Sometimes, when I watch the Emmy's, and some handsome guy or girl talks about some awful thing that's happening and he or she gets all bloated and acts like he or she is Jonas Salk or somethin' er uther and goes on about WE SHOULD and WE WILL and PAKISTAN and TAKES A VILLAGE and OUR CRAFT and THIS IS YOURS AS MUCH AS MINE and WE HAVE THE OPPORTUNITY TO TEACH THE WORLD I just wish that he or she would get a sudden and startling and completely incapacitating big gnarly out-of-control stinky ass butt violent attack of exploding diarrhea that would make him or her run off stage screaming for a diaper.
But that's just me. Because I'm mean and resentful in my prayer. And I realize that this hateful trait will deliver me a fiery reckoning one day. And I am prepared for that because I know nothing...AND I MEAN NOTHING that happens to me will be as bad as what should happen to Jewell.
Color me crotchety,
Helen the Hisser
6 comments:
Or Michael Buble, for that matter.
I am in Sonoma on vacation and since I was too busy dissecting the incredible flavors in their brilliant Zinfandels, I missed the Emmy's, but I love all those award winners' pompous assbaginess as much as I love Kanye West's assbaginess. I really wish he hadn't done that to Taylor Swift, not because I love her, but because I love a good fool. And without Kanye, we are missing one of the best.
And by the way, my kids hate the way I say Pakistan. I say it like I am sticking out my tongue with an Ahhh. Pahhhkistan. I guess I have a little assbag in me, too.
Is it just me or do others shudder when they imagine Jewell and her wooden cowboy husband Ty Murray doing the nasty?
Ty reminds me of my plastic Johnny West figure I had as a child. Johnny had knobby knees and a blank stare too.
Could they just stick to thanking their agents ad nauseum? Oh, to hear a genuine speech shred of thought!
Oh. That song of the dead that was sung by that gap toothed Blondie was bloody awful. It was worse than being dead. Worse then living in Brittany Murphy's death house that killed her and her fat English husband. Did pneumonia really kill those two? Or was it the xanax, valium, vicodin, ambien, oxycontin cocktail? Was the house in 15Th century London? or Beverly Hills?
I'm glad we're all on the same page about the Emmys. I love you more than everyone loves that guy from Mad Men.
Bravo, darling!
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