Since when does toenail fungus deserve 60-second commercials featuring some icky cartoon Troglodyte jumping in and out of infested toenails? Between that and the cartoon ad about a family of trailer trash mucus setting up housekeeping in some poor schmuck's lungs, I could almost gag.
You want healthy toenails? Stay out of Asian pedicure parlors.
You want mucus free lungs? Stay out of crowds and wash your hands a lot.
I also am tired of these scare tactics being used to warn us off beef, fish and fowl. I somehow doubt anyone will become afflicted with Mad Cow disease, mercury poisoning or Avian flu all at the same time.
I mean, if we listen to all the doomsday forecasters, all the meat we'll have left to eat is pork. Can you imagine? Swine is suddenly the only safe meat? Oy vey.
I love how Bush called a special meeting to tell us how fabulous the economy is doing. He failed to mention the all-time record bankruptcies filed in 2005, or the new banking laws designed to fuck the credit card consumer seven ways to Sunday.
And John McCain can just shut the hell up. He is rightfully against detainee or prisoner of war torture, yet he continues to snuggle up with America's Torture Trio: Dick, Bush and Rummy. Until McCain develops some balls and calls for an end to the Iraqi boondoggle, he can sit there in his bizarre chipmunk cheeks and stew.
As for Bill O'Reilly, I'd like to beat him with a club. The old pervert needs to retire and go into seclusion. His righteous indignation act is so phony, he had to come up with a fantasy left-wing war against Christmas just so he'd have something fresh to rant about. If he wants to be the angel on top of my Christmas tree, I'd gladly shove it up his ass.
Actually, I don't have a Christmas tree. My insane kitten Nick would dismantle a tree in 30 seconds. He's only 8 months old and already he's learned how to take down mini blinds, strip the upholstery off my loveseat down to the wood, carry a shoe in his mouth into another room and jump from the kitchen floor to the top of the refrigerator in one leap.
I had to put both my male cats on a diet. They eat like a couple of teenaged football players and James, the older one, was developing a belly that rivaled John Goodwin's. Alas, their diet results in empty bowls in the morning, which causes them both to conspire against my sleeping body way too early. They take turns strolling up and down my torso, meowing like banshees and putting their cold, wet noses on my face.
I may just have to settle for having two fat cats.
I need the rest.