Let's get something straight. I don't hold people (in general) to very high standards. If someone says something like "French fries originated in France." or something equally mentally impecunious, normally, I'll just ignore it. My criteria for interjecting is when their stupidity affects me, i.e., "The bill for your order is 1,496 dollars.", when it's clearly 14.96 and someone didn't learn about decimal points in school, or was attempting to bust out some test-material for their soon-to-crash-and-fucking-burn stand-up comedy career.
I want to talk about something affects me very profoundly every waking moment of my life.
That's right, I'm talking of course about Jon and Kate Plus 8, minus the 8. I can't even begin to explain how Jon's zirconium ear studs affect me when I'm cooking pork bacon and eggs in the morning or am at the grocery store picking out lunch meats. I spend countless sleepless hours thinking to myself "Posh Spice hair? Really?" while musing about Kate's hair. I also was deeply amused by Nancy Grace predaceously tearing into Jon like an enraged Dilophosaurus sinking it's teeth into a Dimetrodon, bitches. I haven't seen a TV host beef with someone that hard since Keith Olbermann started obsessing over Rush Limbaugh like an OCD kid religiously rearranging their bathroom utensils every 1 hour. I would imagine Olbermann wakes up at night sweating from a bizarre nightmare and screaming "LIMMMBAUUUGHHHH!!!!" Then going into his bathroom, and looking at a picture of Limbaugh on his mirror (ala Apollo Creed versus Rocky) and muttering "I'm coming for you, Rush... I'm coming for you..." then popping a shitload of Xanax.
Special Note From The Author: Keith Olbermann probably does drugs. But not as many as Glenn Beck.
As far as I'm concerned, Jon should get a sex change, replacing his genitals with a vagina, because that would be more appropriate. I will even pay for up to half of the operation, and will definitely start a special charity fund to cover the rest. I'll tell people it's for "Breast Cancer Awareness", because as we all know, no one is fucking aware of breast cancer, and are just like furry forest creatures blissfully waltzing through the woods of life, humming delightful little melodies about gathering berries, about to step into the fucking bear trap that is motherfucking goddamn fucking breast cancer. I'd even get a big-name celebrity to endorse the charity, like Nancy Grace or Serena Williams, or fucking Optimus Prime.
Maybe *I* should knock up some poor, unsuspecting woman with 18 babies, who will all emerge at once, and will have their names tattooed on their foreheads, because face it: all babies look exactly alike. After reveling in corpulence, I will place the woman on a strict diet of jellybeans and rum (or whatever it is that makes you skinny. God only knows.) to quickly regain her aesthetic appeal, because no one wants to watch fat bitches on TV, unless they're a weepy middle-aged woman watching the Oxygen! channel. Then I will get a fucking show about how chaotic, hectic and nightmarishly overwhelming my life had become so I can make one million dollars. It'd be great.