And a happy Friday to you all!

So I get home from work the other day, and I turn on the air conditioner, and the TV (in that order) and plop down on the couch after working for eleven hours. Yeah, I have to go to the gym, and make something for dinner, but I’m tired and I think I need a nap first.

So the TV is on, and it’s a little after 7:00, and, of course, I still haven’t located the lost remote, so my options are to either watch what’s on, or exert precious energy to stand up and manually change the channels.

Given that I just finished working eleven hours, and was in no condition to leave the couch, I hope you will forgive me for watching “Hollywood Squares.”

Apparently, they are in the middle of a college tournament, because the female contestant to the left of the guy that hosts “America’s Most Retarded Home Videos of People Lighting Their Pets on Fire and Hurling Said Flaming Pets at Their Groins.”

So naturally, stupid attracts stupid, and she chooses Carmen Electra, when she could have just as easily gone with Martin Mull for an easier shot at a win.

Question: According to Greek Mythology, where could Achilles be injured?
Carmen Electra’s Response: Hmm…umm…I think I’ve heard of something called the Achilles Heel, so I guess, maybe…that?

No, no. Don’t be fooled. That wasn’t the stupid part. Get ready for it…

Female contestant: I disagree.

Bwah! It then comes as no surprise, I’m sure, that she lost the game and the match. It’s like asking: “Lou Gherig died of what disease?” and then doubting that it was Lou Gherig’s Disease!

Anywho…

I was driving into work this morning and the car ahead of me, aside from going too slow for my liking, had one of the stupidest vanity plates I have ever seen. This navy Lincoln Mark VIII had the tag: BATMOBL.

The motherfucking Batmobile? Are you kidding me?

Why in the Holy Hell would anyone get a license plate that read “Batmobile?” It’s not like anyone would confuse it with the real thing. Err, excuse me. The real prop.

I can just see it. The woman who owns the car is sitting around at a boring dinner party, with her boring friends explaining, “When I was a little girl, I loved Batman so much. I knew when I grew up I wanted to have the Batmobile. And now I do.”

No, Jackass. You drive a car with a Batmobile tag. It’s asinine. It would be akin to my slapping a USS Enterprise on my rear windshield and calling myself Captain Kirk. Hardly, authentic.

So I’m continuing my drive to work, and this woman in the, ahem, Batmobile is still in front of me. It turns out, the driver is our plant secretary, who is married to the production manager (who’s pickup has a similarly retarded plate, albeit one not rooted in fiction).

Heh.

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