You know, for the longest time I refused to believe that there exists a kooky wingnut named "S. E. Cupp." I thought it was a joke, you know, "Sippy Cup," a purveyor of childish drivel. I also for the longest time refused to believe that a website run by Tucker Carlson actually exists on the Internet as we know it. Fortunately, determined investigation has proved me correct and it can be stated with confidence that there are in fact no such entities as "S. E. Cupp" or "The Daisy Call-Girl" and that nobody is dumb enough to believe you could ever get rich by banking on the likability of horrible halfwit dishwater failures like Tucker Carlson.
During a brief respite, I was flipping through the channels the other night only to discover that I have no desire to watch the Olympics, and that every year my interest drops significantly. Initially this puzzles me—as a child I used to really enjoy them. But after thinking about it, I realize that the reason I once liked watching the Olympics so much wasn’t because Katarina Witt had such a great sit-spin. It was because I was allowed to stay up late for two weeks out of the year to watch TV with my parents. It was like a slumber party. But then, so was the first Gulf War (a pass to stay up late and watch TV, that is, not a slumber party—unless perhaps you were a couple of Saddam’s kids.) Now that I can stay up as late as I want—and thanks to the demands of work and insomnia I do — the Olympics have become the Halloween candy of adulthood. Sure I could eat an entire bag of Good & Plenty, Nerds and Twizzlers in one night, but would I want to?
Fuck fuck fuckely fuck fuck fuckbooger fuckbananas fuck. Or, yawn.
I mean, honestly.