No, I won’t be watching. No, I won’t be giving you a play-by-play. Frankly, it’s because I like my sanity – what little is left of it – and because tonight’s topic is national security, I’d also like to not be fighting the urge to put a fist through my TV for 90 minutes. As a matter of fact, there’s a ton of things I’d rather be doing than watching the debate, so here’s a partial list.
- Root canal. I love root canals.
- Playing with raw meat inside an alligator enclosure in Florida.
- Drinking antifreeze (don’t worry I was a college student once – I’m sure I’ve ingested worse stuff).
- Being ravaged by a herd of hungry yak.
- Being torn apart by Walking Dead zombies.
- Tumbling into a gorilla enclosure.
- Listening to a fat acceptance lecture by Trigglypuff.
- Electric shock therapy.
- Prostate exam. Yes, I know I don’t have one. I don’t care.
- Reading Damien Walter columns.
- Giving Michael Moore a sponge bath.
- Shaving my bikini line with a rusty weed wacker.
- Sniffing Arthur Cho’s bicycle seat.
- Having dinner with cannibalistic pygmies.
- Bathing in my dog’s slobber.
- Giving my cat a bath.
- Memorizing the list of gender pronouns now recognized in New York.
- Two words: Clorox douche.
- Picking the lint from Mama June’s belly button.
- Gargling Axe body spray.
- Having my ovaries removed with a pair of salad tongs. By a blind veterinarian.
- Discussing Kierkegaard with an ADHD toddler.
- Expressing Tucker’s anal glands.
- Expressing ANYONE’S anal glands.
- Trying on Kanye’s new clothing line (yeah, the one that makes you look like you’re a concentration camp survivor).
- Having a Twitter conversation with Anthony Weiner.
- Smelling dog farts.
- Smelling husband farts after a night of cheap beer.
- Napping in a snake pit.
- Working as Kim Kardashian’s gynecologist.
- Reading the Torah at a KKK gathering.
- Using a porta-john at a Nickelback concert.
- Eating my own vomit.
- Drinking a kale, ketchup, and urine smoothie (giving antifreeze a run for its money).
- Picking gum off the bottom of a chair in my old high school and chewing it.
- Listening to Roseanne Barr “sing” the national anthem.
- Making out with Michael Jackson’s desiccated carcass.
- Having a rabid ferret chew on my crotch.
- Snorting hot sauce.
- Three words: hot tar enema.
Get the message?
I was a fan of the original “MacGyver” with Richard Dean Anderson. I realize the character was the 80s version of anti-gun metrosexual, but I enjoyed the show. It was original, interesting, and interestingly enough, it didn’t take itself so seriously, that it tried to make you feel like a bad person for liking guns and eating meat.
That’s why there was this sixth sense tingling in my head that warned me not to watch the 2016 reboot of the 1980s show.
Oh, dear sneezing fuck! Why the hell didn’t I listen?
Five minutes into this clown show, I was fighting the urge to punch my TV and murder the smarmy millennial twerp punk who somehow managed to get the title role! His urge to explain to the audience what a great and brilliant “secret agent” he is, how he’s got this team of badasses backing him up, how he’s this super genius, who has this super genius girlfriend who has won every science award but the Nobel at the ripe old age of maybe 22, who also happens to be a brilliant “analyst” for his ultra secret organization (and an evil mastermind) and his former Delta Army SEAL Special Forces Green Beret Recon gruff buddy.
Yes, please! Let’s assume the audience is stupid and we’ll be explaining even the basic scientific concepts in painfully boring detail.
It’s like the producers of this dreck forgot how to do basic research.
Department of External Services? Really? Is that kind of like Sluzhba Vneshnoy Razvedki (The Russian SVR – its external intelligence agency)? Please kill me!
We need to find the virus, or there will be a catastrophe of biblical proportions!
You know what’s a catastrophe of biblical proportions? A badly-written, badly-acted, poorly-researched retread that assumes its audience is stupid and doesn’t even try to achieve a reasonable suspension of disbelief.
Final verdict: Nope. Nope. Nope. Nopity MacNope!
Why is it that in a world where we have pig fucking jihadists setting bombs in our cities…
Where protests against police shootings turn violent…
Where ISIS launches a mustard gas attack against our troops…
Where Russia’s president Vladimir Putin has proven once again that history repeats itself by essentially revamping Russia’s security apparatus to resurrect the KGB…
And where of the two major party candidates for the most powerful office in the world – one is in bed with the Russians, fellating Putin so hard, that he might actually swallow and digest his microscopic cock, and the other apparently can’t even tell the difference between a classified portion marking and a paragraph marked in alphabetical order (because the only letter in the alphabet is apparently “C”)…
Why is it that with all this shit going on in the world today, the biggest news story on my news feeds is Brangelina’s divorce?
You know what I learned today against my will?
That apparently Brad Pitt was allegedly fucking around on Angelina Jolie with some French actress about whom I know nothing, and who denies this allegation.
Why anyone cares about this, I cannot possibly fathom, but when I get on my news feed (the news app on my iPhone) or on social media, and all I see is the gaunt, fat-lipped face of Jolie and Pitt’s hobo beard, I have to wonder what the hell the obsession is.
Yes, they’re rich. Yes, they’re famous. Yes, they’re probably somewhat weird. But the richer and more famous they are, the more bizarre their public displays and the more problems they have keeping their shit private.
It’s like we’re living vicariously through them! OH LOOK! THEY’RE RICH AND FAMOUS, SO LET’S GAWP AT THEIR FAMILY PROBLEMS TO MAKE US FEEL BETTER ABOUT OURSELVES.
Please. Make it stop.
And yes, I’m cranky. You would be too if you had to do physical therapy for a bum ankle twice every week.
But on the bright side, my buddy Dennis is helping kick cancer’s ass in his own special way.
Now, y’all are familiar with Dennis’ work, because I proudly carry my pistols in various holsters he has made for me. Well, Dennis is raising money to help fight prostate cancer and giving you the opportunity to win…
Now, motherfucker, this isn’t just some ordinary holster!
This holster is autographed by the NY Times Best-Selling author of the Monster Hunter International series Larry Correia, who was kind enough to autograph this holster for this fundraiser when Dennis met him at Liberty-Con.
There are other autographed holsters as well. I noted one with Dean Cain’s signature on it. Dean Cain is hot. Just sayin’.
So here’s how you register to win one of these beauties!
1) Go to the donation page by clicking here.
2) Make the donation in multiples of $10
3) When you go through checkout, select Team Dragon from the drop-down list so that we get credited with bringing in your donation.
4) When you get the PayPal receipt in your email, simply forward that email to email@example.com so we can verify the amount donated, and that the donation was made to Team Dragon.
5) In the forwarded mail, let me know how to apply the donation (which holster, how to split up multiple entries, etc.)
6) We’ll email you letting you know that your entries have been logged.
We’ll draw the winning entries first week of October, after the fundraiser is done.
Go here and do it. Trust me.
Because FUCK CANCER!