unnecessaryz

Me vs. the Update Button: Leprachaun in the Hood

If it were possible for a computer to know the true meaning of the word "rejection", mine would have already tried to get my attention by slitting its wrists right after a failed attempt to lure me into a relationship with a fake pregnancy. As it stands right now, my computer can only convey emotion through your heartfelt posts, which have basically combined to form one gigantic fake pregnancy. Very well, friends. I'll stand by you...at least until we prove it isn't mine.

There's a strange energy in the air right now and almost every funny-person I know is being affected by it. Recent journal entries by many of these people can be summed up with "Sorry I haven't updated. I have nothing funny to say to any of you." I can't say for certain how it's affecting everyone elses lives, but I can tell you about the effect it's having on me.

Basically I've been scoring like a madman in real life. Everything from my writing output to my rapier wit have risen dramatically in the booya margin. I have a renewed sense of what I'm suppose to be doing with myself, and none of it has had anything to do with the internet. Not that I'm going to quit or anything. But everytime I sit down and try to tell you about it, the urge suddenly leaves me like a whiskey driven boner.

I am, however, okay with that. I refuse to succumb to your multiple attempts at driving me into sad-clowndom! For those of you unfamiliar with the plight of the sad clown, it's an exchange between joker and jokee that usually entails the jokee expressing disappointment in the joker's current level of performance. The joker then responds with an uncharacteristically emotional tirade explaining how they are more than just a soulless hilarity production facility designed specifically to meet the nation's growing demand for funny-bone stimulation. It's not that I'm avoiding the tirade to keep you from the satisfaction of having broken me, because I actually am a soulless hilarity production facility. I just happen to be servicing a different area at this point in time. And as much as I love you guys, you're probably going to have to learn to live with your atrophied comedy receptors until your own service area becomes populated by people such as Salman Rushdie, Augusten Burroughs, and Steven Soderbergh. Or until you figure out how me making you laugh results in immediate finnancial gain for the both of us and a dramatic increase in Earth's waining supply of smiling children. Here's a small equation to sum up my proposal. Solve for v.

(me + you)laughter + v = platinum chains