I don’t like ventriloquist acts. They annoy me by wasting my time and forcing me to exert effort in order to maintain a certain level of suspension of disbelief.
I’m already doing that every time I listen to our government open its collective mouth.
Enjoying comedy shouldn’t involve exerting anything. It shouldn’t be work.
It should involve me lying there, being entertained, and that’s all.
For all you dirty minded folk … I’m not going there. I’m staying put right here. You go over there if you want. Go ahead. Then come right back and tell me how it was.
I mean, c’mon, Mr. Comedian. Staple your lips shut or gargle the Pacific, for all I care. It just doesn’t matter. I’m never going to think that the little wooden weirdo sitting on a stool all decked out in a miniature tuxedo with a hand shoved up its nether regions is alive and is capable of cognitive thought.
I mean, it’s not like it’s my washer or refrigerator or car or even my computer, for crying out loud. It can’t move two inches to the left when I turn my head. It can’t dance the Electric Slide when I leave the room. It can’t conspire and plan and plot and connive behind my back when it thinks I can’t hear it.
You know what? Someday, when I’m dead and gone, you really should read through my commitment hearing transcripts. They’re a hoot.
But ventriloquist dummies?
They are so not a hoot. They are completely and totally and utterly hootless.
They’re not real.
Unless I’m delusional from too much Nyquil in which case, they are totally real and perched somewhere in my family tree, causing me to run all about my house, screaming something about orange mashed potatoes and Mary, Queen of Scots before tackling my offspring and checking them all over for genetic mutations.
Those transcripts really are a good read.
As for the whole concept of ventriloquism? I have to deal with too many flesh and blood dummies who not only have bugs and sticks up their rectums, but whole colonies of insects and, in some cases, an entire oak tree. Watching a manufactured freak of nature with a human hand enema up its wooden bum just doesn’t do it for me.
But that was before my former mother-in-law sent me this video.
Jeff Dunham is funny and I might go so far as to say that it is entirely possible he made me piddle a little in my pants.
Just a little.
Did I type that out loud?
Yes, yes I did. But all piddling aside, I will say this much: Jeff Dunham makes me think twice about wooden rectums and how they may very well be bonafide vehicles of comedy.
And if any of you would like to never again read the word “rectum” on this blog, I accept Paypal, Visa and Mastercard. On behalf of Zoe’s college fund, I thank you.
As for Walter? If I didn’t know any better, I’d swear my 84 year old aunt went and got herself a sex change and ran off to Hollywood when I wasn’t looking. They appear to the same age and have a similar disposition, when she’s being a crankapotamus.
And they’re the same height, to boot.
Now then, who’s interested in the winners of my free ad space giveaway?
OK – here we go:
I used random.org and asked it to spew forth three random integers between 1 and 48, inclusive, (which was the total number of comments I received by 7:00 pm eastern time Sunday – and if someone can tell me how to get my comments to show the correct time, I will kiss you. Or not kiss you. Your preference) and this is what it spewed:
and the lucky winners are:
Congratulations, you guys! Contact me at admin[at]thecreativejunkie[dot]com and we’ll hash out all the details!
As always, thanks for playing, everyone! Have I told you how much I appreciate all of you lately?
I really do.
Enjoy your Monday.
(*whisper* rectum, rectum, rectum *whisper*)
(*whisper* college is expensive *whisper*)