I Won?
Oh my God!
What can I say but thank you?
Thank you so much.
It was just a pleasure to be nominated with the likes of David "Funniest Man in the World" Swidler, Luke "Guy Who Got Mugged With The Funniest Man in the World" Thayer, and, jeff.

Seriously, I'd like to thank the voter, the fan, and the Great State of California for giving me a taste of home on Christmas Day or, for those who don't celebrate Christmas, Boxing Day Eve. It was just what I was hoping for, torrential rains, accompanied by a new twist, Flash Flood Warnings. Yay!

But back to my award. I will treasure this always, and, when I actually receive this reward, I will reserve for it a place of honor usually afforded only to my elementary school "Field Day Participant" ribbons.

I couldn't have done it without the help of a few people, and they know who they are, so I won't bore you with their names.
I did it though, I really did, like I always said I would. Just like with Saddam.

The shining brilliance of this moment, in front of all of you, is only slightly lessened by the fact that I, Ryan " Pillar of Light and Truth" Dobosh (the P.L.T.), have a confession to make...

I never shit my pants.

Sorry, I mean,

I never shit my pants.

That's right, I'm a fraud. A sham. A Keister. That hideously embarrassing moment never actually happened and the blog that was so eloquently written about it was a work of total fiction. I just wanted to point that out, so everyone would know that I have never suffered from incontinence, nor am I presently wearing any adult undergarments to protect me from any more "accidents", thank you very much. I'm a regular member of society. A regular guy, who once stapled his thumbs together, on purpose.

So thanks again for The Bloggy. Or was it the Bloggie? I can't remember. All I do know is that I wake up every afternoon, comfortable in the knowledge that even if the fates conspire against me and I can't think of an original idea for my blog, I can always just invent some story that I swear to God never happened.


Stop looking at me like that.


I gotta go.

Tomorrow, another story.

NOTE: This blog was started on December 26th. Due to a problem that we will refer to as "Mother Fucking Adelphia", it will now be posted a full two days late. We would like to apologize for the bastards at Adelphia and tell you that we harbor no hard feelings or ill will towards them, right now we're too busy hating AOL.

On with the show!


Well, Christmas was yesterday, and unless you're Canadian or British, today has absolutely no cultural significance.
Today means nothing whatsoever except that you may now cease being nice to people that you were previously nice to only because "it's Christmas". You are free to say the things that you wanted to say last week but didn't.

Here, let me go first.
But just to give my enemies a sporting chance, let me rhyme.

BOXING DAY JABS by Ryduffy the elf.

A.O.L. can go to Hell.
As a matter of fact, so can Jeff Schell.
He popped the big question,
and of course she said yes.
Now I have to start shopping for a new Best-Man's dress.
That's not exactly true, he hasn't picked me,
though I'm sure he could be coerced, for a fee.

But if I'm not in the wedding, I'll get along fine,
And I know that their future will turn out divine.
I'm just glad to see that Jeff located his spine,
that's more than I can say for America Online.

Those dickless bastards offered me a "free" trial,
and I tried out their precious 9.0 for a while.
I called them up to cancel on the 45th day,
and they thought it'd be funny to charge me anyway.

So I called them back after I got the bill in the mail,
And they said "Fuck off, sir. Go straight to Hay-ell."
(The guy on the phone had a southern accent)
And that's not what he said, but it is what he meant.

He made some assurances that my problem had been solved,
and that's when the telemarketers got involved.
I received three calls, and I had a coniption,
when they asked if I'd like to renew my subscription.

I told them "No.", and I hoped that was it,
then I got another bill and went completely apeshit.
This time it said my account was delinquent
and here's where I stop rhyming and say that these fuckers were in for a fight. I called them up again and I spoke to a woman who told me that I was completely in the wrong, and then she hung up on me.
I may have been a bit abrasive, but she was the face of this gigantic corporation and I desperately needed to slap it.
AOL doesn't need my 29 dollars, judging from the fact that the human population is now outnumbered three to one by AOL startup discs, I'd say they were doing OK.

So after she hung up, I called right back and told the next person I spoke to every single thing that had transpired, and thankfully, he agreed to help me. He said that he would credit the account and that my problems "should" be over.
"We'll see about that." I said, like a dick.
And he says to me:
"Sir, while I have you on the phone, can I ask you a question? Would you like a chance to renew your free trial membership for another 45 days?"

I sat there in silence, stunned.
And right as I was about to go completely berserk on this worthless excuse for a human being, a thought floated down to me from on high.

"Leave him alone, Ryan. He's just doing his job. Besides, it's Christmas."

Fucking Jesus. I should have known to expect that shit from his pansy ass.

This Blog was going to be about Road Rage, but on Sunday night I went to a Christmas party and had many drinks.

Incidentally, it really bothers me when I'm talking to some guy about last night's festivities and he feels an obligation to tell me exactly what type of and how many alcoholic beverages he ingested,
"Dude, I had four margaritas, three shots of tequila, and like, two beers!"

Does that bother you, too? No? Ok, well then, that's what I had, except it was definitely two beers.

Yeah, I was drunk. Suck it.
And it's a good thing for you that I got so wasted last night, because I woke up this morning with the most hilarious hangover ever.

It started with the whole pounding headache/dry mouth thing, nothing I couldn't handle. However, the rebellion in my stomach and subsequent (multiple) false vomit alarms were no fun at all. But I was making it through OK, and I was slowly starting to regain my sense of balance when suddenly, through no fault of my own, the world started fucking with me.

I felt really dizzy, like I was rocking back and forth, even though I was anchored to a fairly large white couch. I tried to reason with myself, but I was having none of it.

"Wow! Check it out Handsome, the world feels like it's rolling!" myself said to me.

"Fuck off." I replied, " I'm just hung over...Hey Bad Ass, do you want to hear what I had to drink last night?"

"Yeah! Right after my head clears, Pimp Daddy, and after the curtains stop swinging around."

"Curtains? Around? You're hilarious!"

"Holy Shit! This is an earthquake! Quick, let's get that sexy little butt into a door frame!"

"Alright, here we are...in a door frame. Hey, Cool Cat, if this building falls down, are there gonna be a whole lot of door frames that manage to stay intact?"

"Maybe not a whole lot, but this one looks like a good one."

"How can you be sure, it looks just like all the other ones?"

"You are so cute. Let's go outside."

"Deal."

So I went outside. And instantly it struck me how blue the sky was, and how warm the sun felt, and how strange it was that the water in the swimming pool was sloshing around like a washing machine and spilling up over the lip of the pool in an effort to come and get me.

I managed to avoid it, but if I hadn't, my socks would have become wet, and that is the worst thing in the world. Oh yeah, even worse than Matrix Revolutions.

So, after the tectonic episode, my day became a good deal less surreal, unless you count the fact that I spent the next few hours trying to have an instant message conversation with the fastest typist in the world. It's a very humbling hobby of mine.

Yes, another exciting day here in Southern California, where you can bitch about everything except the weather. I know I do.

Now, on to the "meat" of the entry...

Do you suffer from Road Rage? Do you navigate the streets of life in constant consternation? Do you have difficulty fathoming why THE FUCK this guy is not going?

Yes, you do.
Don't try to deny it, embrace it. Road rage is the common bond among us all, and it's nothing to be ashamed of.

No, I'm sorry, that's masturbation that I'm thinking of, but road rage is cool too.

Today I will tell you a story. Surprise.

It is a story about my childhood. I know how much my readers are fascinated by that subject, and since I 'm a man of the people, I must acquiesce.

I was in 3rd grade in Florida and my teacher's name was Mrs. Blankenship. It's strange, I can remember her name very easily, but if you were to ask me what I had for dinner every night last week, I'd only reply with a blank stare. You know, it is entirely possible that I've got some sort of short term memory problem.

I was in 3rd grade in Florida and my teacher's name was Mrs. Blankenship. She was a young, kindly schoolteacher who had long dark hair and kept an enormous brown stapler on her desk. We will come to the stapler in a moment.

I was attending Hopkins Elementary and our mascot was the Hawks. Most of what I remember from that time consists of all the fun I had during P.E. and at Recess, but I'm sure I must've learned something, how else would you explain the Doctorate in Astrophysics hanging on the wall in my office?
Yes, well, you could say that I stole it, but does that make it any less mine?

I can remember being in P.E. and playing with one of those giant parachutes, (did everybody have one of those?) and we'd flap it up and run underneath it and pretty much have all the fun it's possible to have with 30 square yards of nylon.
I can remember getting into my first fight on the playground at Hopkins and also honing my kickball skills to that of the all-American that I was in high school, theoretically.

I can remember receiving my first note that said,

"I like you, do you like me? Check yes or no."

And I checked both boxes. What can I say, I was an asshole third grader. Who wasn't?

The young lady who gave me that note was named Kelly, and we sat next to each other in Mrs. Blankenship's class, a mere ten feet away from the stapler.
Nothing much happened with Kelly, cause she was a prude, but it's cool, I got mine.

Which brings us to a particularly restless Thursday afternoon when we all were just sitting and studying our African American Poetry, (it was a good school) and I was, as usual, just staring out the window. And then it came to me.

The grandest idea my third grade mind had ever conceived of. To say that it was Divine Inspiration is giving God himself too much credit. I thought of it all by myself, and it was magnificent.

I sat at my ugly desk, and a beautiful question floated down to me. A question that simply needed to be answered, and god dammit, I was gonna answer it. I know you want to hear this question, but before I divulge it, just know that I thought of it first and it has already been answered, so don't get any funny ideas.
I'm going to write the question now, probably after this very sentence, and I want to be sure that you have prepared yourself. Ok. You are ready. The question was:

"What would it be like to have my thumbs stuck together?"

Ta-daa! Do you see the genius? No, you don't.
That's because it was a stupid question.
But, nonetheless, it had to be answered. By me.
I thought to myself, "How can I get these two little guys stuck together?" and just as I finished the thought, I looked up, and my eyes landed on The Stapler.

It was an ordinary Swingline, the preferred brand of educators everywhere, and when I described it as "enormous" earlier I may have been embellishing a little to heighten the drama.

So, I'd made my decision, I was going to staple my thumbs together.
It's important to note that I was NOT being brave, tough, or cavalier in any way. It simply didn't occur to me that it might hurt. It does hurt, a lot, but I'm getting ahead of myself.

So, it was time. I casually stood up as not to draw attention to the brilliant plan that I had concocted and I made my way towards the front of the class where the teacher, and more importantly, the stapler was sitting.

"Mrs. Blankenship, may I borrow your stapler?" I asked.

"Sure, Brian." She said. "Take it back to your desk." Sucka.

I took it back to my desk and sat down, my mouth salivating with anticipation. I then spent upwards of fifteen minutes figuring out how best to accomplish this heroic feat, and I decided to unlock the stapler from it's traditional setting so I could fit both of my thumbs over the holes and still be able to exert enough pressure. You understand,
I was afraid that the staple wouldn't go in far enough. Then my thumbs wouldn't be stuck together, and that just wouldn't do.

It's important to note here, that the thumbs have a pulse of their own, due to the tremendous amount of blood being pumped through them at all times.

So I laid the unfolded stapler on my desk, positioned my thumbs appropriately, and pushed down as hard as I could.

It was at precisely that moment that I began thrashing around in pain, screaming, and bleeding profusely from the thumbs which, on the bright side, I had successfully managed to fuse together.

So they called The Janitor, who used a pair of needlenose pliers to remove the foreign object from my hands. In an incredible coincidence, he used the exact same pliers two years later when he had to remove my little sister Claire's two front teeth from my head.

But that's, another story...

Yesterday I saw the Lord Of the Rings and shit my pants.
Not in that order though.
I was standing in my kitchen when I first woke up early in the morning, around 11:50, and I felt the urge to "break wind", or "pass gass", or "cut the cheese" or, as the kids say, " Dobosh up the place" and decided that I would "be like Mike" and "just do it". I released the tension in my constantly clenched bowels ever so slightly to liberate the foulness, and it was at that moment that I crossed over into Middle Age.
I know it seems rash of me to make that claim when I've only been around for 26 years, but how else do you explain the fact that I literally shuffled to the bathroom as fast as I could, all the while holding my underwear tight around my legs to prevent any nasty seepage.
I then went on to nastify the entire bathroom with my interior stench, before concealing my soiled drawers at the bottom of the trashcan. Thank God this blog thing is completely anonymous, this could be really embarrassing.
Once I had properly disposed of the evidence, I had to somehow sneak back into the bedroom, at this point buck naked, where my girlfriend was still sleeping and locate another pair of underpants to make sure that my deception and self esteem remained intact. I couldn't let her wake up and see me until I had managed to get dressed or I was a dead man.
I approached the door, knowing she was at least an hour away from waking up on her own, and I stealthily turned the knob.
So far so good.
As the door swung open with some minor creaks and groans, I held my breath.
She slept on.
I then, for the first time in my life, actually began tip-toeing across the floor towards the dresser. When I finally made it to my underwear drawer, I took a breath. All I had to do now was open it.
She rolled over.
Now she was facing me, and the only thing separating me from eternal shame and anguish were her eyelids, which had started to flutter.
I began to panic.
I couldn't open the drawer with her face two feet away, so I racked my brain for an acceptable cover story and cast my eyes about the room, looking for some avenue of escape.
There was none, I was fucked.
I resigned myself to my fate and sighed out loud as I made an attempt at the drawer.
Or should I say "The shrieking Drawer".
She woke up.
And as I stood there, inarticulate and naked, at the most vulnerable point in my adult life, I couldn't speak. So she spoke for me.
"Ryan, what are you doing? Put some clothes on, it's freezing." Then she rolled back over and went back to sleep.
"Um, Ok." I said sheepishly. I extracted my undergarments from the dresser and slipped out of the room, not believing my good fortune.
I had forgotten the cardinal rule of relationships, the one thing all men must understand if they are to spend any extended time with a woman:

You Never Know What They Will Do.

You can guess, you can theorize, you can have a team of experts observe her everyday behavioral patterns, and still you will still not know what she will say when she wakes up to find you naked, shivering, and staring at your underwear drawer.
So, best of luck gentlemen, and if you've learned anything from this story at all, let it be this;
Keep an extra pair of underwear hidden in every room of your house. I know that I will.
Oh, by the way, Return Of The King was awesome! In fact, it was so good, I shit my pants.

But in a good way.

Allow me to introduce myself, my name is Ryan Dobosh. It occurred to me earlier that you may not know that, so I've decided to be the bigger person and tell you my name first. Ryan Dobosh.
Ryan Dobosh.
Ryan Dobosh.
There, that should take care of Google.
Now welcome, to what is sure to be the second most read entry in the entire history of my blog, being inferior only to the now classic "Victory Speech" (see previous entry, I'll just wait here).

For you see, I have stumbled upon something so controversial and raw that this very blog may be removed from existence once I publish it in an effort to silence my voice, or my typing, whichever They deem to be more dangerous to Them. But there is no fear in my heart, my friends, for I know that what I'm doing is right, even if, God help us, it's not funny.
There is a small piece of information that a certain group doesn't want to get out. And I'm not talking about the Federal Government, although they ARE dicks, I'm talking about a body of evil so insidious that it can only be referred to as The Lone Star State.
That's right.
Texas.

There's something that Texas doesn't want you to know. Something They're terrified you'll find out.

They can't remember the Alamo.

They've tried and tried but no one can seem to recall what happened, when it happened, why it happened, or even where the actual Alamo is located. Everyone employed in the Alamo gift shop has been temporarily reassigned to the El Paso D.M.V. until this crisis passes.

The reason for this monumental failure of recollection has been attributed to the dramatic overabundance of "Don't Mess With Texas" bumper stickers throughout the region. It has been surmised that because the residents of Texas were so preoccupied with the prospect of being "messed with", they completely failed to remember their previous state motto, which ironically enough actually contains the word "remember". Stupid Texas.

I would normally be all too happy to assist them with their problem, after the prerequisite laughter abated of course, but there is a slight problem;

I can't remember The Alamo either.

I know it had something to do with Daniel Boone. Or was it Davy Crockett? I honestly don't know. Which one killed himself a bear when he was only three? Wait, maybe The Alamo was where Billy The Kid used to hang out, you know, down the road from The O.K. Corral where The Lone Ranger worked. It just seems sad to me that something as momentous as this battle apparently was could be lost to the sands of time and apathy, especially when all the people of that time decided that it was definitely worth writing down.

Too bad all they wrote down was "remember the alamo".
That kind of note never works, I have about five thousand scraps of paper that say things like "Girlfriend Remote Control", or "dogs+some sort of clothing?", or "My friend Noah".
These things mean nothing to me, but if I'd have taken the time to take good notes, I could've been shot down so many more times at meetings, rather than letting Mark have all the fun.

Oh! Snap!

Well, that's our motto here at the ol' Ryduffy:

"End it with a jab at Mark."

Oh, and please remember not to mess with Texas, kids. They've been in better moods.

Thank You, thank you very much.
Please, folks please, hold your applause for just a moment.
Thanks.
It has only been a matter of days since I made my now infamous proclamation regarding the status of Iraq, and already you see that my global influence is nothing short of breath taking. I said to you then,

"Don't worry fellas, I got this."

And I Meant It.

Through a collaborative effort between myself and the United States military, one of the most vile despots in world history has been drug from his "command center", or "thinkin' hole", and brought to justice. They say that Hell hath no fury like a woman scorned and I am here to tell you, the people of the world,

We should give Saddam to my girlfriend Darla.

No military tribunals, no trials before an international coalition, just lock him in a room with her, casually mention my lack of commitment, and back away.

The only way that this momentous occasion in world history could be made sweeter, is if somebody had a giant "Mission Accomplished" banner laying around somewhere.
Oh well, you can't always get what you want. Just ask the Rolling Stones, those poor, poor bastards.

So, people of the Earth, tonight when the streets are filled with dancing, and the automatic weapons fire into the sky, and the praises of a thousand tongues falls upon the ears of the innocents, let it be known,

You Are Welcome.

Things that I know to be true:

I am always in the wrong lane.
The Dentists are lying to us.
I make the same absurd face every time I look into a mirror.
A fruit juice does not exist that can't be successfully mixed with Cran.
The Decepticons were cooler than the Autobots. Admit it.
The United States should be two separate countries. Now if The South would just get off it's lazy ass and "rise again" already. Fuck!
That Lady up there is going to pay with fucking quarters!
I will be killed in some pointless car crash.
Josh Lyman needs to do his secretary.
The Mariners will win a pennant before Dave dies. But not The Series.
My air guitar is pitifully unconvincing.
Habit Shirts were not made for dogs.
This ain't no disco. And it ain't no country club either. This is L.A.
Gary Payton is following me.
I once sat in a tree for an entire day, fearing for my life. It was a Monday morning in my fifth grade year and I was getting ready to ride my bike down the road to Bonneville Elementary, located in beautiful Winter Park, Florida. Winter Park was a town in Central Florida that was connected to a rather large swamp. I say was because the swamp has since been paved and settled.
But on this crisp Monday it was alive and well and seething with life. My house was situated right on the edge of where the swamp began and my friends and I had countless places within the jungle canopy that we liked to play in. It was dirty, smelly, infested with mosquitoes, and everything a fifth grade boy could ask for. So on this morning as I made my final preparations to go to school, I noticed that I could not locate my bike lock. I searched all over my house and could not find it, and so decided that I must've left it out in the swamp somewhere. Turns out I was right.
At this point I would like to familiarize you with the Water Moccassin. It is a snake. It is a thick black snake. It is also the only snake in the world that will chase a human being for the purpose of killing and eating it.
Guess what happened next.
That's right, I wandered off in search of my precious bike lock, and it didn't take long before I spotted it. At first I couldn't be sure that it was mine because it was mostly obscured by the thick black snake wrapped all around it.
Now my uncle Jesse had been bitten by a Moccassin and it very nearly killed him, I remember going to visit him in the hospital. So I did the only thing my paralyzed-with-fear mind could think of, I climbed up the nearest tree, all the while staring at the clump of bushes that held both my lock and my doom.
This was, in actuality, the WRONG course of action to take. Did I neglect to mention above that the water moccassin is also unique in that it is the only snake in the world that can climb trees faster than it can move along the ground? Too bad I didn't know that when I was ten.
So I'm sitting up in this tree, shaking like a leaf, afraid to even blink for fear that I would miss the thing making it's move, and trying to convince my legs to unpetrify.
"No thanks," say my legs to me, "you're on your own with this one."
I'm going to end the suspense for you, I didn't die. Nor did I get bitten. Nor did I even catch another glimpse of the hideous beast. But that didn't stop me from cowering in that tree from 8 in the morning until my Dad got home from work that night at around 6:30. And even then, I couldn't get out of the tree.
My Dad had to come up and get me after thoroughly stomping the ground all around the bush I was staring at, which by the way, was not the bush that contained my bike lock after all. I had become mixed up in the confusion of climbing and was staring at an empty shrub all day. In the meantime the snake had gone on about it's business, and to this day it has no idea that I can't even bear the sight of a snake drawing, no matter how cartoonish they're supposed to be. Seriously, some of those old Far Sides scare the shit out of me.

I was about sixteen years old and some friends of mine and I went to the Point Defiance Zoo in Scenic Tacoma where I was crippled for a day.

It began innocently enough when we arrived at the zoo and began our usual teenage milling about, going from one animal to the next and hoping to God that they would be pooping.
As we continued with our delinquency, we stumbled upon an abandoned wheelchair on the side of the path, (that is to say, we found a wheelchair, no one actually tripped on it) and decided to take turns riding in it.
It was tremendously fun, I don't know what those crippled people are always bitching about, and we laughed and laughed.

EDITOR'S NOTE: At NO time during this story was there any sort of drug or alcohol use whatsoever. That would have been cool though.

So it was my turn in The Chair and we zoomed around the monkey cages and made our way to the aquatic performance (big tank) portion of the park just as the Sea Lions were taking the stage.
"The sea lion is the clown of the ocean," says their handler to the crowd of adoring children and soccer moms that has rapidly gathered around to get a closer look. To further illustrate his point about the whole clown-of-the-ocean thing, he has taken the liberty of dressing the sea lion up as a clown complete with a giant red nose.
I wondered if on somedays the sea lions were ever "the cowboys of the ocean" or the "firemen of the ocean" depending on the costume choice of the day.
So the clown does his tricks and he's pretty good, to be fair, and the performance is wrapping up and the trainer says over the loudspeaker,

"Let's see if there are any special people out there that Willy wants to 'say hi' to!"

My friends and I were at the back of the crowd but, sure enough, that fuckin lion tamer spotted me and he and his 500 pound yelping dress up doll started waddling towards us.
We were trapped.
The trainer made sure everybody noticed him being this great guy and had the thing lick me. It was mildly pleasant -On the face, it licked me on the face-, I'll admit, but the fact that I was receiving this preferential treatment based on my fraudulent claim to be handicapped was stripping every shred of enjoyment out of my first experience with bestiality.
Fucking morals.
Anyway, now most of the zoo's patrons were "awing" and smiling to each other, I think there may have even been a round of applause. Yes, upon reflection I'm sure of it, there was a fucking round of applause.
From there on out that day, everywhere we went we were shadowed by these moms and their relentless children who just loved the idea of a man on wheels that smelled like fish. As long as these people were around I couldn't get out of the wheelchair because that would instantly invalidate all of the clapping they had just done, so I sat there.

I was stuck in that thing all day long, and now, whenever I see someone riding in a wheelchair, I give them the "OK" sign and a knowing wink just in case they're only faking being a cripple. Or an amputee.
Whatever, it's none of my business.

You know what sucks about grocery stores? Yes, considering who you are, you probably do. So that brings us to today's topic: Gay sex.

I'm looking forward to Christmas this year as it will be my second in the Golden State and I like the feeling of being both "cold" and "dry". I can't remember that particular combination ever occurring in my native Seattle, and I'm growing quite accustomed to it.
Let's be honest, the weather in Seattle is bad.
Oh, I said it!
I'll say it again!
Take THAT City-that-wouldn't-refund-my-money-after-a-pothole-sheared-off-most-of-my-car's-undercarriage-costing-me-upwards-of-$500! Dicks. Ha ha, I never thought vengeance would feel this good!
I'm going to whiten my teeth. I was reading some crazy article yesterday about how they're putting whitening agents into all the toothpastes nowadays and that got me thinking, "Toothpaste, huh?".
But I'm skipping all that tedious brushing and I'm going to get something that works super fucking fast, and I'll tell you why...I want clear teeth.
No, I did NOT just misspell the word "clean", I want my fucking teeth to be TRANSPARENT.
That's where they're heading with this whole "whitening" thing and I would like to be the first to get there. Won't that be awesome? Soon, the coolest smile will be no smile at all, and poor people will resort to actually removing their teeth just to seem as cool as me. Fuckin' poor assholes. Not you Dave.
Speaking of being poor, here's a great idea for making some money, I've thought of the perfect name for a new tooth whitener...
WHITENING LIGHTNING!!
Huzzah! I've done it! Any of you can now take that idea and make millions of dollars with it. At which point I will mysteriously produce the copyright and sue your ass for half of everything you made, and then we'll BOTH be rich! Yes!
Incidentally, I just spell-checked this entry and I took great pleasure in making the spellchecker learn all of the swear words that I've used. It's almost like corrupting someone else's child, another hobby I'm quite fond of.
Well, time to go and work on my Walken.
Oh, by the way, I have no opinon whatsoever regarding gay sex.

Are you there world, it's me Ryan.

Hello?

Hello?

Shit.