I drink. A lot. Take however much you drink, multiply it by a really high number — say, your age — and that should give you a modest idea of how many drinks I’ve had while writing this post. The other thing I do when I’m out drinking is pee, also a lot. In fact, I would say I spend as much time in the bathroom at a bar as I do drinking at a bar — more so if I include the time I spend in bar bathrooms not urinating, if you know what I mean (wink-wink). Seriously, I have a bladder like a gerbil.
So, anyways, when I’m in the middle of one of my marathon 2 minute sissies all I have to look at, other than my enormous manhood or the slightly less-than enormous manhood of the guy next to me, is those annoyingly cheesy 8.5″x11″ ads they put up on the wall above the urinal. I’m usually pretty trashed, so what goes through my head while I’m looking at these things is “Oh my god, Becky, these ads are so hilariously bad. I’m going to try to take a picture of these mistakes of targeted advertising with my camera phone without splashing urine everywhere and then post them on my flickrfacespacebookjournal.com account tomorrow when I wake up. Then, my friends friend people who were dumb enough to add me as a friend will see how motherfucking funny I am. And then, they will love me.”
What actually happens, however, is I wake up in the afternoon, upload the pictures, and realize, of the ones that aren’t totally blurry, I can’t remember why most of them were funny. Of all the pictures I take, about 1% maybe end up getting posted anywhere. Oh, and no one finds them funny. So, what I’m going to do now is post some of the rejects and try to figure out why I thought they were funny. This should go over really well.
I'll tell you what's knocking, and it ain't opportunity. It's the spawn of Satan, come to Earth to judge those who doubted his father's true power. I think that's why I thought this was funny. That kid looks to be pretty much soulless. That or his dad just bought the house with one of those adjustable rate mortgages and used cash advances from his Sears card for the down payment, and the kid is just pissed that he has such a dumbass for a father. Good teeth, though. And what's up with the mom's shoulder pads in this one? Newsflash lady: the reason Hubby Ron is sticking it to that junior accountant at the insurance company where he works is entirely your fault. You dress like you're from that cult started by that French race car driver and your hair looks like you just got out of the hospital for postpartum depression circa 1986. I wouldn't even wear a condom if I was him. Junior accountants are usually pretty clean.
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