I’m almost 100% sure of this.
That blurry nonsense up there might look like an out of focus piece of colored crap to you, but to me, it can only mean two things: it’s almost September, and some idiot put a camera on a pole again and is broadcasting Burning Man live over the Internet.
We here at Logical Point (which is a secret underground bunker in Manitoba, Canada, and not a chapter in Robert’s Rules of Order) will be live-blogging Burning Man through this stupid, shaky, blurry video feed intermittently throughout the week, usually for only a few minutes at a time, and mainly to make fun of the ravers, the stinky hippie drum circles, and this guy. At least until something more interesting comes along.
That current something more interesting? I’ma play some Sim City, yo. Seacrest out and stuff.
“I’m Chicken John and this is my dog Darnit.”
Oh 1999, the secrets you hid sometimes come back to haunt you. I can’t say enough about that bowtie, either. I believe Chicken bought it off a special “worn once by Harry Anderson” Night Court prop auction.
I used to live near that former Planet Hollywood location in San Francisco, by the way. It was like a monument to sadness, somewhere you threatened to take your kids when they were behaving like assholes. There was no Apple Store across the street yet, so the only street traffic tended to be bums on their way to piss on the doormen at FAO Schwartz down the street. The food was terrible and the place smelled like Arnold Schwarznegger.
The only restaurant locations of that snakebit company still open are in places like Las Vegas and the Deep South, where the scent of second-hand fame produces Pavlovian yelps in the walk-by crowd, and Guam, where cooked food is otherwise prohibited by law. Their Vegas casino unit continues to operate continuously, losing money at a near-record clip. Even old Strip veterans who have seen everything under the sun at least once (and spit on it the first time around) shake their heads in wonder and shame when they walk past Planet Hollywood. Or drive. Only fools and crazy people walk around in Vegas in the summertime.
The old San Francisco branch is now something called “Ferrari Store,” which is an even stupider concept and will lose even more money. Chicken, get on the phone…
Full ridiculous clip after the jump.
This site has some good ones along these lines. The Joe Ducreux one makes me laugh for days, though. Samples:
“Oh nay, It feels swell to willingly partake in illegal activities in order to portray thouself as somewhat of a brute” (‘Damn It Feels Good to be a Gangsta,’ Geto Boys.)
“When I arise on the morrow, I feel like Sean Combs doth” (‘Tik Tok,’ by the ridiculous Kesha.)
And my favorite, which is from some site called “The Internet”:
Tomorrow I’ll look into this new “dancing baby” sensation.
I just made that up, but we’re going to pretend it’s a real thing from now. Aug. 26 is Skullet Day in America!
Skullets! Because sometimes you just wanna look like that dude from the Gentle Giant album cover! Skullets! (Not to be confused with Jorts.)
From a mailing list, where I expand upon the idea of lying about people to create comedy. It’s true, by the way; you can make everything funnier simply by fabricating and inserting random bullshit into any conversation.
This is also how you get from the Mael Brothers to Pink Floyd to The J. Geils Band in two easy steps, made that much easier by the fact that The J. Geils Band is funny in every possible context you can articulate:
‘Well, it’s a two-pronged joke, you see, relying on the non-identical twin comedy precepts of … I’ll use the technical term here … “making shit up.” (editor’s note: here I forgot that “twin comedy precepts” should actually involve two of them) I can outline this process for you using words, and if I’m still not making myself clear (because of this terrible heat) I can create a Venn Diagram that will explain everything.
1. The first part being that [Name Redacted] is a huge fan of prog rock. I do not know that this is true, but it’s personally amusing to me to think so. He played some Traffic on my iPod once when I threw it at him in a car and demanded that he make music play out of it. Then he didn’t do it right and no music happened and he got very flustered so I had to rip it out of his hands and make Traffic (which he was trying to select) come out of the speakers, after which he seemed to calm down some and his attention turned toward observing and collecting rock specimens. So I can only assume that “Name Redacted loves prog rock” from this highly inconclusive incident which did not actually involve a) prog rock or b) loving a thing.
2. The second part being that the kind of prog rock that Name Redacted loves is Kansas and possibly Toto, if we’re willing to drag him that far into the hole.
3. We can make this go even further by claiming that a) the prog rock realm extends to The J. Geils Band, and furthermore is prog rock because b) Name Redacted claims it is so or b) anything Name Redacted loves must deductively be prog rock; or we can whisk straight past that to c) loving The J. Geils Band is kind of hilarious in the year 2010 so fuck all the other letters up there. We could segue into Gerry Rafferty here but I think we’ll store that ammunition safely back in the footlocker.
4. Name Redacted is my brother. I do not wish to harm him or see harm come to him in any way. Please do not repeat this experiment without Gold Clearance from the Sector Three Marketing Team.’
It’s hot, real hot, and I’ve been trying to think of something to write about for hours, and all I can make my brain do is: “Everyone poops, so I think I should become a plumber! YOU’LL NEVER GO HUNGRY AGAIN.”
Now I just need to go select the proper wrench…