As I write this delightful piece of tongue-in-cheek literary crap, I can’t help but notice the ease with which I can strike the spacebar. IfIhadnothumbs,everythingIwrotewouldbeanextensive,meaninglessjumbleoflettersthat
peoplewouldhatereadingevenmorethantheyhatethiscrapnow.I’dbesurprisedifanyone
madeitthisfarintothisridiculousrunonsentence.Thewordofthedayiscornucopia. Thank you thumbs, you make my compositions slightly less convoluted.

Thumbs, you make my life livable. The ability to use tools is what makes primates the dominant group on the planet. Tool usage, and our awesome ability to think and reason. Suck it, apes! Even with an opposable thumb and the ability to use tools, those stupid animals don’t use their God-given appendage to wipe themselves with toilet paper instead of traipsing around with dingleberries danglin’. Gross.

Gestures would make no sense without these delightful phalanges of mine. The only usable action I could throw up with no thumbs would be the Finger. That beastie is overdone, and don’t even get me started on the Super Finger. Every positive signal I can make with my hands involves my wonderful thumbs, from the “A-OK” to everyone’s favorite standby, the “Thumbs Up”. Thumbs (and especially my wonderful opposable thumbs), I simply adore you.

Beautiful Sun, you are so sweet to me. I like how your precious alpha and beta and gamma and as yet undiscovered rays warm my body. Even when I’m bad and bask in your glorious love too long, you have yet to burn my nipples. I appreciate that.

Thanks for being the best star ever, Sun. I heard some jerk say that Alpha Centauri is probably the best star in the galaxy, so I waited for him to get out of preschool and I beat his ass. Don’t go disrespecting my flaming ball of gases, Timmy. And you’ll stay down there, if you know what’s good for you!

I want to dance on your gorgeous, glowing surface, Sun, but we do not yet have the technology. I would also evaporate in the glory of your heat. I bet hot dogs roasted in your presence would taste better than regular crappy hot dogs.

You should come hang out with me sometime, you perfect, life-giving orb. I’ll make you brownies and Kool-Aid, if that’s what you’re into. 

You just let me know a time and place, and I’ll be there. Thanks for just being awesome.

My friends say that I’m weird and obsessed with you. I told them if lovin’ you is wrong, I don’t wanna be right. I heard that in a movie somewhere. If you want to watch it, let me know, and I’ll run down to Blockbuster and find it. I love you that much. I wouldn’t even bother going to RedBox for the $1 movie. You are worth too much to me. Plus I’m scared that someone will steal my credit card number at those things.

Maybe, if you’re not busy later, we can run down to the local bar and have some beers together. If you don’t drink, though, I’ll quit right now. I don’t want some stupid thing like delicious booze to ever come between us.

You keep doing what you’re doing, Sun. I’ll orbit you until I die. I don’t know if you’ve heard, but it looks like Iran might have nukes. 

If that’s true, we probably won’t be peeps for much longer. Could you maybe do me a solid and roast those crazy a-holes? I’d really like that. Plus they deserve it, and you always do the right thing. I simply adore that about you. Call me!

That ridiculously bright blue suit you wear every day shines like a beacon in the dark night of oppression, ignorance and improper personal hygiene. You stand like an avenging hero against the scourge of garbage, freeing your route from the disgusting smell of used baby diapers and rotten meat. Speaking of rotten meat, does this look infected? It really hurts, and no matter how much Windex I spray on there, it never seems to heal.

How humble you are, riding on the back of a giant truck, with the smell of other peoples’ waste wafting over you. How humble and LUCKY! You don’t even have to wear a stupid seat belt! Held above the certain death awaiting you only inches below your feet, you float along like a Medieval knight on a stinky, metal steed, rushing to certain victory! Has any trash can ever stood up to your might? I can’t even comprehend the scenario. You are too powerful.

Though you could have chosen any career, from astronaut to race car driver, your humble spirit has led you into public service. You are truly noble, dear Garbage Man. I cannot properly express my gratitude in this short, rambling and random ode to the Trashman. I suppose I should give you some sort of Christmas bonus or something, but I don’t know the rules on tipping and stuff, so please accept my sincere and non-monetary gratitude. Garbage Man, I simply adore you.

It seems like just a few short hours ago, you walked into the bar, and ran away with my heart. Actually, it’s 12:37 right now, so it technically was only a few short hours ago. My buddy, Chris, bet me $18 that there was no way I could take a hottie like you home with me. We proved him wrong together, Jessica or Jennifer or Maggie. Whatever your name is, I only remember that it is fairly generic and you thoughtlessly introduced yourself only once. I could have used at least 6 or 7 repetitions to get it down, but I forgive you for that. You mean too much to me to let a few petty things like forgetting your name, interests, and age come between our awkward, sweaty love-making.

Can I take this condom off now? I know you would never desecrate your temple, but I’m pretty sure that the burning when I pee is only because I’m so passionate. What could happen? Besides, there’s no way I’ll be able to finish with this damn pleasure-blocker on. I love you. I will tell Chris tomorrow that he had better pay up, while I recount and exaggerate your hotness, and prowess in bed to my pimply, troll friends. With any luck, you will become a mental picture in their collective spank bank. I’d do that for you. In my mind, I will also manage to convince myself that you were at least a 9, even though that hairy mole on your thigh obviously drops you down to no more than a solid 7.5.

I can’t wait until tomorrow when you’ll be gone, with any luck. You can absolutely leave your number on the dresser, but I will likely forget to call you because I’m convinced I can do better, even though you’re easily twice as hot as the last girl I banged. That was in high school. Ten years ago. On second thought, I might call you. Since I know deep down that this whole thing only happened because I lucked out and caught you in a vengeful rage minutes after breaking up with your smart, athletic boyfriend. I’m also sorry I pulled your hair when I tried to raise up on my arms to roll off of you. Random hot chick, this single time we met and I got to put my dirty in your trapper keeper makes me realize that I simply adore you.

Spandex, you’ve been so good to the people of earth. Though you are obviously the product of a far more advanced alien civilization, you have always treated us lesser beings with respect and dignity. Well, except those of us who choose to swaddle our cellulite is form-fitting unitards. Those chubby monsters deserve the stunning light of day to shine on their numerous and disgusting rolls.

With the help of your alien inventor, Richard Simmons, you have singlehandedly taken over all fashion on our meager planet. Allowing athletes the gift of your incredible compression abilities, you have allowed us to scientifically break countless records because of something to do with blood flow to muscles. I don’t know. I don’t really understand your awesomeness. I’m pretty sure even our astronauts experience your incredible comfort in our own search for other worlds to colonize. They might not, though, I’ll have to Google that and get back to you with a definite answer. If they don’t, though, they’re stupid. NASA should realize the overwhelming potential you carry for the advancement of the human race.

Thanks for being the coolest fabric ever, Spandex. I have noticed that you are now finally being incorporated into womens’ jeans, so the otherwise inferior fabric can hug the butt curves of our hookers and young, disillusioned hotties. I can think of no nobler cause than bringing joy to millions of young, adolescent men everywhere. You’ve singlehandedly caused billions of erections in high school across the world, covered only by a book or Trapper Keeper pulled quickly and discreetly in front of genitals. Well done, you wonderful, space-age textile.

I could sing your praises all day, but I have to go. My 58-year old neighbor, Glenn has just stepped outside to stretch for his daily run, and guess what he’s wearing?! That’s right, he’s sheathed his entire, middle-aged, jiggly lower body into the comfort of your all-encompassing hug again. I have to go watch this, it’s priceless. Thanks again, Spandex, I simply adore you.

Solely on the basis of your sheer awesomeness, the Discovery Channel has resurfaced as a face-meltingly cool alternative to American Idol. Blow up that dumptruck, mythbusters, because when you’re done I’m going to watch the boys from Time Warp detonate something underwater. Wow. I may have just lost an eyebrow, but I have no regrets.

People all over the world bow to your incredible power, Explosion. Because we are the world leaders in badassery, Americans have an entire holiday dedicated to the rapid expansion of gases, coupled with combustion. Hello, July 4th. We’re so awesome, we just invented the word “badassery”. Compare that with Canada, where explosions are rare or even nonexistent. Sure, they’re nice people, but awesome? Not even close.

There’s a reason why we celebrate the birth of our country with explosions big and small: so we can teach our children the harness the power of kaboom. Where else in the world are parents excited to givetheir children tiny explosive devices to throw at each other and laugh? Nowhere. From Black Cats to Lady Fingers, all the way down to the finale of the fireworks on that sticky summer night. If it’s not painfully loud, count us out. Explosions, I simply adore you.

You have so many uses, yet are overlooked by all. I’m here to change that, toilet paper. I’m going to start a group on Facebook dedicated to getting you all the respect that your silky white folds deserve. I bet I’d have at least a solid dozen friends in just one day, because they would look at their online account and would be suddenly struck by the majesty and innovativeness that is toilet paper. Twelve in one day doesn’t really sound that great, toilet paper, but it’s really a lot. That’s like three times the total number of friends I have on there.

Anyway, TP – wait, can I call you “TP”? Good.

TP, as our man-made and cotton-derivative technology advances, you will only become more effective and comfortable. I’m not sure that’s possible, but one can only dream, right? I picture a day in the future, when my buddy, toilet paper is available to everyone in the world for no charge. Out of your own generosity, you would donate yourself to developing countries and ghettoes. Ghettoes need TP too. That be a great bumper sticker: “Ghettoes need TP, too!”. I’d buy one.

Toilet paper, you really are man’s best friend. Woman’s, too, because they get to use you every time they even go pee! I usually just shake the last drop off the end, but girls can’t do that, because they were born with different parts. Once again, you really make a difference. Toilet paper, I simply adore you.

I can’t think of another product to which the great Dr. Cosby (Ph.D. in education) would attach his substantial brand. His calm voice, coupled with your catchy jingle of “J-E-L-L-O!” has convinced me to never again settle for crappy pies or cakes. Those things are for illiterate, knuckle-dragging, turds. Instead, I think I’ll have a heapin’ helpin’ of some delicious, light dessert that potentially contains bits of REAL FRUIT! How do you hold those banana hunks so firmly inside your transparent bosom? You are amazing, delicious Jell-O.

I can eat you and not use my teeth a single time! My tongue is sufficient to smash your soft, supple body against the roof of my mouth. If you were a person, you would be a sexy hot chick, delicious Jell-O. Your lithe curves and dancing ability mean that you could never be a man. Therefore, I love you. Sometimes when I’m eating your fruit-flavored deliciousness, I think about what you would feel like smashed against my nud…I mean I think you’re swell.

Yours is a story of redemption. Beginning your life as discarded bits of horse and fish, then refined into a powdered mix, and matured through heat and water into the glistening, beautiful end product that nourishes the world, and provides sustenance to patients in hospitals around the world. You are inspiring, Jell-O. And you are the only dessert in the world that is better suited to mixing with liquor and then enjoying without removing the delicious alcohol that makes you even more appealing. On top of that, I’ve seen smoking hot broads wrestle around in you for hours, giving entertainment and setting the men watching at half mast for the rest of the night. You are truly a giver. Jell-O, I simply adore you.

Drunk Guy 1: “Know what she said?”

Drunk Guy 2: “I dunno, ‘get your hands out of my pocket?’ She looked pretty pissed after you told her that her hair couldn’t smell more like cheese.”

Drunk Guy 1: “It was a compliment. I love cheddar. Or gouda…that’s prolly the most hilariousest cheese name. Goooooooodaaaaaaa”

Drunk Guy 2: “No way. Monterey Jack. Named after a real guy from Monterey, Michigan. Little known fact. Is that chick looking at my sweet ride?”

Drunk Guy 1: “Yeah. Staring at my balls. Wait. My balls are NOT your sweet ride. You’re gay.”

Drunk Guy 2: “YOU’RE gay. How come your mom never called me back? So hot…”

Drunk Guy 1: “She’s my step-mom, dick. My mom’s been dead for like 10 years. I thought she told you to piss off.”

Drunk Guy 2: ”That was your dad. He resents my interference. Interference. Interference. That word is so messed up. Interference…”

Drunk Guy 1: *PPPPPPPFFFFFFFT* “Hehe, I just shot that fart way down in your seat. You’ll be smelling that for at least a week. Good luck getting any tail in this butthole car.”

Drunk Guy 2: “I don’t smell anything. If I put a baby in your mom, would I be your dad or your grandpa?”

Drunk Guy 1: “You don’t smell anything ‘cause your nose is plugged with man juice. Gross. And you can’t be my grandpa, both my grandmas are dead. My mom had her ovaries taken out. No more babies.”

Drunk Guy 2: “I don’t care what she had taken out. I’m telling you what I’m putting in there. A baby. Full grown.”

Drunk Guy 1: “Babies aren’t full-grown, you homo. Pull over, I need to pee.”

Drunk Guy 2: “We’re not moving. We’ve been sitting in this parking lot for three hours. I could put a full-grown baby in your…HOLY DICK, THAT SMELLS HORRIBLE.  WHAT THE HELL DID YOU EAT?!”

Drunk Guy 1: “Told you it’d be coming out for a week. Taste the rainbow, bitch.”

Drunken conversations, you make me dumber. I simply adore you.

You are so jolly, yet so mysterious. Why are you standing next door in Hank’s flowers? That is the confusing and beautiful way of the gnomes. I think it’s pretty obvious, Mr. Gnome. You’re the best in the world.

I have never seen a hat redder than yours. It’s like someone sucked all the blood from the hottest chick on the planet and painted your erect little gnome hat. Except not exactly like that, because that’s just plain crazy. And I think illegal.

I will call you Oggie. I won’t let anyone shorten it to plain ‘ol Og, you are too wonderful to have a stupid nickname. What do you want to do today, Oggie? What’s that? You want to bring joy to all the people of the land? Mission accomplished. My heart smiles in the warmth of your twinkly, wise eyes. Haha! Look at that, you made me rhyme! “Wise eyes”! Oggie, you crazy.

I like your blue smock. I guess that’s what it’s called-a smock? Your red hat and blue smock will never go out of fashion. Timeless style, that’s what you have. You’re like George Clooney. Fashionable and charming, and smart enough to stay single so you can bang all the hotties that throw themselves at you daily. I bet you get SO much lady gnome tail…lucky!

Do you feel appreciated over there in Hank’s rododen rhodudendrum roses? I don’t know if Hank can love you like I do, but if he can make you happy I will gladly step aside. I promise on the graves of my two mommies that I will always protect you from the neighbor kids who try to steal you to take pictures with you in crazy places. That’s not funny. I’ll cut a bitch if I have to, as long as you are safe.

I saw that you got a job with Travelocity. That is so cool. You are the most famous person I know, but I loved you long before the fame. I know you know that. You are really awesome in those commercials, always running around the world, doing crazy things. You’re one awesome gnome, Oggie. I simply adore you.