Waking Thoughts

The strangest things occur to me first thing in the morning. Here are some of those things.

They say, “Love the sinner; hate the sin.” But what if the sin is their only endearing feature?

Hipsters are like the Reavers on Firefly. In their madness, they do it to themselves.

You know how sometimes you’re like, “I had a weird-ass dream last night”? Wouldn’t it be funny if it was literally a dream where you had a weird ass? For instance, if your crack ran side-to-side.

Arguments over the definition of “professional” are sooo amateur.

Red Bullfighting. Get a couple of people all jacked up on Red Bull and turn them loose.

Christopher Cross should have done a crossover with Kris Kross before Chris Kelly crossed over.

Count Dracula is crate trained.

I try not to hold a grudge, but I remain bitterly disappointed that at no point in the movie Kiss the Girls did Morgan Freeman ask for a list of all sex offenders within the state named “Georgie Porgie.”

“In Soviet Russia, Cat Saves You! A Screenwriting Guide by Yakov Smirnoff”

A bumper sticker for turtles: “If this shell’s a-rockin’, that’s because I’m masturbating.”

Have you hit that level of social anxiety disorder where you look up the identifying markers of the disorder to make sure you’re presenting enough of them so that people realize you suffer from social anxiety disorder and aren’t just being a dick when you up and leave their party? (oh gawd, i hope that’s not just me.)

Internet quiz: “Girding Your Loin Or Loaning Your Girdle? Take Our Quiz To Determine Your Real Gender!”

The worst thing about a heat wave is getting Rob Thomas stuck in your head.

You know, that poop emoji looks awful full of itself.

We should name our footwear like people used to name their swords. Your right flip flop is “Spider Slayer,” your left croc is “Reckoning for Roaches,” etc.

An ounce of prevention is worth a pound of cure. If things are tight right now, just get a dimebag of prevention. That will only put you back four ounces of cure.

After a long day, Farmer Brown is loading his livestock back into the barn for the night. The last one in is his old milk cow. He says to her, “Get on in there, bossy.” The cow stops, indignant. She turns to Farmer Brown and exclaims, “MOOOOOOSOGYNIST!”

Charles Eames: “People ask me all the time, ‘Charles, why the chair?’ To which I reply, ‘Have you seen me? I’m a giant. If I didn’t sit down, I’d fall down.’ And so they ask, ‘Then why are you always photographed standing?’ To which I reply, ‘Shut up.'”

The Escape Club should shoot a PSA warning up-and-coming one hit wonders against tying their one hit to a flip of the calendar. “‘Living in the eighties,’ indeed,” says a steely-eyed Trevor Steele, as some weird arm bird flaps behind him. “Living in the eighties, and headed for obscurity.”

You know how there are international symbols for things like “No Smoking” or “Wheelchair Accessible”? I wonder if there is one for “Do Not Disturb.” It should be a pictograph of a bottle of Jergens and a box of tissues.

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