I’m not sure what I was expecting. The video was clearly marked “commercial from Japan.” They’re lovely people in general, but they’re wired tighter than a banjo string. But wonder Core commercials take the tentacle cake, I tell you what. I’ve been to 3 World’s Fairs and goat rodeo and I ain’t ever seen anything like that. But admit it. If it was 3 AM and you were home alone and drunk, you’d buy one on the home shopping network.
I’m not afraid of the wrinkled leathery man in tight pants. Nor am I concerned by the seven foot tall Rastafarian rooster. Even the song and dance numbers have little effect on me. It all comes down to the look on the face of every child involved. I’ve seen a hostage tape or two in my day and I know that look. They know what happens when the cameras stop rolling.
Being kidnapped by a cult of underground educational television producers is no picnic, but I assume it’s the only way to get on PBS these days. When they finally come for all of us and we’re being sacrificed to appease How Now the big moo cow — remember to breathe. Namaste!
The borderline sociopathic boy likes to keep up a healthy regimen of exercise and yelling. It doesn’t have to be all too complicated; you can leave out the exercise all together if it suits you. As long as there’s a lot of yelling and flailing, you’re on the right track.
Personally, I don’t exercise nearly enough. I spend most of my time yelling at passing cars and no time yelling at the gym. If I’m not careful, people might think I’m a vagrant and not an international man of mystery; which I am.
I Lift Things Up-Diddly-Up And Put Them Down-Diddly-Down
Bob Couch, the love child of Ned Flanders and Arnold Schwarzenegger, has become my favorite recording artist of all time. Not because of his music, or his muscles. Not even because of his dedication to his workout. I love his sweet sense of style. The hair, the porn stache, the short-shorts; he’s got the look down. Every day I get out of bed and I try to live my life as Bob Couch would. I pump iron, I push out another set, and I work up a sweat.
Except I don’t actually work out — or get out of bed for that matter. It’s the thought that counts. I may not be making Bob proud, but I’m getting his sweet style down. I can almost grow a moustache, and I think I own a pair of jorts. Maybe when I grow up I can be just like Bob, but until then I’ll just relax my mind and think about pumping iron.
[Many thanks to Gerard at American Digest who doesn’t need to pump iron to get attention from the opposite sex. He just shows them his massive collection of Bob Couch records.]