If images of serene natural settings are accompanied by three wolves, this picture deserves three mangy coyotes.

There are some things, totally devoid of sexuality, that nonetheless seem sexual. Indonesian Sand Volcano is one of those things. Could that sound any more like a dirty sex position? I will never hear about an Indonesian Sand Volcano and not think someone just took a dry dump on someone else’s chest.

I will also never drink sun tea. Because someone dipped their balls in it. I just know it.

It’s not even worth wondering what we did to make God mad. What haven’t we done to make God mad? We use his name in vain, break all his rules, deny his existence, skip his gatherings. We act like God is dead, but God isn’t dead. We’ve locked him in a retirement home waiting for him to die, but he’s not dead. He’s Grandpa Simpson. And that’s WAY worse. At least dead people are unaware we eventually forget about them.

The hurricanes, volcanic eruptions, and drastic climatic changes – They could all be coincidental natural disasters. But the one that indicts God as the culprit is that gigantic earthquake that struck Christchurch, New Zealand. I know I told you to look no further than Indonesia, but I guess I lied. Look over here at New Zealand now. . . Just do it.

I haven't seen a split like that since my shorts ripped in 7th Grade gym class. The crack is also reminiscent of that day.

You might be thinking, “Why Christchurch? If God was responsible wouldn’t he spare places that honor him?” Of course not, naïve hypothetical objector. God is just like us: He hurts the ones he loves. When he has a bad day at work he takes it out on his wife. Yes, I just paralleled God and wife-beaters. I’m not saying God is wrong for slapping us around a bit. We totally have it coming. I’m just saying he should maybe save the massive earthquakes for Sodom and Gomorrah (New York and Hollywood). Actually, fuck it. Destroy Christchurch, New Zealand. Sounds like a self-righteous fucking town anyway.

My name is Ben and don’t even get me started on how “HURRICANE EARL” is just an anagram for the phrase “HEAR CRUEL RAIN.”

Ben Bailey says - "Stay away from my cab, Darkie."

When you go home for vacation during the work week you invariably watch a lot of CASH CAB. That’s what you do. It’s on every channel, at every hour of the day and night. Cash Cabbie Ben Bailey’s mug staring you in the face at every turn. I was home for six workdays, so I estimate I watched approximately 800 episodes of the show. I saw people win outrageous sums of money. I saw people lose outrageous sums of money. I saw people survive by the skin of their teeth. I saw people falter at the last second. All of them had one thing in common: They were all white. CASH CAB is for white people.

More to the point, CASH CAB is for rich people . . . Who just so happen to exclusively be white. Who else rides in cabs but rich white people? I lived in New York for awhile and I wouldn’t have even thought about taking a cab unless I was lost in Harlem. And I wouldn’t have thought about it then because I know cabs don’t even think about coming to Harlem.

During my “impoverished” (quotation marks meant to indicate white poverty) four years in New York, I trekked for miles through the rain and snow, too poor to afford subway fare. I would’ve kissed Ben Bailey on the mouth for a cab ride. For a cab ride lavish with cash prizes I’d have sucked his Irish . . . Aaaaaaaanyway . . . Don’t judge me, I was surviving on stolen Hot Pockets back then. Do you have any idea how many bad decisions it takes to end up surviving on stolen Hot Pockets? An Irish cock in the mouth wouldn’t have cracked the top ten.

. . .

Moving on . . .

. . .

Game shows and the lottery should only be for the poor. People who can afford cabs have already won the game show/lottery called Life. Two episodes into my run of 800 CASH CABS I was already tired of watching the same old white woman stumble out of the cab and into a Macy’s to spend a wad of cash on more mismatched, overpriced fabrics. There’s literally nothing worse than watching lucky people get luckier. I want to see unlucky contestants’ fortunes changed by getting in that cab. I want to see someone enter in tears and exit with rent money. I want to see someone nail the Video Bonus and get to keep the heat on. I want to see the Cash Cab pull up and let a dude out at a Soup Kitchen!

Ben Bailey needs to be coaxing people out of the subways and off the buses; pulling up alongside pedestrians in his van like a pedophile, luring people into his Cash Cab. The unsuspecting white cab customers aren’t cutting it. For them, this game of trivia is . . . well, trivial. Though maybe that’s how it’s supposed to be, since we all know trivia is racist also.

It's no wonder Cash Cab won an Emmy. The Emmies are racist, too.

My name is Ben and my show CASH BUS lasted one episode and two robberies before cancellation.

When I say the word “vacation” I’m sure the same thing jumps into every one of your heads: Checklists. They are clearly the best thing about travel. Thanks to checklists I had no trouble remembering to pack my flip-flops, charge my cell phone, or make more checklists. Now that I’m home, I can do my final vacation checklist to ensure I utilized my vacation time correctly.

• Fun in the sun – Check in the check.
• Food by the fistfuls – 10 pounds of check.
• Frolic with family and friends – Check, check and check.
• Take back the word “frolic” – Check in progress.
• Check on a check – Check.
• Discover the origin of the word “check” – Eschac.
• Produce a Play – Chekhov.
• Make a Mix – Chex.
• Become a King – Checkers.
• Offer a hokey catch-phrase symbolizing my return – Unchecked, but I can rectify that right now:

My name is Ben and I’m BA-AAAAAACK . . . Check . . . CHE-EEEEEECK.

One simple facial expression is enough for us to hate her without hearing her speak.

Don’t think this is an isolated incidence, however.  To date, Palin has almost created her own entire language.  Here are a few more words from the Standard Palictionary, accompanied by origins and definitions.

martyrick (n) : hybrid of martyr and maverick; describes an individual that is selflessly willing to sacrifice a high-ranking elected position in order to appear on conservative talk shows as a “political revolutionary”

Twidder (n) : alternate spelling for Twitter; theoretical region within the Twitter community reserved for users so intellectually barren that they consistently manage to embarrass themselves in 140 characters or less

betcha (n) : hybrid of bet and you; used to express confirmation when a simple yes would be too professional; often preceded by you, the phrase you betcha (or you bet you) is both confusing and redundant

whynk (n) : hybrid of wink and why; to briefly shut one eye in a manner that pisses everyone off and beckons the question “WHY?!”

My name is t.j .and I’m proud to say that blog became a word before martyrick.

Do not make any commercial trips with your rocket car today. Only leisure rocket-carring will be permitted.

My name is t.j. and blogging is labor.

Given that I’m a child raised by television, I prepped myself for this – I had already witnessed several “Seinfeld” episodes where the Senior Costanzas turned George’s childhood space into an ill-fitting game room to house their new pool table. Parents taking up hobbies, parents trying to live out their gone and forgotten youth; parents finding other parents; that was the “norm” I inexplicably set for myself.

What I found when I returned to my Mom’s house to stay this summer was not predictable in any way that television has trained me for. I didn’t find a single illegitimate stepfather she had magically gained since my departure, nor a “recreation/guest room” in the space I had left untouched. Instead of any of these typical parent-with-adult-child symptoms, I discovered that my Mom had filled the void I left upon my departure with – yes – more cats.

I see through you, cat with an almost adorable mustache of fur. You're just a plaid shirt, a Budweiser and a trucker hat away from telling me I'll never make anything out of my life.

Somehow in the space between living with her as a child and returning as an adult with my tail between my legs (figuratively speaking) the Prescott family cats have taken on a more vengeful state.

Daily they glare at me from beyond my cereal bowl, contemplating how sweet the world was when they were the star of this particular sit com. Weekly they find some way to punish me for playing my rock music and sitting on “their” couch.

I just wish my Mom was a normal Mom.

I would happily trade the kitty piss in my black Keds for a shirtless guy named Jeff lounging on my couch and pretending to be a father figure in my life.

I would easily swap the hairball on my bed for my Mom even attempting to pull a Kris Kardashian and be a “super cool Mom” now that she has adult children and can return to the youthful version of herself she left in the ‘80s.

As a matter of fact, my Mother is taking a stab at this last one. Amping up her god-given “sassy broad” personality with an impossibly larger dose of sassiness; though all of this is arguably negated once she engages in full on conversations with her feline children. Which she does. And they glare at her back in silence. And she replies. It’s an eerie thing to encounter that silently encourages me to never be single for longer than 2 years.

I wouldn’t normally have a problem with it, but because of the cats – because of the hairballs, the poop, the piss, the problems; because of them making me feel like I don’t belong in my own home, I put my Prescott foot down.

My name is Julia Prescott, and you can claim my childhood room once you obtain opposable thumbs and pry it from my cold, dead human hands. ….That would actually be kind of amazing. Much more deserving of just living in a room in a human house, but you know – that’s a good start.

We are shocked by the lack of humor brought forth by the world and somehow, as foolish as it may be, we can’t help but feel partly responsible.  Nothing funny happened today.

Today, this is the funniest image available on the internet.

Our memories are flush with sadness.  Recollections of skiing squirrels and grandmother farts are too distant to draw a smile.  Nothing funny happened today.

No monument of hilarity exists from the historical importance of the date.  Alas, Beverly Hills 90210 (9/02/10) Day only reminds us that the program has been resurrected by the CW like a vicious, undying plague.  Nothing funny happened today.

Mel Gibson and Lindsay Lohan have formed at pact in which they will not speak, think, or publicly destroy their lives for our amusement.  Nothing funny happened today.

The only television programs to watch- seemingly on every channel- were created by Tyler Perry.  Nothing funny happened today.

I read an “editorial” on Glenn Beck’s new website and cracked an ever-so-faint smile, but my reasons were not outwardly ironic.  Nothing funny happened today.

We hope and pray that tomorrow delivers us crotch shots, public announcements from Sarah Palin, the release of a new Twilight trailer, and all the things in this world that put a chuckle in our heart.  But nothing funny happened today.

My name is t.j. and today I am a living sad clown portrait.

Just popping by for a minute with an update from Suburban Detroit (and to give t.j.’s middle finger a rest). The Sav-On Drugs is open 24-hours now, y’all. If you’re looking for a supermarket at 2AM and you can’t locate a good nuclear fallout shelter, Sav-On is your next best bet to fill your grocery needs. They have as many as four different types of cereal! And only three are Rice Krispies! Even if it’s 2PM, Sav-On is still probably your spot, because get this: They closed the Kroger don’tcha know it! I know what you’re thinking: “WHAT?!?!?!” I said the same thing, only with more punctuation marks. And without the caps. Tacky. Anyway, Sav-On sells a bunch of different types of milk to go with your Krispies, most of them pretty boring; 2%, 1/2%, snooze%. But one stood out: Homo Milk. I asked the man behind the counter if the milk came from homos or turned you into one. He quickly and astutely replied, “Huh?” I think he thought I called him a homo, which is preposterous; I don’t know what type of milk he drinks. “Huh yourself,” I responded. “Sav-On is open 24-hrs for ignorance.” Then I paid for my bi-sexual lemonade and left the store forever until tomorrow.

My name is Ben and I’ll see you next week!

It’s hard enough calling a phone sex line when you know the voice on the other end is probably coming from a chain-smoking, leather-faced former lunch lady, but when the operator is a sexually maladjusted ex-con (and a man) it’s cause to never pick up a phone again.  In “Phone Sex”, the latest sketch from THE LIFELONG WEEKEND, yours truly and fellow PoC-er Josh Golden work our way through a seductive chat at $0.99/minute ($14.99 for the first two minutes).

My name is t.j. and I made this video in support of the work-release program.

Many, many things can be said about Paris Hilton’s weekend arrest in Las Vegas, but realistically there is only one piece of information worth noting.  Perhaps it was the result of running out of bumbling lies to tell- she had already used “This is my friend’s purse” and “What’s a purse?” to the full extent permitted by Dumb Skank Law- but when police found a bag of cocaine in Hilton’s handbag, she provided a truly unimaginable defense.  The police report from the incident stated:

I asked Hilton whose cocaine it was, and she said she had not seen it but now thought it was gum.

God bless you, Paris Hilton.

My name is t.j .and words need not be spoken beyond Hilton’s.