Rebel Without a Clue

I’m extra crotchety today. I’m not sure why, I guess it’s just some cyclical thing. Some close friends have noticed I seem to be ok for about 6 weeks or so, and then BAM! I’m either horribly depressed or incredibly angry.

Depression is anger turned inward, so I guess being extra crotchety is the same side of the same coin, or whatever the dopey saying is.

Anyway, I feel the need to be my rebellious self today and lash out at the world.

I began to make a list of some things I could do to release this anger:

1. Tear the tags off mattresses -- too cliché
2. Write a letter to my Congressperson --too Republican
3. Join a think tank group-- too Democratic
4. Make fun of Richard Simmons --too easy
5. Make phony phone calls -- too childish (even for me)

Finally, it hit me. I need to protest something.

Not sure what yet, though



Until I come up with a cause to lash out against and unleash venom mercilessly, I’ll just put forth some of the weird things I think about every day.

Lou Gehrig died from Lou Gehrig’s disease. Shouldn’t he have seen that coming?

And that gets me wondering if any famous people of today will have diseases named after them.

I’m pretty sure of one, Pauly Shore. This disease, to be called Pauly Shore Syndrome (or PSS) is quite insidious. It’s not deadly, but it does affect one’s judgment. The chief symptom is that the afflicted find Pauly Shore amusing, tolerable, or, in the end stages of the disease, funny.


You’ll notice his girlfriend, pictured above, is happy to be with him. Obviously, she is an unfortunate victim.

Other victims of PSS include those who think Carrot Top is funny, and of course, everyone in the studio audience of The Price Is Right.

I’d never be in the audience for that show, because, well, it would take all my inner fortitude to not say, “Drew, how in the hell would I know the price for that lovely, highly decorative, and collectible aardvark print?”



Until someone can suggest a cause for me, I’ll spend the rest of the day watching Pauly Shore movies until either I find something funny in them, or blood shoots out of my ears from my brain exploding.

Should I stuff cotton balls in my ears, or just wear a diaper over my head, buuuuuuudy?

And have a Happy Bastille Day, if you're into celebrating stuff.