Wednesday, May 23, 2007

Making Trouble

If you make enough categories, eventually everybody will fall into one.

There is a group of people out there, you may have heard of them, you may know one or two, heck, you may even be one yourself. The people in that group are called Born Winners. They are the people for whom Luck is their bitch and Fate is their…other bitch. No matter what they do, (or don’t do, which is even more frustrating) they always come out on top. Arrived to work late because of traffic? That’s the day a disgruntled coworker came in and blew away everybody who showed up on time. Got pulled over for speeding? That’s how they ended up meeting the love of their life and spent the rest of their lives happily married to a cop. It doesn’t matter how bad it seems like things are going to be, because it always works out to the advantage of the Born Winner.

There’s another group of people out there. They’re not so lucky. In fact, they are the complete opposite. Born Losers. No matter how hard they try, life just takes a huge shit on them at least once a day. Al Bundy is a fictitious example of a Born Loser. Not one episode of Married…with children, went by wherein Al didn’t almost win the lottery, almost get a brand new car or almost get to take a two-hour long dump in private. It got so frustrating that I had to quit watching the show. Real life Born Losers end up being country music singers and spend the rest of their lives talking about how their wives left them, their trucks broke down and their dogs died. Pitiful.

Then there’s the group I belong in: Born Trouble Makers. I’m not proud; frankly, I’m annoyed by it. I’m constantly getting in trouble, and many times it’s not even my fault. I seem to have that personality where eventually I will say or do something that, while completely innocent in my eyes, is extremely blasphemous to somebody else. Or what’s even worse are the times when I think I’m doing everything right and that I’m following all directions, and I’ll be all proud of myself, but I still manage to screw things up and get myself in trouble.

Don’t get me wrong. I don’t have the Bart Simpson mentality. I don’t try to get in trouble. I don’t want to cause bad things to happen to myself. I’m just always around when things go bad, and I must have some kind of “blame target” on my forehead because people lob “trouble bombs” at me constantly, (“blame target”? “trouble bombs”? What the hell do those things even mean?)

Sadly, I’ve come to accept my position in life. I’ve even become dependent on it. In all honesty, it’s to the point where, after 26 years, if I’m not in at least a little bit of trouble for something, I get anxious. I start to get scared. The way I’ve always figured it, if I’m not in trouble then that just means my trouble making aura is gathering its strength for some big bit of mischief and I’m going to get screwed.

Also, I have a tough time with bosses and other authority figures. Whenever somebody in charge of me, (work wise, of course) tries to be open, friendly and jokey with me, I shut down, because I know that sooner or later I’m going to do something to disappoint this boss and have him yell at me. I tried explaining it to a boss in the army once, it just made him suspicious that I was going to do something bad like rape his cat pillage his house and burn down his lawn, (or something to that effect).

I’m a decent guy if you get to know me, sure I’m neurotic in ways, of course I have weird habits and rituals, sure my novel sense of humor and stunning good looks take a little getting used to, but I’m not really a bad guy. I try to do the right thing and stay out of trouble, but I think trouble just has a really big crush on me. I can’t get away.

At least I’m not a Born Loser. I may get in trouble often, but I always manage to come through in the end smelling like a rose. A rose that grew in a big pile of cow manure maybe, but a rose none the less.

More Bus Stop Tales

From the files of my favorite humor writers comes Mick. Check out his latest adventures and try not to laugh!
Behold:

It was with customary lack of trepidation that I boarded the bus the other morning. A trepidation that I should have most definitely observed. I'll tell you what happened.

The bus was particularly crowded that day, so, being that my usual seat that nestled me safely in the back right corner was taken, I sat down in one of the outside seats in the middle section of the bus. This was a very disagreeable concept for me; this journey would be a long one and, as I was accustomed to napping during this time, my bus mates would have to endure one hell of a grumpy Mick due to this unexpected lack of proper sleep time. Cursing my lot quietly to myself, I settled in and prepared myself for an intensely unpleasant passage. And I planned on being disgruntled all the way.

Grand as my plans may have been, they were not to be. Humor, having been absent from my day thus far, decided to make a guest appearance. This was done by the sudden appearance of a young child, two seats ahead of mine, picking his nose with desperate urgency. Oh, how seeing that took me back! Such innocence and freedom in such a simple act as picking one's own nose. Before I could continue to reminisce on these matters, however, my attention was quickly pulled back to the child as he suddenly extricated the nuisance. Proud of his success, which he held high atop the tip of his finger, he attempted to get the attention of his mother. Wisely, she had fallen asleep long ago and it was unlikely that she would allow herself to be disturbed from her slumber by his meek attempts. Her loud snoring indicated as much.

The priorities of children are fickle things at best. Upon noticing that his mother was beyond interest, the little boy decided that his prize was no longer worthy of attention. And with that, he carefully curled his thumb under the crusty nose gremlin and flicked. I at once clinched, not knowing where the projectile would land. With amusement, and a good measure of relief, I noticed that the pesky thing was now attached resolutely to the tip of his thumb. I could not resist a grin. But my amusement turned to mounting horror as I watched what happened next. The child, bent on disentangling himself from the responsibility of this monstrosity, stepped up the fervency of his efforts. I cringed each time he would use an alternate finger, then the thumb again, another finger then back to thumb. My clinched hands went instinctively to my mouth and I recoiled as he alternated hands. The wicked dance continued. Just then, when I thought that I could stand no more, the thing flew from his fingertips. The menace was over. Or was it?

With his goal accomplished, the little boy extracted himself neatly from this account. But I, having witnessed all of it, knew that this tale would need a proper ending. There was one chapter left. This chapter could only begin, and hopefully end, with the discovery of where the booger alit. As if on cue, the mother released a mighty bellow of a snore. My attention snapped to her and the horrific sight that was attached to the bottom of her upper lip. In my mind I was screaming as I watched it flap into her mouth as she inhaled, and flap outwardly as she exhaled. I knew at that precise moment that my need for closure was a misguided concept. I pulled the bell, opting to exit the bus early and catch a cab to my destination. I was mortified at the thought of beholding this situation when it came to fruition. As the bus came to a stop, I exited from the rear door. As I stepped onto the ground I heard the mother snort loudly. I shuddered as that was followed by the sound of her smacking lips. The door closed as the story ended. I called a cab.

Bodily Functions- The Poof- aka F*rt (rhymes with smart)

Howdy all! I am very pleased to present to you, a good friend of mine, (in that she's probably the first person I've met in Myspace that I also met in real life) a Jersey Girl for life, (how sad) and one of the most hilarious women I've ever met: Hey Kel! (Kelly is her real name.) When I met her I noticed that she has the rapid delivery and impecable timing of a stand-up comedian, so I decided right then and there to see if she's as funny a writer as she is in person. Guess what? It worked. She's frickin hilarious!
So, without further ado, I'm proud to introduce, for her first, (and hopefully not last) time as a writer in Eighty-Four Glyde: HEY KEL!

Lay it down for these fools girl!

First off, so that we're all aware of what it is we're discussing, a poof is a bodily function that releases gaseous waste. I don't say f*rt. I think it's an ugly word, so when I say "poof", know that we're talking f*rts.
You might be thinking,"Why is this girl talking about poofing? What, is she some sort of skank?". The answer is no. I'm not a skank. I would just like to know if my ideas on poofing are normal.
Let's take it back a few years, to the age of five or so. I grew up in my grandparents' house, with my mom and my aunt. I was taught to mind my manners, say "please" and "thank you", chew with my mouth closed, and save all bodily functions for the restroom. If it happened to slip, it was known in my house as "passing gas". I don't care for that term. "I've just passed gas." To whom? Why would you pass your gas? Hence, "poof" was born.
These manners had been drilled into me, like a prisoner of war. I had been brain washed. If someone is in my presence chewing with their mouth open, I get a tight feeling in my chest, I start to shake and sometimes cry, and have an urge to flip the dinner table onto them, then go over and step on their throat with a high-heeled cowboy boot, but that's another blog altogether.
Fast forward to 1990. I was 14. I was hanging out with my "boyfriend" and his friend, sitting on the street, Indian style, the three of us in a circle, talking about nothing. In the dead of the night, it escaped like a mouse from its trap. I looked at the boyfriend, who was looking down the street, trying to pretend he didn't hear it. I thought I got away with it, until I looked in the direction of the friend. I can picture it in slow motion, looking in the face of the friend, who screamed into the night, "YOUUUUUUU SKAAAAANNNNKKKK!!!!! YOU JUST F*RTED!" I tried blaming it on my shoe rubbing against a pebble on the pavement. No dice. It wasn't happening. I'm sure my face was glowing crimson. (My heart is pounding and my palms are sweaty as we speak) I don't think I emerged from my house for a year. No joke.
2007- I have been married to my husband for twelve years, together for thirteen. I have yet to poof in front of him. At least, that's what I think. One may have slipped out during slumber, but he'd never admit that to me for fear of me hanging myself from the rafters in the garage and having to raise our children alone. Why is this an issue for me? Is it like this for everyone? I have been in situations with horrible stomach cramps, sweat pouring out of me, but I refuse to release the poof. Is this normal?
I've discussed this with my husband. I told him I was going to start poofing in front of him. I've endured his bodily waste for thirteen years. I bore him three children. I think I deserve compassion and understanding. Do you know what he said? "DON'T YOU DARE, IT'S DISRESPECTFUL." I'm waiting for the divorce lawyer to call back.
So my question to you is, "Is it normal and acceptable to poof in front of your significant other, or anyone else for that matter?"
Stay tuned for my next blog entitled "Belches-Are They Worse Than Poofs?"

O 2 b in Jers-E (or: Awww, do I hafta?)

I was inspired by a previous column I did about Maryland, my home state. What if I were to do a write up about all 50 states? I asked myself. Shut up and pass the scotch, I replied. And so it was.

I’ve been hither and yon across this great country of ours. I’ve climbed the highest heights of Diamondhead, on the lovely island of Oahu, and run through the swamps of southern Florida, trying not to end up as Bobby Boucher’s dinner. I’ve peed in Lake Erie, canoed through the mighty Pine Barrens and eaten boudain, in hot and humid Louisiana.

Yet, in all my many adventures and travels, I’ve only actually ever been to, 16 states, maybe 17 at most, (and by saying I’ve been to these states I mean that I have actually set foot on the ground, I didn’t just hang out at the airport drinking overpriced cocktails at nine in the morning, (although I did that too.)) So I’m going to have to engage in much traveling in the months or years to come, (or at least until I get bored of writing this nonsense). In the meantime, I will have to start with states I’ve already been to. First up: Ohhh, I’m scared to say this, New Jersey.

As I start, let me just say to everybody, I don’t hate Jersey, hell, both sides of my family are from there and I have many other friends who either come from there, or unfortunately still reside there. They know that I kid because I care. With that out of the way, Jersey is a dump!

What does one picture when one thinks of New Jersey? Dirty, scum filled shores, filled to the brim with your choice of

a) medical waste

b) toxic waste

c) industrial waste

d) dead Italians

Talk about polluted! Jersey takes up only .002 percent of our land mass, .03 percent of the total population and produces an ass load of pollution. (These are ballpark figures of course) Let me put it this way, it’s no coincidence that the Toxic Avenger, (a hideously deformed creature of superhuman size and strength) is the only superhero to come out of the refuse that is New Jersey.

When I think of Jersey I think of quaint old-fashioned traditions, like being too lazy to pump your own gas, being unable to make a left turn from anywhere, Jersey girls with scary hair and no gag-reflexes, guidos pinned to the ground by the shear amount of grease and gold adorning their bodies and the weird idea that house construction techniques were mastered in the ‘40s, which is why they haven’t built any new ones since then.

It can’t just be me. Does anybody remember the state motto debate from a few years back? Then Governor Jim “The Catcher” McGreevey, was torn between New Jersey: We’re getting better! And Jersey: Have you had all your shots? In the end, they just picked Liberty and Prosperity. Which is a cop out motto in my opinion.

But there are plenty of good things about New Jersey. Firstly, they have the best cheese steaks in the world. I can say this without fear of reprisal from people from Philly for a two reasons. The first being that Jersians (I asked and yes, this is what they liked to be called) understand that cheez whiz isn’t actually food and therefore should never be accidentally ingested. The second reason is that Jersians understand the need for good bread. The quality and type of bread that is used can seriously make or break a cheese steak.

The second reason to like Jersey is because, ummm, they (wow, coming up with a second reason is hard!) that is…where they keep…all of New York’s sporting teams? I dunno. Wait, I got it, Atlantic City!

My favorite part of Atlantic City isn’t the streets that inspired the Monopoly properties; it’s the hookers! There’s a certain class of hookers that work AC. They’re sad, usually ugly and always drunk, but they’re hilarious! I could waste hours just sitting watching all of the scared tourists as they try to avoid these pros in a civilized manner. It’s not possible though. It’s like trying to find one person in Japan who doesn’t enjoy super violent porn comics. You can’t do it. So these tourists try to keep a stiff upper lip and a smile on their faces when they speed-walk past the hookers who are yelling obscenities at the world in general. It’s truly a sight to behold.

There are other good aspects to Jersey, but I’m running out of space here (and I’m lazy), so you’ll have to find them for yourselves.

Join me next time when I stick it to another state. So beware, those who laughed when I made fun of Jersey, for your state will be next (provided you live in Pennsylvania that is)!

Wednesday, May 09, 2007

28 Weeks Later wasn’t enough

One of the joys of being me is that I have access to all types of things the Great Unwashed does not. One of those things is called a “television.” And on this “television” there is a local D.C. news and entertainment show that, if watched on the proper day, will give viewers the ability to acquire free movie passes for some movie that isn’t yet available to the masses. Usually I don’t go see these sneak-preview movies because they’re on Tuesdays or Thursdays and I’m too lazy to motivate myself. Plus the lines are long, sneaking in alcohol is a bitch and the theaters are all far away, (okay, that’s all a lie, I just can’t get a date!)

But this week the ticket was for 28 Weeks Later. Which, many horror fans will recognize as the sequel to the 2003 British smash hit 28 Days Later, which chronicled the struggle of snaggle-toothed British zombies as they yearned to leave England (can you blame them) and find a decent, non-boiled meal.

That movie was different from normal zombie movies because these zombies were really pissed off. Regular old George Romero zombies just shuffle along, bump into things and generally act much like reality t.v. fans. But the British zombies are much more into cardio. They run everywhere and spend the majority of their time puking up blood and attacking windows, (honestly, I counted 5-7 total minutes of screen time in 28 Weeks Later, focused on window head-banging.)

Anyway, the star of the first film wasn’t too keen on reprising his role for the sequel, so they brought in Robert Carlyle, the most forgetful James Bond villain ever, (go ahead, without using IMDB see if you can even name the Bond movie he was in. I’ll wait.) as the new main character. Here’s the story, it’s quick and easy, then I can get on with the rest of the review, which is really about the people in the theater with me. Carlyle plays Don, a guy who survived the initial wave of zombies by hiding out in a farmhouse with his wife and a few other random nobodies that quickly go the way of Star Trek Red Shirts. During an attack, Don is the only one able to survive, (by abandoning his wife and not even looking back twice as he ran away. A true inspiration to all men in relationships everywhere, who secretly wish that they too could just up and run away from their women one day and not look back.)

Luckily, when the zombies were taking over society in the first movie, Don sent his kids to Spain, (including his daughter, played by the suicidally named Imogen Poots. Poots? Are they serious with that name? What, was Fart already taken?) After the American military, (the good guys?) show up and make England safe for everybody again, they start bringing back civilians. First up, Don’s kids. The movie could end right here (20 minutes into it) and everybody would be fine, but no. The kids suffer from the same mentally crippling disease that all WPs suffer in horror movies, Investigatius Stupiccocus, otherwise known as “Hey, What’s That?” disease. They wander around London and find their mom, alive and well, (alive at least) she had been bitten by the zombies, but didn’t transform. The military sees this as the key to curing the disease that turned everybody into zombies in the first place, (actually one military officer does, the others see it as a reason to kill a bunch of people). Sadly, the lady is still a carrier of the “Rage” Disease. One thing leads to another and everybody becomes a zombie again. But this time it’s different. Why you ask? Because the good ole’ U.S. of A army is there with a plan! Kill everybody! Obviously, Bush and the rest of his staff of geniuses formulated this plan.

So, the kids with the antibodies or whatever hook up with a special forces dude and run around the streets trying to escape the zombies and the American military, (hey, who doesn’t these days?). The movie ends with stuff happening, but I’m not too sure because by that point my rage at the rest of the audience had achieved Michael Douglas in Falling Down levels of frustration. I now understand his motivation for walking around with a bag of guns.

Michael: So Joel, what’s my motivation in this movie? I mean, why am I so pissed off at everybody?

Joel Schumacher: Imagine this, you just spent the last two hours in a theater with people who won’t shut the hell up, crying babies that parents won’t take out of the room, cell phones going off even though they should be on silent, that one guy behind you who thinks he’s a film major and has to dissect everything very loudly to the person next to him and the other one guy who yells things out at the screen because he thinks he’s funny. Ok?

Michael: Oy Vey!

Damn this is long. Okay, let me finish this off now. The movie wasn’t that good. There were way too many close ups of peoples eyes, too many shaky hand-camera shots, (Dramamine may be required for some viewers) and much of the action was in the dark, blurry or too up close to actually see. Rent it when it comes out, but don’t bother in the theater. In fact, never bother with theaters again, too many inconsiderate people. I recommend illegally downloading movies off the internet, it’s easier and has that element of danger, which makes it fun!

Ok. Tune in next time when I review…28 Months Later: The Tom-Kat story.

Monday, May 07, 2007

Camp town ladies sing this song

So, the Kentucky Derby is coming up soon, (or maybe it already happened. I dunno and I’m too lazy to check). Does anybody besides the Elmer’s Glue Corporation (motto: You’re rubber, We’re Glue!) and your local McDonald’s remember Barbaro? In case you don’t remember who I’m talking about, Barbaro is the horse who won the last (next to last? Man I should start doing some research before I just type these things) Kentucky Derby, but during the next race (The Preakness? Hanna Barbara’s Wacky Race? The Cannonball?) Barbaro faltered, either because he was taking too many steroids, or he corked his bat –one of the two- and broke a leg. The bone was sticking out and everything. I could barely watch it more than seventy three times.

Because he was a Kentucky Derby winner, his owners decided to go all out and hook Barbaro up with the best treatment Dr. Doolittle could give. Naturally, God hates horses, which is why he made them so brittle, so they ended up having to kill Barbaro anyway. It wasn’t a shining endorsement for the veterinarian business.

For some reason, during his convalescent period, people felt it necessary to send letters to Barbaro telling a horse that they hoped he got better. I’m sure all those letters meant a lot to him as his was being killed for having a broken leg.

Anyway, I’m here to talk about the Derby, not any particular horse, (although the new McBarbaro bites they have down at McDonald’s are great!). If you’ve never been to the Kentucky Derby, you should go. A good time will be had by all.

I went once, a few years ago. The Army base I was stationed at decided to do a group trip. So we all (and by all I mean everybody who decided to participate, not all 23,000 people at the base) piled in a bus and made our way to Churchill Downs. Once we arrived we were given betting money (your tax dollars at work suckers!) and told where to be when it was time to go at the end of the day.

If you’ve never been then you don’t know how much of a party it can be. Sure there are all those uptight Southern Belles and Gents who show up dressed to the nines (a phrase I’ve never understood), wave their little fans, drink their mint juleps and go around saying “I do declare Mr. Beauregard!” But you’ve also got the crazy college-age, drink until your BAC is 1.35 crowd there as well. Located inside the track (what is that called, centerfield? I honestly had a brain fart and couldn’t think up anything better than “inside the track.” It’s a good thing I’m not getting paid to do this) this crowd loves to drink, party and display various body parts at the slightest provocation. It’s much like Mardi Gras that way. When you go, be sure to bring your own alcohol, because the Churchill Downs people are brutal with some prices. I bought a mint julep in a commemorative glass and the damn thing cost me eight dollars! What a rip off! It’s a good thing I had plenty of Everclear and coke.

Which reminds me, drinking heavily in the blazing hot Kentucky sun is a recipe for severe overheating. I’m talking overheating to the level where the skin on your face and arms cooks and release delightful aromas that have nearby fat people liking their lips in hunger. And you can’t do anything about it because you’re lying on the ground drunk, trying not to lose your balance on a world that’s spinning too much. So make sure to bring an umbrella, or at least a hat. Drink safe!

Oh and bring beads, because just like cigarettes in prison, they can buy you many things, if you know what I’m talking about. Wink wink. A camera would also be advantageous.

My fondest memory of the Kentucky Derby is not watching it at all. When the main race was announced everybody ran up to the fence to get the best view possible. I was able to get excellent positioning and I even brought a chair, (standing on one’s feet is so pedestrian) then, as soon as the race started I purposely decided to read a book instead of paying attention to the race. Because that’s just the kind of guy I am. I don’t really know why I did it. In retrospect it seems kinda stupid. I mean, who goes to see Fourth of July fireworks then lies on their stomach and looks at blades of grass during the big finale? Man, what was I thinking? I went to the Kentucky Derby and didn’t even watch the damn horses run! I’m an idiot! I think it’s time for me to go on another road trip. Where the hell did I put my beads?

Wednesday, May 02, 2007

I’m gonna lose an assload of readers with this one

I hate to say it, (no, that’s not right, I just hate that it’s true) but Americans are stupid. I mean really stupid. I’m sorry to insult all of my North American readers, but it’s okay, bcuz I didn’t rite it lik dis, u prolly don’t even kno wh@t im sayin.

Okay, that was unfair. Let me start again.

America, what the f$(# is wrong with you?! Have we strayed so far from the original purpose of this country, (which was to be able to legally have sex with family members if I’m not mistaken) that we have just become through-the-looking-glass reflections of ourselves?

Back in the day, America used to stand for freedom, equality, tolerance and extreme hypocrisy (because although we love to talk about it, our country has never embraced though values), now it just stands for suppression, knee-jerk reactions, jingoism, patriotic rhetoric, overly sensitive people, political correctness and a very large amount of douchebag tourists who go around the world to spread the bad American image.

Alright, it looks like this might turn into a rant, but I’m going to stop myself if I go too crazy. Let me just state for the record that I’m the least political person I know and I have no ties to democrats or republicans. I continue.

Let’s look at a few examples.

Imus. Who did he really offend? Did he offend the super-dyked out female Rutgers basketball team? Did he offend women with untamable hair? Did he offend hoes? Seriously. I want to know. He made a joke. Not a good joke by any means, but he didn’t do anything worth being fired for. There are so many things about that issue that piss me off, I don’t even know where to start. Was it really a racial comment? Maybe. Blacks didn’t really care for the nappy-headed portion of that statement. But I think the only reason it’s about race is because some people made it about race. Are there any white girls on that team? Are there white girls with nappy hair? Are there black chicks who don’t have nappy hair? Not every single woman on that team can be described as a nappy-headed ho, so why were they all equally offended?

I’ll tell you why, (which is good because that last paragraph had way too many questions). It’s because Americans feel the need to worry about other people. What Imus said pissed off the people he wasn’t even talking about. Those people felt that others should also be outraged, so they made a big deal about it. Then things spiral out of control until you get to the point where women on the basketball team said that their lives were ruined and they had to undergo therapy because those three words completely destroyed any chance they had of living happily ever after, (I love how they all shut the hell up the next week when Vtech went through a real situation. Kind of puts “nappy-headed hoes” in perspective, doesn’t it?)

The people who got pissed are the same people who are always trying to speak for others. They are the ones who try to explain how teenagers feel even though they haven’t been that age since cars had seatbelts. They are the ones who think that everybody feels and thinks the same way they do, therefore they have to get in everybody’s business. They are your parents, they are your friends, they are your co-workers, they are the people who like to believe that they are good and therefore anything they do is for the benefit of us all.

Let’s get into the next example: Alec Baldwin.

You know what Alec did? He yelled at his kid. That’s it. He yelled at his kid. It doesn’t get any simpler than that. He doesn’t need to go on a bunch of shows and apologize. He doesn’t need to quit 30 Rock, (that show’s hilarious and would suck ass without him). What he needs to do is to tell everybody to shut the hell up and worry about their own children.

There is absolutely no way that anybody can justify to me why they need to worry about how the Baldwins raise their children. So he called her a pig. So he didn’t really seem to remember his daughter’s age. So he named her Ireland. BFD! Besides, nobody really knows what she did to raise that ire in him. Maybe she deserved it. I bet you that the words he used hurt a lot less than a beating would.

Listen, America, (I’m gonna keep this short) just knock that shit off! Stop having knee-jerk reactions. Stop reacting how you think you’re supposed to react and start using your brain. Stop being so quick to get offended and start being objective. I’m not going to tell you to quit judging people, hell if I took that advice it’d be the quick death of Eighty-Four Glyde.

I have but one dream in life. That dream is for the audience of Are you smarter than a fifth grader? to wake up and realize just what the hell that show means and maybe kill Jeff Foxworthy.

If that’s too farfetched, then I just dream that somebody kills Jeff Foxworthy.