The next installment, maybe the best yet. I'd like to thank everyone who's given me

a review; I've recently hit and went past the 50 review mark. So if I don't respond to your

review personally, it's because I'm far too important.(note: ha ha ha).

Now, some of you may think that less reviews may solve the problem. I have a better

idea. What you, the readers, need to do is to review my stuff more often. Tell your friends,

review my work several times a day under different names, and always say something to

the point that it's the funniest thing you ever read. As my popularity rises, I will surely get

a book deal, followed by my own talk show, followed by fantastic wealth. Then I can hire

third world children to answer my mail and respond to reviews around the clock. The perfect

plan, where everybody wins. Especially me.

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The other week I had a cold. Everyone was telling me to go to the doctor's, but I wasn't

having any of it. Not because I think I'm too macho or anything, but because I know what he

would have said. We've all heard it,"Get plenty of fluids and bedrest".

Oh, really, Doc? Thanks for telling me; right after this next round of puking, I was about to

eat five pounds of Morton Salt and run the Boston Marathon. Like I don't know to stay in bed

when I'm sick. The doctor can do absolutely nothing for you if you have a cold; I've never

went to the doctor and been told:

"Well, it looks like you have a slight cold, so YOU MUST JOURNEY TO THE NORTH!

There you can find a sacred herb, guarded by the fierce barbarians of the tundra! Take with

you this Holy sword, and this prescription for a bottle of Claritin. Godspeed, man."

No. All they got is bed rest and fluids. And if you're not terminally ill when you go,

they shove you in a waiting room full of diseased people and let you marinate in ebola.

And if you can make it to your appointment in one piece, they pull that little mallet to

shatter your kneecap. Test my reflexes? My reflex is to get the hell out of the way when

someone approaches me with a blackjack. Nancy Kerrigan didn't have my reflexes, and we

all saw where that got her. Frigging doctors.

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I live in central Florida. For anyone above North Carolina, you may not be familiar with

a little phenomenon we get the pleasure of dealing with: Hurricane Season.

While everyone else is out buying plywood, I pick up pieces of sheet metal. I leave 'em on the

beach, buried under the sand, in hopes that I can see one of them get lodged in the neck of

one of these weather asses. I've always wanted to see one of them get slain. Is that so wrong?

And don't give me any crap about how its their job. You don't see them out in any other weather.

You don't see them in a light rain, like, "Yeah, it's raining. Not too hard or anything, but if you

had a softball game, or something, it could kind of suck. Well, I'll go back inside now."

No. But let the wind pick up to three thousand miles an hour, and who are the only idiots you see

on the beach?

"I'M ON THE COAST RIGHT NOW, AND THE WIND IS REALLY BAD. I JUST SAW A KITTEN

BLOWN THROUGH A BRICK WALL, AND I FEAR FOR MY LIFE!" Christ, you gotta be stupid to

do that. I have a simple philosophy. If you're stupid, you need to die, and hopefully before you can breed.

Take these guys into extreme sports; do you really want them to raise a family? Picture it.

Kid: Hey dad, I'm gonna jump off the roof with an umbrella and parachute down! Come watch!

Dad: What do you need the umbrella for? You a pussy? And take that helmet off; it makes you look like

a douche.

Man, the future is gonna suck.

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I feel bad for the Crocodile Hunter. His funeral is gonna have the most dry eyes in the history of funerals.

Not because he won't be missed; hell, I love the guy. It's just no one's going to be all that surprised.

Steve's Widow: Why? Why did that python have to kill him?

Me: Well, I'm no herpetologist, but if I had to guess, I'd say it was because he poked it in the eye with a wire

clotheshanger.

You know what would be the greatest thing in the world? If the Lochness Monster was real, and Steve

Irwin was the first professional on the scene to study it.

Steve: Aright, crikey! What we have here, is a plesiosaur, a prehistoric reptile believed to have been extinct!

Ain't she a beauty? Now, science knows nothing about it's demeanor or feeding habits, but I have reason to

believe that if she bites you, you die! Now I'm gonna sneak up to her, and hit her in the head with this Baseball Bat!

Nessy: What the fuck?

Steve: Crikey!

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I think the Trojan Man is the most f--ked up mascot in all of advertising. He's a damn voyeur!

Think about it. He always manages to catch these people right in the middle of foreplay. It's

like he sits around all day, watching people with a telescope, from his van. And he has his horse

in the back! I don't want to condsider those implications. No one would let the Scrubbing Bubbles

get away with putting a shower cam in their bathroom, but the Trojan Man can watch people make

it from his big white child molester van? Why hasn't he been called on this?

I think the thing about the Trojan Man that gets me the most is that he's so selective in the advice he gives,

always endorsing his condoms. He could tell you a lot more, if he weren't such a sell out. I'l bet

he has all kinds of useful information, and he's just holding back on us. Imagine all the stuff he could tell us.

Girl: I have a suprise for you. Just let me slip into something more comfortable....

Guy: OK!

TROJAN MAN!!!

Trojan Man: You don't know how big of a suprise you're in for. She's really a he!

Guy: Holy crap! Thanks, Trojan Man!

But he won't tell us about this stuff, cause he's to bust getting off watching from his van.

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Ever have anyone try to talk to you while you're taking a shit? Don't you hate that? I can be in the

bathroom, minding my business (I swear there was no pun intended) and someone in my family

will come up and start talking through the door. My sister wants help with her homework, my dad

wants to know where the remote to the TV is. My mom has asked me what I wanted for dinner while I

was on the toilet!

What do I want for dinner? I dunno, fiber? I'm on the toilet! I have no damn idea what I want to

eat for dinner! I'm still occupied with last night's dinner. What do you expect, I should give you

plans for a seven course meal, down to the garnish? When I take a shit, I can honestly say that my

next meal is the absolute farthest thing from my mind, and I for one want to keep it that way. Jesus.

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That's it for a while. School and stuff, keeping me busy. Personally I think there's a marked difference in the

quality between this installment and my previous stuff. I'd tried to push myself to comemmorate my fifty reviews.

R+R, and tell me what you think.

Oh, and if you're a manger/owner of a business in the central Florida area, and you have an opening for a

part-time job that pays obscene riches, feel free to send me an e-mail. I'm completely serious here. If I can't

get some cash, I could lose my internet, and all of you are cut off. So, send money.