Grossman's Drunk Ramblings and Cole's Amazing Humor

North America without Tequila would be like France without the notion of homosexuality. There would be a bunch of very feminine, extremely confused men walking around dressed funny. Scratch that. I cannot force myself to kick France while they’re down. They lost the one thing they were famous for, and the “Freedom Fry” wasn’t even theirs to begin with. Anyway, this Tequila situation…

Mexico is threatening to cut off all bulk exports of Tequila. Go ahead and let that marinate for a second… Need I further explain? Nay! I need not! I must say, this soon-to-be resolved dispute has me somewhat chapfallen. Granted, the U.S. will eventually patch things up with the Mexicans, but the American people need to know, how soon? We need to know if we should go stock up on Uncle Jose, Casa Noble, Sauza, and Agave Azul. It’s no secret; we enjoy partaking in soirees and weenie roasts, esp. when they involve Jose and the gang. We like imbibing frozen Margaritas, drinking that shot that puts us over the edge, and naming the worm after we drink that shot that puts us over the edge. The U.S. needs Tequila, Mexico does not. Mexico needs some clean water. Ah yes, see where I’m going with this President Vicente Fox? (He’s a frequent viewer) Let’s barter. We will give you huge vats of aqua for continued circulation of Mexico’s finest. Hold on, throw in two sombreros and it’s a deal. There! It’s settled! I could fix this dilemma, but I guess the rulebook states that to act as a foreign ambassador, one must have the equivalent of a high school diploma, two years prior negotiating experience, and a weird ass name. C’mon, Allen Johnson! That is one off the wall last name! [Enter failed attempt at sarcasm, bold-face type, stage right.] … And you chuckled anyway.

I’m done rambling… Mexico, for the love of all that is fermented and extremely dangerous when consumed in excess, please don’t do this. We need what you got. No, not a smog-filled wasteland containing little-to-no sanitary drinking water, we need your Tequila meng! If you don’t comply with our wishes, we’ll nuke you. That is all. I'm out like an albino in flashlight tag.

Let me say just one thing. Now, this one thing will probably elicit a “preach on” from our beloved female readers and a “you’re kidding” from the male audience, but I just gotsta get something off my chest. This may sound similar to an introduction at an AA meeting-- My name is Chris, and I’m over J-Lo! That’s right! I no longer hold her in high esteem… at all. I got fed up with her shenanigans. Despite my attempts to stop her, she keeps making that god-awful noise known as poorly written, poorly sung pop music. Most pop music is poorly written and poorly sung, so the fact that I had to specify is simply pathetic. Her music videos, when muted, were the only things that kept her head above water in the music industry, but she had to go and puncture her floatation device with the video for the theme song from “Gigli.” The video would have been fine without sound had she worn some make-up. I guess she doesn’t realize that when people call her beautiful, they’re only referring to the times when she’s done up properly, you know, by artists and stylists that are so good they can make a troll quasi-attractive. Her acting was once respectable, but she had to ruin that too… She did “Gigli.” The last time I saw acting that bad was when our once-esteemed J-Lo acted like she was in love with a certain Diddy, or was it Daddy at the time? Now, I didn’t actually see “Gigli,” you know, because I bat for the blue team, but I hear it will end up raking in about as much money as “The Adventures of Pluto Nash.”

I’m sure girls everywhere are pleased that Ben kicked J-Lo to the cizzurb. I could care less about the ordeal, although I would’ve found another Lopez divorce rather entertaining. Unlike her, celebrity divorce stories never get old. So, as I said, I’m over her. I think Jennifer Lopez is through. Not even her other flotation device can save her now. ;) Anyway, I’m out like “Gigli” will be when it’s released on DVD next week.

Click the Top-Blogs link to keep us ranked. We’re hangin’ in there like Pauly Shore’s career. I never thought writing could rank so highly among links to porn sites… I’m dumbfounded, really. I used to joke about the small numbers that viewed our site, and now we’re actually getting as many hits as Ludacris’ bong. It’s pretty schweet!

Oh, and Josh, I didn’t know that you were the one on the unicycle, my bad. By the way, has anyone seen him lately?

When I was on campus this fine morn at the ungodly hour of 7:00, I saw something that struck me queer. A certain commuter used a form of transportation on campus that I hadn’t seen prior to today… A FREAKIN’ unicycle!! Granted, it’s not that extraordinary, but here’s the kicker—the guy couldn’t ride the damn thing. As I was stopped at a red light, you know, because you can’t run ‘em if you’re on campus, I observed this brainless pud trying to cross the road. The “move your ass” light at this particular crosswalk gives crossers about 20 seconds to cover about 30 feet of asphalt. This “engine that REALLY couldn’t” only makes it halfway to the median. The guy was seriously struggling, and I was seriously laughing. To give you an idea of what this guy looked like while trying to maintain his balance, picture a midget frantically flailing his arms in a kiddy pool, fighting to stay afloat. R-tard McCoy eventually makes it to the median by the grace of whomever he subscribes to and starts to thrash about even more, like the Subway Jared of old getting out of bed… and I just start laughing harder while staring at the green light like it meant go or something. I thought McCoy was going to collapse in traffic and get hit by a short bus. The unicyclist must’ve been waiting to jay-cycle when no cars were around, as there was no way he’d meet the qualifying time of 20 seconds. He finally looked over at me and I waved him across the road because I’d been cackling through three signal changes, my stomach was aching from laughter, and I had to get to class. I was also beginning to interpret the generally pleasant “Hawaiian peace signs” waved by drivers behind me as being malevolent. Anyway, I’m gonna go purchase a unicycle. I’m gone like 50 Cent's left molars.

This Internet thing is so new to me again! I just relearned the whole lol and smiley lingo. Um… Yeah, so I haven’t been gone for that long, but it’s been a while. The Internet has been down at many off-campus domiciles as of late because of the MSblast worm virus. I helped a neighbor rid her computer of the virus the other day. When I finished, she asked me what the worm looked like, so I put the virus back on her computer because that had to be the single most dim-witted thing I’ve heard since July. I should have just told her that the worm looked like this, an inchworm with a wild hair up its ass. You know, because inchworms assault computers when irritated by a wayward ass-hair. Since they have asses and what not… On to substandard events, cough now, and say VMAs with me. The VMAs sucked this year. I would leave it at that, but you must know that I actually saw the lipstick marks on Fifty Cent and Justin’s asses each time they accepted an award. Not only did MTV kiss some major man-ass, but they also put on bright red lipstick before smooching posterior. MTV, here’s an idea for next year’s show. How ‘bout you nominate the same five entertainers for all but three awards and only let two of said entertainers win! If that’s not genius, then Macy Gray’s not sexy. Oh, that’s right, she’s not, so how ‘bout you change things for next year. Maybe I’m just frustrated because I lost a $50 VMA wager over whether Christina was fat or not. There was no conclusive evidence supporting my belief that she was carrying a few hundred extra pounds. I conceded, even though she was wearing clothing that could hide Fat Joe’s rolls. Anyway, I’m out like Bubble Tape.