Bored broed bored bored bored broed bored bored uninspired do-nothing fuck my head is empty

I will narrate my thoughts.

I don’t know how to spell “narrate” without spellcheck.

There’s this really awful band called “Gatsby’s American Dream”. Pandora does not have a shit filter (diaper?) for their music. F. Scott Fitzgerald would probably love this band’s shout-out. “Hey! Mr. Fitzgerald! Can you hear us down there in Hell? We love your book so much we’re going to destroy it so no one else could ever possibly love it as much as we do!”

Hank Azaria should do more movies where he plays zany, physical characters. Comparing his role in Birdcage to Run, Fatboy, Run is like comparing a flamboyant, Puerto Rican homosexual to a bland, rich stock broker. OHHHHH SHIIIIIIIIIIT

Crocodiles.

I think if I had to, I could do well in a fight. I’ve been working out once a week for about a week now, and I feel ripped. I used to have the arms of a 12 year old Japanese girl. Now it’s a boy. All I’d need is a rubber band to keep my glasses on and I’m good to go. I’ve always been kind of wimpy. I’ve never even been in a fight. I mean, it’s called “fight or flight”; I have options. But thanks to Animal Planet I’ve discovered a 3rd option: bluffing. For one thing, it might actually work, but if it doesn’t, at least you’re getting your ass kicked for a reason.

Foooooooooood