I sure hope you guys like stream of consciousness writing, or free writing, because that’s what you’ll be getting in today’s installment. I don’t feel much like editing, or outlining, so I thought I’d just shotgun it. You know, lay all my ramblings splatter out onto the page, and let the chips fall where they may.

Being unemployed has shown me that there is truly very little worthwhile to watch on daytime TV if you’re not into the soaps. It seems the networks (cable networks included) will give any yahoo a few mil to produce crappy TV.

Case in point, the PAX network. Yeah, it’s barely a network, and there programming is for shit, so technically, it illustrates my point. They have this crappy little show called, “Doc.” Has anyone actually seen this? Yeah? For real? Kill yourself. Now.

Anyway, this “show” stars Billy Ray Cyrus as a doctor. Yeah, the “Achy Breaky Heart” guy. Who pitched the idea that Billy Ray would make a believable doctor? Does your doctor have three-day stubble and a mullet? If the answer is yes, you have larger issues to deal with than poor television programming.

Why doesn’t someone pitch the Stripper Channel? Similar to a music video channel, it shows strippers stripping all day long. Don’t’ kid yourself. Sliding down a pole at breakneck speed is not dancing. The production value is incredibly cheap. All you need is a horny guy, a camcorder, and a few dozen dollar bills. Any volunteers?

Speaking of which, anyone else see John Stamos doing those ridiculous 10-10-987 commercials? I almost wet myself, I laughed so hard. I guess I shouldn’t be surprised, though. The only thing that separates him from Carrot Top is his ability to bang attractive women.

What else does he have going for him? I kind of feel sorry for the guy. It’s like I expect to see him thumbing it on the freeway with a sign reading, “Will act for food.” But then I remember that he’s married to one of the most beautiful women in the world, albeit one with the voice of a Teamster, and I take back any slack I might have lent ol’ Johnny.

This guy’s most famous for playing aging hipster, Uncle Jesse, whose idea of rocking out, meant jamming with the middle-aged Beach Boys. Did they ever resolve why Jesse’s last name suddenly changed from Cochran to Katsopolis? Hmmm. One of the true mysteries of our time.

Oh yes, he also starred in that short-lived series “Thieves.” And by short-lived, I mean it lasted one episode before being canned like tuna. Other than a slew of made for TV movies, what has he contributed to our culture? I think he’s done more for his career by playing himself in such films as “Private Parts,” and “Run Ronnie Run!”

It’s not as if he needs the money. Rebecca probably pulled in a few million bucks for X2. Did he think this was a role for him to really sink his teeth into? I think John, himself put it best when he said, "Mary-Kate and Ashley, who played Michelle, were great. I miss them, I love them, and I need to borrow some money from them."

Have you ever had someone really pissed off at you in traffic? I mean tailgating, screaming, hair-pulling rabid dog mad. Usually, as they blow right by you in their attempt to assert vehicular superiority they feel the need to flip you off. You wanna get back at them? As they drive along side you and extend their middle finger, blow them a kiss. Especially if you are a guy blowing a kiss to another guy. It’ll really freak the absolute shit out of them.

Although, that rarely happens to me because I’m usually the one driving like Mario Andretti in an Indy qualifier. I once drove from New Castle, DE to a strip club in Center City Philadelphia, a drive that should last around forty-five minutes, in twenty-five minutes flat. At night. During rush hour traffic. I’m still not sure how I managed to pull it off.

I think it had something to do with my driving close to the speed of light. There’s really no other explanation. My friend who was riding shotgun that eventful eve still refuses to get in the car with me. And I still have his finger indentations on my “Oh shit!” bar.

I love how children’s candy mimicked negative adult behavior when I was growing up. Like the bubble gum cigarettes that came wrapped with a thin layer of powdered sugar, so when you blew through them, a tiny puff of powder would exit the cigarette emulating smoke. Or those candies that came in a container shaped like a prescription medication bottle, so you could pretend to pop some Valium. Or even those little airplane liquor bottles that gave kids a tiny taste of what you could get in a liter of Jack Daniels. Or was that just me?

Last night, while standing in the checkout line at the supermarket, the woman ahead of me had two differently sized calf muscles. I’m not talking like one was a little bigger than the other. One was like the Hulk, and the other, an atrophied muscle. It freaked the shit out of me.

You ever get that instant cold sweat thirty-second warning that some little gremlin in your stomach hit the eject button and you must immediately find a toilet before the entire contents of your bowels comes flying from your butt at terminal velocity including the corn you ate last Tuesday? I had that yesterday. I hate that.

Days until I start work: 3

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