Wednesday, April 29, 2009

Dogs Rejected By CBS Before Settling On Lassie

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Humpy
Scabby
Bitey
Three Leg
Paul
Wanky
Sambo The Black Lab
Klanny The White Lab
Contagey
Oozy
Barfy
Mengele
Ball Licker
Gassy
Tinkles
Dander
Drooly
Aggressor
Gloomy
Snobby
Scuzzy
Palsy
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Monday, April 27, 2009

Ungrateful Cunt





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Tuesday, April 21, 2009

If I See Another Fucking Media Story About Twitter, I’m Going To Shoot Up A High School

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I’ve had it. Enough with the fucking Twitter articles already. Nobody, outside of the self-important, self-delusional media, cares. And yes, that includes you, The New York Fucking Times. You should be ashamed of yourself. Every goddamn day, you have a new article on Twi--OH NO! I’m over my 140 character limit! Thanks, Twitter for further dumbing down America by encouraging ppl 2 abbreviate evry wrd. I’ve seen monkeys write more intelligently (www.monkeyquarterlyreview.com).

As for the Times (appearing less and less relevant every day), it’s like some out-of-touch editor heard about Twitter from his teen daughter and threw down the gauntlet to his staff: "We need at least one Twitter story per day, folks! The more, the better!" (Two more articles yesterday, by the way—the same day the esteemed Times was awarded five Pulitzers.) Note: Please know my caustic comments have nothing to do with the Times rejecting a piece I recently submitted to them entitled, "Big Bushes: Friend or Foe?"

Johnny reached his Twitter breaking point over the weekend when the lead story on Yahoo! (reputable news source) was, "Ashton Kutcher wins Twitter battle with CNN."

Where is Al Qaeda when you need them?

Apparently, there was some sort of a competition between the two to see who could first get to one million Twitter subscribers. OMG! How exciting! (Way to up your credibility, CNN.) Let’s ignore for a moment how a person and a network can compete against one another… ("Ashton’s not just a person, Johnny—he’s a celebrity!")

Seriously, though, if you were one of the one million idiots who subscribed to Ashton Kutcher’s "tweets," you’re a bigger asshole than the kid who stole Bunny, my absolute favorite stuffed animal in the whole wide world, out of my preschool desk the day I brought him in for show and tell all those years ago. (Needless to say, Johnny caught the motherfucker. Chased him all the way across the playground and pummeled him. No one steals Bunny.) Why on Earth would you care what this guy had for breakfast or who he thinks is going to win the Super Bowl or how he thinks he can solve the financial crisis? Unless he’s tweeting about putting his cock (granted, his beautiful, beautiful cock) in Demi Moore’s perfectly preserved, St. Elmo’s Fire-era pussy, you should not be so concerned with the goings-on of Mr. Kutcher. Let alone, John Mayer or Mario Lopez or the Geico gecko. Yes, even corporations have gotten in on the act. One of the recent unavoidable Times articles told of Pizza Hut's desire to hire a Twitter intern. (Way to up your credibility, New York Times.) "They'll be our social media journalist, chronicling in 140 characters or less what's going on at Pizza Hut," said VP for Marketing Communications, Bob Kraut. Fascinating. I'll tell you what's going on at Pizza Hut, Mr. Kraut (I swear that's his actual name—hee hee), and I only need 68 characters to do it: yr scumbag white-trash employees R spitting in the alrdy disgusting food. There. How's that? Did I get the job?

I'm sure some of you out there disagree with me. In fact, you and your fellow Twitterati are probably anxious to finish reading this post so you can read the latest tweet from Screech. (What's that? He's dead? Really? Screech? Self-inflicted gunshot wound in 2005? Wow. How did I miss that?) By all means, go. Don't let me stop you. Just promise me afterward you'll walk over to your oven, turn it on and stick your fucking head in it. Or, at the very least, genitally mutilate yourself. You are adding nothing to this planet of ours. You are simply further cluttering it with your inane “welcome 2 twttr oprah!” and your “cngrts ashton!” You are fools and I pray—oh, how I pray—for the day I receive a tweet saying you’re all dead.

You can subscribe to Johnny’s tweets @SPJNNY.



UPDATE 4/22/09: Where on Earth did I put my trench coat? And can someone please direct me to the nearest gun shop? Those knuckleheads at The New York Times have done it again. I was half-joking when I wrote of an out-of-touch Times editor mandating as many Twitter articles as possible. Then I read today's paper and see not one, not two, but three goddamn Twitter articles in the print edition (here, here and here), plus three more in their online edition (here, here and here). That's six (!) fucking Twitter articles in one day—six too many. This blood will be on your hands, Maureen Dowd.
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Friday, April 17, 2009

Words I Vowed To Use More Often In 2009 But Have Thus Far Lacked The Opportunity To Do So

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areola
Bananarama
bandolier
bukkake
cajole
castrato
chassis
chuff
churlish
churro
cockles
cocksure
codswallop
coquettish
cowpoke
crantastic or crunchtastic
cryptkeeper
decoupage
derriére
doppelganger
doubloon
elfin
flagellate
fluegelhorn
fortnight
gelatinous
gordito
gunt
haberdasher
hirsute
hunchback
intergalactic
jackanapes
Jewess
kismet
ladyboy
merman
mustachioed
muttonhead
oligarchy
ombudsman
ornery
pansexual
pantaloon
pantied
papacy
perineum
phrenologist
plié
plucky
plumage
pubis
pugilist
purloin
rapier
Sasquatchian
scalawag
schadenfreude
scrimshaw
scrod
scrota
scurvy
shantytown
shewolf
skullduggery
soothsayer
sousaphone
Stallonesque
succubus
swashbuckle
taquito
teetotaler
the
titular
unitard
vagician
vampirical
whoremonger
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Monday, April 13, 2009

The Terrorists Have Officially Won, Part Deux

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TV, why have you forsaken me? Even in this age of unlimited media options—DVDs, Internet machines, mp3s, those optical illusion posters where if you look at rows and rows of geometric shapes long enough, at just the right angle, the image turns from a young woman into an old hag—I give you more time and attention than ever before. Yet, you take away brilliance like The Wire and The Shield and give me Bromance and a new Bob Saget show. Why not just slip me a roofie and rape me over the side of the couch? It’d be way more respectful and enjoyable.

Instead, you sink to a new low. You rape me—you rape all of us—sans roofie. Have you no decency? Obviously not: After all, you’re now offering us a program so vile, I went blind for nearly 16 hours after seeing an ad for it on the side of a bus.

Of course, I’m talking about The Cougar.

Now, I’ve made no effort to hide my feelings regarding older women and their golden—nay, silver—pussies (see here, here and here), but this has gone too far.

At a time when the country is sinking further and further into the abyss, when morale is at a record low, is this what we really need? (Excuse me, while I climb onto my high horse.) A forty-something woman with fake tits and a recent LVR procedure? (Laser Vaginal Rejuvenation. Duh.)

I’m not saying we need shows like Leave It To Beaver (a much better title for The Cougar), or Touched By An Angel or The Osmonds. Or the low-rated, prematurely canceled, Touched By An Osmond. I’m just saying, we can do better, America.

Who am I kidding?

This country is fucked. Maybe it’s time to move to South America. Sábado Giganto looks like Jane Eyre next to The Cougar.

If, after reading this, you still find yourself watching The Cougar on Wednesday evening, shame on you. If you’re instead watching Bromance, God help you. And if you’re that one lunatic who’s watching both The Cougar and Bromance? Well, then, God help us.

God help us all.
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Friday, April 10, 2009

Johnny-ism Of The Day: "Doggy Fish Butt"

n. Colloquial. A term referring to the reeking stench that emanates from the anus of nine-year old chocolate labradors (including Spanish Doggy) after hours upon hours of intense, unholy rectal licking. While some might view the ability to lick one's anus as a gift from the Gods, said canines apparently feel quite the opposite: They work the anus with the joyless expression and workmanlike vigor of a washed-up porn star. Circling and circling around its swollen red rim, before darting their tongues deep inside, as deep as they will go. Desperately trying to soothe the irritable anus or perhaps extract something out of it. Something no doubt more unspeakable and gruesome than anything you can imagine. At this point, the odor is often revolting enough to be considered debilitating—it's not uncommon to hear reports of people driven to their knees due to a particularly foul strain of canem piscis assus. Unfortunately, such cases only bring those victims' noses that much closer to the canine anus, the canus, if you will. Death has only been reported a handful of times in these instances (6/17/83, Missoula, Montana, courtesy of Cocoa and 2/4/98, Nashua, New Hampsire, courtesy of Max), though victims have claimed the anal-fishlike smell is so foul and pungent at this proximity—one woman swore she saw her dog pull a rotting Atlantic Haddock out of his ass—that they would gladly welcome death, should it come.
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Wednesday, April 8, 2009

Forty Ounces Of Class


Why serve champagne when you can serve this?

I happened upon this magnificent elixir during a recent trip to a Northern California grocery store. Did I buy a bottle? You bet your ass Johnny did. After all, nothing says dinner party like five bottles of America's Premium Malt Liquor.

Just kidding. Do you really think Johnny attends things like dinner parties, soirées or fetes? Please. If you want to read about shit like that, head on over to here. No, Johnny was going back to Cali, Cali, Cali to party with his usual assortment of gangbangers, Russian mobsters, professional kickboxers and 80s metal groupies. Oh, and I was also out there for my niece's Christening. Nothing says you have been given the gift of the Holy Spirit and the doorway to salvation through the grace of God like four-and-a-half bottles of America's Premium Malt Liquor (I may have drank half a bottle in the church parking lot).
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Monday, April 6, 2009

Play Ball!

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Note the restraint shown in the above headline. I could've gone with, "Play (With My Left) Ball!" or "A-Rod Sucks Balls," but I took the classy route. Is Johnny growing up? If by growing up, you mean no longer playing with my childhood Star Wars and G.I. Joe figures when I visit my parent's house in New Jersey, then sadly no. (You try and resist Storm Shadow and his removable swords. Removable swords!)

Well, Opening Day is here. And it couldn't have come soon enough. I, for one, am really looking forward to seeing my Mets collapse on the final day of the season for the third year in a row. In their sparkling new ballpark, CitiField, no less. (Was AIG Field taken?) Can't wait. But, even more so, I'm looking forward to watching and hearing Alex Rodriguez be serenaded with "A-Roid... A-Roid... A-Roid..." chants for the next six months. And if we're lucky, and the Gods are good, we'll also hopefully see plenty of AA batteries rain down upon his oversized, Barry Bonds-esque head.

And, if we're really lucky, may they ricochet into Jeter's stunningly handsome mulatto visage.

Oh, please. Like you weren't thinking the same thing.

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Thursday, April 2, 2009

The Biggest Douchebag In The World

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No, I'm not talking about me—even though I left you sans Johnny for more than a week. My sincere apologies, Johnnyheads—I know how much you need a hit of Johnny every now and then.

Johnny's been out on the road, seeing this great nation of ours. I know, I know—I should’ve told you. I don’t know what I was thinking. You’re right, you’re right—I wasn’t thinking. Perhaps this little tidbit will make up for it: During my travels, I had the exquisite pleasure of seeing the world’s biggest douchebag. Surely, you’ve seen him, too. He’s currently waiting in the lobby of upscale hotels across the country. I’m talking about this guy: early- to mid-30s, white as cocaine, decked out in matching golf shirt and pants, mirrored Oakley sunglasses, wearing flip-flops while holding golf shoes in his left hand, golf bag over the shoulder, visor atop his carefully gelled hair (the preferred head attire of all d-bags), talking loudly about some pressing deal on his Blackberry, smirking all the while.

Yes, all these things qualify him as a first-rate douchebag. But, what truly sets him apart—the coup de grace, if you will—are the two cigars he’s carrying in a Ziploc bag. No doubt he saved them for this special outing—carefully packing them in his suitcase next to his silk boxers—to share with a business associate on the first tee, or perhaps his fellow douchebag buddy (“bro”) from business school who’s getting married in a couple weeks. (They’ll light up and reminisce about the time they double-teamed that passed-out girl from Vanderbilt, both steadfastly denying to themselves that it constituted rape.)

Do I purposely step on the back of his flip-flop as I walk behind him, causing him to nearly trip over his golf bag? Yes. Yes, I do. Do I apologize profusely while telling him with my eyes that I feel no remorse and wish him nothing but suffering for the rest of his days? Yes, I do that, as well.

Johnny’s back, motherfuckers.
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