Oh Insomnia, You Filthy Bitch-Whore

I thought about a few things last night, in lieu of sleep:

-There is a type of girl you can impress by eating a dozen deviled eggs one after another, but you don't want to date her.

-Right now the guy who came in twelfth on American Idol is having a three-way with two Brazilian supermodels while I'm trying to induce sleep by drinking Nyquil.

Actually, it isn't even real Nyquil; it's the generic Walgreen's version. But at least I've never had to pleasure Paula Abdul with an oversized rubber fist while Simon Cowell does push ups in the corner.

-There is one band that's worse than Hinder, but they only play a lounge in hell, and so far Hitler is the lone name on the guest list.

-I have an idea: Mail out a postcard with the question "Who Should Replace Rosie O'Donnell on The View?" Whoever takes time to answer the question and mail the postcard back, round them up and execute them in a massive pay-per-view event. Use the money earned to pay off the national debt.

-Okay, if execution is too harsh, then tickle them until they pee their pants.

-Men, if you wear jeans that look like this we're going to have to revoke your Guy Card. You'll be too busy debating "Who's better: Fall-Out Boy or Yellow Card?" to even notice.

-I won't see a movie in a theater unless it's rated R. It's the only way to weed out most of the obnoxious teens and tweeners who routinely turn movie houses into their own jailbait nightclub. "Hey, cover is only nine dollars! Let's party!" Fuck those little cretins, fuck their loud cell phone conversations and most of all fuck their witless banter throughout the entirety of the film. Damn, I'm an old bastard.