It's Sunday. And Sundays are reserved for one thing...recovering from whatever shenanigans I got into on Friday and Saturday. That usually means some light cleaning followed by bed-rest. I was looking forward to spending some time with my old friends master shake, meatwad, frylock, and dear beloved Carl, but have managed to misplace all my aqua teen dvd's. I vaguely recall lending them to someone but I can't remember who. (If you're reading this and are in posession of said d.v.d.'s please remind me so I cold-cock you one...I kid!) So, I have nothing to watch because I get three channels and for some god-forsaken reason they are all covering GOLF matches...or whatever you call stupid fucking golfing events. Therefore, I tool around the internet a little and find some online shows. And Christ, I'm a masochist but I settled on The Bachelorette. I still feel a little like I have been mentally gang-raped. I have not seen so much posturing since America's Next Top Model. Oh, yeah. I went there. These guys are all bitching about getting a rose from this chick who---not gonna' lie---is kind of a buttaface. oh yeah, here I go again...I haven't seen so many tools since This Old House. Ladies and gentlemen, can I get some butter because I am on a roll! Anywho, these tards are duking it out for what I don't know. The whole spectacle is a giant televised pissing contest. And the entire time I am thinking, "This is reality T.V., right? Which means this constitutes reality for a hefty slice of the viewership. And the viewership for this schlock is rather obscene." I stopped watching twenty minutes in (about ten minutes after I felt last night's tacos making their grand re-appearance) and thought about how to go about finding a prime piece of real-estate on the moon where things still seem relatively normal.
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