Today on Jerry Springer: Midgets who aspire to be strippers.
I know that Jerry Springer jokes are older than Moses’ hairpiece, but I can’t make this stuff up, people. It was there staring me in the pneumatically coughing face today.
I felt bad for little Arlice, shaking her pint-sized bootay around the stage. And then I thought of a really good pneumonia joke for the diary, which had nothing at all to do with midget would-be strippers.
Here it is:
I have walking pneumonia. Word is out as to whether or not it will turn into the Boogie Woogie Flu.
Yeah, well, I know. Not so great. But midget strippers don’t really inspire the best jokes.
Then I turned the channel and got sucked into something like eight hours of Road Rules/Real World Battle of the Seasons. Mike, who has the hots for Tara, looks like the son of Marla Maples and Alfred E. Neuman. Tara reminds me of Meg Ryan, but bitchy and slapped around a lot. Timmy is one sweet trooper, but I love me some Josh now. I hated him in the three actual Road Rules episodes I caught with him and the Holly who is not married to Chadwick. But his pep talk to Holly today after they got their asses kicked by the rocking ladder (not to be confused with the rocking pneumonia nor the boogie-woogie flu’ I’m just saying)’. It made me love him just a little bit. Despite his goofy grin and his hair that looks like Barbie’s did after I washed her hair in the bathtub and got Mr. Bubble all in it. And the fact that he reminds me of a frat boy, TKE to be specific, who dissed my fine bootay at a spring mixer. Despite all that, I hold a wee bit of love for him now.
I could easily work a midget stripper joke off that ‘wee bit of love’ comment, but I’m taking the higher road and just backing off slowly.
You know, all of this lack of oxygen to my brain, it’s got me thinking’.
First of all, I think I’m starting to understand Ozzy Osbourne on The Osbournes. (Can you tell that I lost the remote in the down comforter and was forced to watch MTV? Thank god Carson Daly has a new job or I would have been forced to hang myself with a 350-thread count sheet when the slop that is TRL came on’ luckily, Ja Rule was hosting. But if it had been Carson, the online diary community would have been poorer an additional midget stripper joke. Ah, who am I kidding. I’ll bet no one made a midget stripper joke even once today.)
Ok, but Ozzy. Ozzy’s entire dialog is something like ‘I-I-I-ah-ah-em-arrgh-fallot-ar- Guggenheim.’ And then Sharon says &AO8AvwC9AO8AvwC9-At’s right, sweetie.’ And Kelly looks chagrined with her brightly colored pink hair that I would have coveted in 1986. Although, he had a piece of wisdom today, which I understood or maybe it was the aforementioned lack of oxygen, but still. Little Kelly had gotten herself a tattoo and Ozzy, in his wisdom gained from years of sex, drugs, and rock and roll, fucking eh, says to her ‘If you want to be an individual, DON’T get a tattoo. Everyone has one.’ Damn straight, Ozzy. Party on, dude. Or get yourself to a Drugged Out Old Rock And Roller’s home. You can have some heart to hearts with Keith Richards and Bob Dylan.
And maybe eat some boogie woogie stew.
HA! See. That cracks me up. If you want that to be funny, hold your breath for a few days, taking occasional breaths through a pillow, and then down a bunch of prednisone. And Sugar Free Kool-Aid. Tropical punch.
It’s given me a sort of red mustache. I feel like running around outside with a diaper on and having Esteban yell ‘Matilda Fannie May, you git yer sweet ass inside this minute!’ through the window. Wearing a stained t-shirt and scratching his belly.
Now this makes no sense. I’m going to bed. Eh fuck it.
