Monday, March 23, 2009


Josh Radnor.

Star of TV's "How I Met Your Mother", his name and face must have been implanted via nanochip and 'bot into my pons medulla. Because on the rare occassions when I see and hear him when I am channel-flipping, a tsunami of rage and confusion siezes my solar plexus and I am imminently susceptible to my darkest, most primal impulses. If whomever was standing next to me at the time tells me to fly to Cuba and whack Castro, we'd all be smoking the best cigars right now.

It could just simply be that I am annoyed that TV seems to always look for the blandest, most innoffensive. most pussy-like leading men who may as well have vulvas, and that whenever I think TV has found The One Who Could Not Be Blander (see whomever was the lead on "Dharma And Greg"), TV goes me one blander and pussier. It is a genuine talent, like finding truffles or being Head Floutist for The Boston Pops.

However, I choose to believe there is a vast conspiracy behind my seemingly irrational emotions in regards to Josh. He has never done anything to me. I must have been kidnapped by Masons and pumped with drugs the public has never had access to, and programmed to do their bidding via the Josh Button.

Also, the slightly sticky-uppie hair ("I care about how cool I look but I really don't but I do. Really I don't (do). Do!") makes my shpincter do the Macarayna.

No comments:

Post a Comment