As you may or may not know, most human brains operate very similarly to fuel tanks in cars.  That is to say that if you don't continually pump yourself full of gasoline, you're liable to break down and go careening into the nearest light post.  This may or may not lead to innocent people getting wounded or killed, a loss of electricity to neighboring houses, or the Detroit Lions winning the Superbowl.  I'm not quite sure that you want to be responsible for any of that.  At least I don't, but try telling that to my brain.  It's like the 1970's all over again: the lines are long and the brain pumps remain dry, devoid of providing even the smallest hint of usable fuel.

Which would explain why I am currently mulling over what would happen if a dwarf and a horse copulated.  What would we call the offspring?  Dwarse?  Horf?  Frankly, I don't know the answer.  It's just another in a long line of failures that pile together to encompass my day.  Shit, I have to buy my failures in bulk at Costco just to keep things under budget.  I mean, I fail so much that sometimes I fail at failing.  I call these brief periods either "successes" or "miracles" depending on whether I just answered a question right or turned water into wine.  It's times like this that I like to pour myself a tall glass of antifreeze and proceed to stick heroin needles in my eyes, sitting in my favorite chair and reflecting on the past.  Thankfully, I only own one chair.  That way I don't have to make a choice and choose wrong, thus failing once again.

I'd look into firing myself if I could but I think that breaks one of the 15 new labor laws that California just invented.  Not to mention that I could easily see myself suing my former employer for wrongful termination.  I don't even think Johnny Cochrane could have worked through all the legal red tape involved here, especially since he isn't breathing at the moment.  Perhaps if I was to hire a crew and go exhume his body, he might be able to perform some kind of undead legal wizardry in the courtroom that would allow me to win against myself but I doubt it.  He'd probably just sit in the chair rotting away and moan in low guttural tones.  And then his arm would fall off.

If I could draw better than a third grader or had the power to kidnap three thousand talented Japanese animators and had copious amounts of spare time to bark commands and crack whips like some kind of POW camp gone wrong, I would make my life into an animated cartoon.  It would feature all kinds of zany characters like a talking banana named "Peels" and some kind of trash talking undergarment.  You know, just so I could keep it as close to the source material as possible.  Peels would be into skateboarding, offering crime prevention tips and making sure the local youths stayed off drugs.  He, of course, would be a poor attempt at a stereotypical black person despite being as white as an unpeeled banana because that's just how screwed up the corporate politics are in my head.  For the other character, I really can't decide between going with a sassy brassiere named "Vicky" or a breakdancing sock named "Knee High."  Vicky would constantly remind the populated world about how she is both an activist and a feminist, despite doing nothing more than dressing slutty and chain-smoking.  Knee High would breakdance for money while secretly hiding his crack habit from the others.  Hmm, maybe I can use both.

If life is like a marathon, I think I am running it the wrong way.  Like I forgot to stop at checkpoint 15 for that cup of gatorade that they throw at you.  I'm probably pretty close to stumbling and taking one of those nasty marathon falls that no one ever reads about.  Parts of me would stick to the cement like some sort of retarded glucose mixture and the only option left to me is to be a poor sport and try to take out as many of the other runners with my fall as I can.  The only problem with that is that I would be in last place and only end up hurting myself.  If only I would have been born a Kenyan.  Things would have been all kinds of different then.  But no, I failed.  Failed at running in a straight line with a lot of people for a few hours.

I left a few voicemails on God's cell phone but he's not returning my calls.  Guess he's busy or something.  I don't know where I am going with all this.  I'm simply just trying to relay the fact that I had absolutely nothing funny to write about, though I am sure that is painfully obvious at this point.  I'm amazed that I even got this far.  I probably used cheat codes or something.