Countdown to 2011.

You all have things to do, people to see, wrapping paper to annihilate -- so I'll make this quick.

From myself and all of the imaginary staff at Content Unrelated, Merry Christmas.

And since this will be my last post of 2010, Happy New Year, as well.

Let's raise our glasses.

Here's to a 2011 without environmental, economical and political crises.

A 2011 without unnecessary violence.

A 2011 of coming closer to achieving our dreams.  Meeting goals.  Exceeding expectations.

A 2011 full of hilarity.  Good conversations.  Lazy days.

Here's to 2011, and thank you for being a part of my 2010.

Cheers.

Does a bear shit in the woods?

No.

Cookin' by the book, mothaSHUT'CHO MOUTH.

I love remixes.

Blending songs together for an orgy of sound.  Sometimes genres get crossed to birth something that sounds so magnificent, your brain can't process the audiogasm and it liquefies -- pouring from your earholes and onto the ground into a puddle of that-was-fucking-awesome.

We've heard hard rock and hip hop.  Pop music and metal.  What else could we blend together?  How about children's music and rap?

WHAT?!

In the following remix, Lil Jon visits Lazytown (yea-uh!) to learn how to bake a cake (okay!) by simply following the recipe, or as the characters on Lazytown put it, "cookin' by the book.'

I think it's great Lil Jon is getting involved with children's programming.  When learning is involved, it's necessary to keep things light and fun so you can keep the attention of those young minds you're trying to reach.

Wonder what would happen if we introduced rap to Dora the Explorer.

Maw'fucka, get'cho backpack,

Get'cho map up outta dat sack!

We goin' adventurin' with our monkey friend,

Now help me fuckin' count to ten!

Shit.  I'd watch it.  And I don't even have kids.

Uno!  Dos!  Tres!

Until next time, muchachos.

The only reason I'd buy a bird.

I never thought about ever wanting to own a parrot as a pet for a few reasons.

1.  I don't like birds.
2.  They squawk, and are generally more loud than I'd ever care to tolerate.
3.  They live to be like a thousand years old or something ridiculous and stupid like that.
4.  I don't like birds.
5.  Because I believe everything I see on the Internet, parrots eat diarrhea but are very picky about it, and that's gross.

Because you don't eat enough corn.

6.  Every person who would ever come over to my house would say something stupid like, "Polly wanna cracker?"
7.  I
8.  Don't.
9.  Like.
10.  Birds.

The only reason I'd ever want to own a parrot is to make a reality the joke that goes something like, "If you don't teach your parrot to say, 'Help! They turned me into a bird,' you're wasting your time."

And then I saw this video.

The bird's an auto-tuning away from a fucking record deal.

Now I don't care so much about being 95 and taking care of an ornery, geriatric bird with a highly refined taste for my feces.  At least I wouldn't ever have to buy food for it; which is good, since retirement funds and social security for my generation will have been dried out for years by then, anyway.

Though, the first video I see of a parrot singing Whip my Hair, I'm changing my mind.

If you had one, what song would you teach your shit-eating parrot to sing?

There is no condom -- A letter to Trojan.

Dear Trojan,

I would first like to thank you for saving me (and most of the rest of the responsible population) from painful lesions, piss that burns with the fire of a thousand Suns, and 18 years of child support or a visit to the Maury show (or both).

Picture unrelated.  Sort of.

You've always been there for me with all your ultra-thins and twisted-this and magnum-thats.  While I'm not a fan of that one kind that can give you frostbite and third-degree burns on your no-no parts while simultaneously re-styling the shit out of your hair, that's not the reason why I'm writing you today.

"Pardon the smell, I think my pubes are on fire."

Trojan, I greatly appreciate your continuous innovations in the field of Holy Shit it Doesn't Even Feel Like Anything's There, I'm a tiny bit concerned that you've taken things too far.

You see, in my most recent purchase of phallic-shaped saran wrap, one of your condoms was so brilliantly ultra-thin that it was invisible.

I've provided for you a side-by-side comparison of a wrapper sans sperm-stopper and one containing the proper equipment necessary for dramatically reducing the chances of it burning when I pee.  While the photo quality might have little to be desired, I feel as if these pictures provide enough evidence that I am, in fact, not completely and utterly full of shit.

Feels like nothing's there.

Looks like nothing's there.

While I applaud your effort to reduce the sensation of the presence of Mini-Me ponchos during sexy time, I'm worried you've taken your latest attempts at making a condom feel invisible to a dangerously literal level.

Effectiveness (from left to right): Zero percent, 98 percent.

Because I am open to other possibilities as to why one wrapper is completely lacking its normal contents, I'm entertaining the notion that -- while I may have gotten totally gypped -- somewhere, some double-dicked man unwrapped a two-in-one and it made his fucking day.

Regards,

Jeff

Oh, hey guys.

I'm still here, guys.

I'd like to say I've spent the last three weeks world-traveling or dragon-slaying or something equally exciting.

Sadly, this is not the case.

I don't even play WoW, so I can't blame that.

Only cataclysm here is the fact that I've not written here in so long.

What's worse -- I haven't been keeping up with your posts, either.

I'll make it better.

Shit's in the works.

And after I take that shit, I'll get to writing.