crime, no doubt. I will never forget the image of its lifeless body hanging there like it was dead, which indeed it was. For no reason that I can discern seeing that every town has a McDonald’s; every small village, a Palm’s restaurant; and every alleyway a nifty themed diner owned by Wolfgang Puck; this sick rageful thing had slaughtered a CHICKEN!
With a “Hunt for Red October” sort of vengeance boiling inside of me, I withdrew from my pocket a pistol once used in battle by the French dilettante, Napoleon Bonaparte, and I held it up to the boy’s temple. Before I could pull the trigger, however, my translator, translated the boy’s English back to me. He said, “Sir, if I have offended you, I apologize, but here we do not have the luxury of dining out. Here if my family is to eat, I must bring them their food. This is our way of life.” And for the first time in my life, I understood desperation. This poor boy and his family lived like dogs. I would rather eat caviar left out for twenty-two minutes then live for one day in this boy’s skin. So, I took Damir back to his home and after touring his small modest two floor shack, I had my men put the beautiful boy and his family out of their misery. To see their dead bodies laid out, finally at peace, brought such joy to my heart that that very night, I bought the rights to “Sahara” and attached Matthew McConaughey.
So when the writers of the WGA, with their food and their homes, tell me that they don’t have enough money, I want to rape their mothers. I want to cave in and let my demons allow me to blow up their cars and hire assassins to kill them. I have seen desperation. These men are not desperate. The dirtiest word that I can think of is “Fucking Cunt Snatch Piggy Dick deathbed.” Yet, three little letters are worse than any words I could possibly utter: WGA.
Rest tonight, for tomorrow you die.
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