Lately I've been philosophizing about how some people are in comas and have irreversible brain damage. Then I compared this to a little thing I like to call "life". Seriously, stay with me here. Life is not always as simple as we'd like it to be, I think we can all agree. Except if you have massive brain damage--then it's pretty much just bodily functions and an ungodly hospital bill. You might think the medical bills would introduce an element of complexity, but not really. We're talking about an individual whose mental faculties have been severely compromised. He likely wouldn't understand the concept of a medical bill even if you rolled it up and jabbed him on the forehead with it. So again, pretty simple.

The point is this: Under normal cirmustances, life is not perfectly analagous to a brain-dead person. A non-brain-dead person at least likes to play Gin Rummy, go to the corner store, or do any number of other things. He wouldn't just lie there. With the brain-dead guy, there's just a feeding tube and 1 or 2 family members who have long since forgotten he's still in the hospital. They probably already think the guy died a long time ago. And sure enough, as the months go by, their visits become more and more infrequent, because they didn't remember that he was still in there. That's sad.

But did my ruminations lead to any useful conclusions? Yes, and my conclusions were three-fold. Well, technically four-fold--one of my thoughts was that brain injuries aren't an appropriate humor topic, but as you can see I disregarded that pretty quickly, and rightly so. Let's look at the other ones.

Conclusion 1: Simplicity in life is not worth having parietal and occipital lobes that have completely withered away. Simplicity is good, but c'mon. It's not that good.

Conclusion 2: If your life is too complicated, you should go for a walk or get a spa treatment to ease the tension, instead of trying to get brain damage.

Conclusion 3 (coup de gras conclusion): Being in a vegetative state for 15 years before finally kicking the bucket has its advantages, I won't pretend it doesn't. No getting up to go to the bathroom anymore, for one. You could sleep right through that, guilt-free. Two, if you used to have recurring nightmares, well that problem pretty much fixed itself. Zero neurological activity, remember? Yet ultimately, I would rather not have it. Dead brain tissue, I mean. Given the choice on that, I would say no.

You may call me a coward because I'm not willing for that kind of inconvenience, but I look at it like this: It would be a major lifestyle change. I've given a lot of thought to this, and I'll thank you not to question my conclusions. The fact that you're even questioning them leads me to believe that you yourself may be suffering from...actually, I'm not even gonna say it. I'm bigger than that. But you know what I'm thinking, right? I'm thinking one of us has a problem with our brains, I'm just too nice to say anything about it. Now I'd like you to go and think about some of these things for awhile, if that's even possible. I don't mean to be hard on you, but honestly. This stuff is gold, people. Let's start showing some respect around here.

America Has A Fever, And The Only Cure Is More Celebrity Nuptials

Do you know what I think this country needs? Two celebrities to start dating each other. If we can't get that, I would settle for two celebrities to become engaged, in a mutual engagement, where both parties are engaged to each other, and they are magnificent. In the ideal scenario, they would each have personal trainers. This blessed coupling would act as much-needed salve for the collective emotional wounds which plague our great nation, uniting us together in unity. But less cliched and slightly more eloquent than that.

You might be saying, "what about recently-turned-raving-psychotic Tom Cruise and the girl from that substandard cable channel, Katie Holmes?" Yes, I know about that. I can see the tabloids at the checkout, ok? And then I can buy them at the checkout. And then I can take them home, and read them cover to cover, which I do. I've proven I can do this. However, one problem: I'm the father of Katie Holmes, and I forbid this union. Ok, I'm not. Nor will I make a "Daddy" joke rife with sexual innuendo, because that's immature. Katie Holmes, you cannot, in fact, call me Daddy whenever you want, because that wouldn't turn me on. There.

So why not Tom and Katie? Well, it's not that I'm jealous, I don't think that's the word. It's just that I want to pin Tom's body to the sea floor with a harpoon. During the subsequent mourning period, Katie shall know my comfort. Whatever the word is for that. Something I DO know, this marriage isn't happening on my watch. You'll probably want to know why, so I picked a random opinion out of the atmosphere and then made up reasons for it after the fact. To be fair, these are not so much reasons, as they are nonsensical ramblings of someone who's really mixed-up. Like you can afford to be picky.

--These two have not yet starred in any movies together, and they're supposed to know about love? How are they going to inspire a nation when they can't even manage to be in the same movie? The ideal candidates would be healing the country, whereas these two would prefer to spend all their time not being in movies together.

--Tom Cruise is 42, and Katie Holmes is 26, which is like adult pedophilia. That's not the issue, though. No, the real problem is he takes her out on his motorcycle, and then they both go flying in his private jet. I'm 30, 30 beats 26! Where is my jet and where is the wooing? I can say without equivocation, that no wooing of me, by anybody, had occurred when this issue went to press.

--When I'm 42, I'll probably be rotting away, married to that pesky lady who I've already had 1 or 2 children with. She is so annoying! If it's my luck, I'll be 42, returning home from my job as a homeless person and she will call me on "the cellie" and ask me to steal the latest People Magazine. The top story will be about Tom Cruise flying to the moon and marrying both of the Olsen twins in a special moon ceremony. Authorities will change the moon's orbit just for that day, causing more light to reflect off the Twins' cheekbones, so they poke out better. Then Tom will easily fit both twins into the luggage compartment of his motorcycle jet, and zoom around the craters. So let's recap. In 12 years, I will be emotionally alone (same as now), and Tom Cruise will be flying around with the Bulimia Duo stuffed into his rocket bike. Does this sound like the type of celebrity who's going to help America? I'm not seeing it.

Where does this leave us? As Britney Spears once said, "I'm rich, freakin' rich. It's crazy." I don't know how that quote is relevant, but perhaps you can find a parallel somewhere. Mostly, keep in mind that there exists no quick fix for what ails America, except high profile celebrities marrying each other. They have to be the exact right couple, though, as I've clearly shown. Also remember that real answers to real problems require actual thinking, which is why my ideas generally suck. Sorry about that.

Please Consult A Physician Before Using This Post

My friend walks up to me the other day and says, "Hey, do you know if there's a vet clinic anywhere around here?" Then he flexes both his biceps, looks at them with mock concern and says, "Cuz these pythons are SICK!"

Yes, that joke's terrible. But not so terrible that I didn't try to re-tell it 30 seconds later. I learned 2 things as a result. a), if you re-tell that joke, it will still suck the 2nd time. And b), girls don't even understand what you're talking about.They'll be like, "You have snakes? That's gross. I don't care if they're not feeling well." Nevertheless, my friend's reptile problem got me thinking about my own rather prodigious pythons. See, I've never needed a personal trainer, as I was born with an almost obscene amount of muscle mass, obscene meaning, "Where the $%#@ did that guy's muscle mass go?"

I guess it's not so much that I have none at all, it's just I thought I'd have more by now. I see these magazine articles talking about massive gains in 3 weeks, and I have to wonder: Is that 3 earth weeks? Time travel weeks? I've been working out for 15 years--using Men's Fitness logic, I should be about as big as a motor home. However, if you think I'm gonna quit trying, you have no idea. You know nothing about me, because you never bothered to learn. You don't know what makes me love, what makes me laugh, what makes me cry. You need to spend time with a person to figure those things out. It's called caring about someone, maybe you've heard of it. Ok, I've been wanting to say that for awhile now, but it never seemed like the right time. As opposed to now. Anyway, we can talk about it later.

What I'm getting at is, when I do something, I go all the way with it. My 7 year old nephew likes to play basketball, but if he's going to step to me with his weak 7-year-old-nephew game, then so be it. May the best man win, even though he never does. If I'm having tea and crumpets? Same thing. I will have tea and crumpets in an extreme way. And if I can't punish myself Rocky-style each and every time I pump iron, what's the point? Trying to figure out that hot blonde's workout schedule so you can know when to go to the gym? That's important, but the manager said stop, and I can respect that.

No, I think the real point is to attain the eye of the tiger. The fact that I understand this is what enables me to continue flailing away in the weight room, despite muscle gains that would only be perceptible if you had an electron microscope. I'll tell you right now, I have no interest in an exercise regimen where the central theme is not attaining that eye of the tiger. Unless my prospective trainer can design a workout program specifically for that purpose, we have nothing to discuss. He'll sit there talking about stuff which has nothing to do with attaining the eye of the tiger, like how I'm doing the exercise completely wrong, and I'll barely be listening. Just staring off into space, basically. If he wants to take up all our time talking about how I'm sitting on the leg machine backwards, that's his prerogative. Each of us have our own fitness goals, apparently that's his.

I'll admit I'm not entirely sure what the next step will be, after I have acquired the eye of the tiger. All I know is it's what I need. I need it like I need oxygen. And I shall have it, even if anabolic steroids are required in massive doses. I'll shoot that stuff directly into my left ventricle if you want. Don't think I won't. As I've explained, I'm fairly motivated, and when it comes to significantly increasing my chances of liver failure, well, I'm in with both feet. Ok, I guess that's my plan then. Problem solved.

Note to kids and teens: Don't use anabolic steroids. The only reason I'm going to use them is because they make you more attractive and really strong, like superman.

Sometimes I just have to close my eyes and shake my head in a condescending way that would make you want to punch me in the face if you saw me. But honestly, how would I ever stop posting? This will never happen even if you pray for it, so you may as well give that up. It's best to think of this blog like you would a degenerative nerve disease. As with all degenerative nerve diseases, there are amusing times, slow times, and then the times when you can't even clip your own toenails without stabbing yourself in the femoral artery. It is then you realize that MS, or whatever affliction God gave you because you're a bad person, is not a non-stop laugh track. So if at any point here you find yourself not being amused, and/or not seeing any new posts for weeks at a time, maybe instead you would like to be bleeding out alone on your bathroom floor? I didn't think so.

Anyway, I would never stop posting even if somebody showed me a suitcase with 45 million dollars in it, and said, "This is yours if you promise not to write anything else." I would take that suitcase, open it up, and urinate on the contents. Soon after, I would pour about a gallon of gasoline on it, light it up with a blow torch, and launch it into deep space. Then I'd say, "There's your 45 mil. Oh, and by the way? Here's a new blog entry all up in your mug." Because that's my integrity coming through. The integrity of the artist. For my voice shall never be silenced, not unless we can talk real numbers, like 47 million. If I was offered 47, I might only urinate on a small portion of the suitcase. But until that time, here are a few discoveries I've made within the last couple weeks. If they tickle your fancy, great. If not, maybe you should try to have muscular dystrophy and see if that tickles your fancy.

In the Bitterness Category:

There are people who receive luxury cars as whimsical gifts, but I haven't thought of any way to kill these people without getting caught. Let me explain. As I'm leaving work last week, there were two women in the parking lot, fawning over a brand new lexus.

Gold Miner #1: He totally surprised you with it?

Gold Miner #2: Yeah, he totally surprised me!

Me: I would like to put the two of you in a woodchipper, but I haven't thought of a way to do it without getting caught.

Gold Miners: ha ha!!

Me: Seriously, I want to kill you and hide your bodies under a big rock. Many different rocks, if I go the woodchipper route.

Optimism Category:

I was recently in the men's department at Macy's, which is below ground level. Yet I received a call loud and clear on my verizon phone. My only conclusion is that the "can you hear me now?" guy is finally getting something accomplished. Thanks, verizon guy. There's not really a joke with this one, but that man is a hard worker, and should be recognized for his efforts.

Bewilderment Category:

I was also in Abercrombie & Fitch, and it occurs to me they've basically been selling the same style of clothing for the last 10 years. As you might know, the basic purpose of this style is to project an aura of having a bunch of holes in your jeans. But you live on the beach, and were born with no fat cells, so that's okay.

Extreme Bewilderment Category:

I occasionally buy jeans there. Presumably so the clothing will absorb any excess fat cells from my physiology.

Category that makes me want to sell my iPod:

President Bush now has one, making it approximately as cool to own as a Commodore 64. Even if you like Dubya, you have to admit he's not the essence of cool. After that, go back to step 1, and change the part where you like him. Hey, I'm kidding. He can't read very well, but he's a straight shooter. Ok, that was uncalled for. I'm stupid, and down with suicide bombers as well. Because I'm against that, and if you're not, we're going to have a problem, you and I.