I thought this was rock of love, not rock of fucking.

It’s blizzarding, and it’s approximately thirteen degrees outside my house. My baby seems content to not sleep at his scheduled naptimes, and my cleaning lady is coming in just a few short hours. I don’t have any idea what I’m going to do with this day. I’ve got a lot of conferring with my writing partner about some script ideas we’re working on and I’m supposed to take my dog to get his nails clipped, I need to get an external hard drive and I want to go to the gym…but man, it’s fucking blizzarding! It’s gonna be one of the most monstrous pains in the ass to get anything at all done. That will, of course make me feel completely useless, which will spiral out of control into me exerting way too much energy on something that I can’t possibly do well around the house with my cleaning lady here, like trying to write songs or some shit.
I’m out of coffee.
So, man, the recession seems to have really hit my blog hard, eh? I mean, not last month I was averaging somewhere in the neighborhood of fifteen comments, and the month before it was usually in the twenties…Since 09 began though, not so much….Perhaps this all goes back to my mom liking the blog now, which, if we apply the equation Anything that A Mom Thinks Is Cool=So Terribly Uncool, well, then I guess we have some sort of answer, but I don’t know…maybe all those people out there have moved on. Is my time as a rising star of the blogosphere coming to an end? Am I doomed to be another white dwarf just dimming out there on the galactic horizon? Am I gonna be the blog writing equivalent of the dude that cruises through the anonymous sex park and strikes out, no matter what color handkerchief I wear in my back pocket? Well, par for the course, I suppose.
You know what’s disgusting? Rock of Love Bus…I said this before and I’ll say it again…Those hoes are so DIRTY, they make the chicks who were taking turns sucking off disgusting Bret Michaels in season 1 look like fucking nuns. I mean, there was a time, not that long ago when a woman taking a shot of liquor on a first date sent a signal to a man which could be construed as “I’m easy to bang”. Now, there’s nothing wrong with being a woman and taking a shot, or going after what you want…I mean, fuck, that’s great as far as I’m concerned. I’m merely pointing out that this little message has transformed a bit it seems, because on the opening episode of the Rock of Love Bus, on the first night out with Bret (who, by the way is so gross now. If you filled up a brown faux leather bag with hamburger meat, put some my Little Pony Tails on the top and then strapped a bandana over those, you’d have his face…Plus, he’s still wearing those jeans and those dumb fucking Ed Hardy shirts…DUDE! YOU’RE OLD! There’s nothing wrong with being old, there’s everything wrong with pretending you’re not) took a shot out of a test tube that was in another girl’s vagina. Modern times, man. Wow. I mean, that’s a statement of intent right there. “I intend to give you Chlamydia,’ is what I think it’s saying, and it kind of seems like it’s aimed at everyone. Whatever. Good for her. Drink that gross buttery nipple shot out of the test tube in that skanks vagina. Good on ya, as they say down under.
You know when Chris Rock mentioned that if you’re a parent of a girl, your job is to ‘keep em off the pole’, as in make sure they don’t grow up to be strippers? He goes on to say that if your girl does grow up to be a stripper, you fucked up raising them. Well, I don’t know if that’s true. I don’t know enough strippers well enough to draw any conclusions, but I can say with utmost certainty, that if you’re the parent of a girl who ends up on Rock of Love, you’ve done a terrible job of parenting, not necessarily because they’re strippers too, mind you…Because they’re on that horrible show doing gross things to a gross guy who they don’t even recognize as a cultural figure BEYOND being the guy from Rock of Love and the only desired outcome is internationally broadcast humiliation. I mean at least when you give a lapdance you get a twenty. At least when you spread your clam in a magazine or fuck a dude in a movie you get a decent amount of money. What do those hoes get? Made fun of on the Soup, or in BSC. Yeah, whatever, I’m sure there are probably many avenues of social discourse run by snide, smarty pants assholes that fall in between this blog and Joel McChale’s show…and yeah, hoes, you’re getting made fun of on those too. I mean, even Bret Michaels himself mocks these bitches, and he’s the one looking for love. Also, and I’m just throwing this out there, Big John, Bret’s personal assistant guy, he’s the one who ends up fucking ALL those chicks. I mean, you just don’t get access into Bret fucking Michaels’s exclusive sleep n’ bang chamber by just walking up and opening the door…Don't be naive, people. There's only one way in. You know what they say: the way to a man's heart is through his personal assistant's dick. Good on ya big John. Good on ya, gross hoes.
In conclusion, fuck the pole…Keep your daughter off the Rock of love, right? Right.
Maybe I’ll continue the saga of my employment tomorrow. Today, I’m not feeling it. I don’t know what’s wrong with me.
Okay, I gotta make something happen or I’m going to go crazy. I’m off to get my dog’s ass glands all squeezed out.