Weekly Hypothetical – For The Love Of God People, Stop Being So Twisted!
During the course of an average week, I get anywhere from 70 to 100 emails of which roughly 10% are hypothetical questions in need of answering. (The other 90% are advertisements for Peruvian fetish porn involving yaks, which are 100% unsolicited, I swear.) Without fail, one of those emails contains a question so foul, so depraved, so incredibly retarded, that I weep for mankind. For instance, this week I received an email which asked, “If you had to go through life with genitals on your forehead, which would you pick: The pole or the hole?”
Honestly, what kind of question is that? And if the question itself wasn’t bad enough, here’s what’s worse: I spent the better part of the week answering the question in my head, even though the more you think about it, the more disgusting it gets. Pretty soon these thoughts start actively getting in the way of my day to day activities.
Wife: Zooey Deschanel, do you think she’s pretty?
Me: She’s ok. (to self) I’d never be able to pull that off if I was sporting forehead wood.
Wife: Why do you keep touching your forehead? It’s like you’re checking for something.
Me: I don’t know… Oh, gross, I just realized that it’s not just the pole versus the hole. If you went with the pole, you’d be getting the franks AND the beans. Holy shit, it’d be like teabagging your own nose every step you took.
Wife: WHAT?!? Are you on mushrooms or something?
Me: Let me ask you this, how weird is it for someone to wear a bandana on their forehead on a constant basis? I mean, Bret Michaels does it and… HOLY SHIT! Bret Michaels is probably sporting a forehead vag!
Wife: I’m going to bed.
This I don’t need. So from now on I’m going to have to ask that any future hypothetical questions pass the Larry Flynt test. If your question is so foul that it makes Larry Flynt cry, I don’t want to receive it.
On to this week’s question which comes from Pish Posh, who is a wonderful person because she doesn’t make me think of shit like forehead herpes. She asks:
If you had the choice between going back in time and being a rockstar of your choice – or staying in this life and not having to work anymore, which would you choose?
Before I answer this question, Pish, I need to clarify something for the benefit of those readers who happen to be my wife: When someone asks me whether or not I would use a time machine, or travel to a far-flung planet, or any other activity that requires me to leave my wife and kids, IT IS NOT A SERIOUS QUESTION. Of course I would never leave my wife and my three adorable kids. They are the light of my life, the reason I get up in the morning, the loving force behind my every breath.
That having been said, I would so fucking totally be Robert Plant. I mean, being me but never having to work again? Fuck that, I can be Robert Plant and never have to work again, just work when I feel like being worshipped like a Golden God and swimming in an ocean of poon. And to be Robert Plant in the 70’s? After birth control but before herpes and AIDS? I’d be getting so much trim, it’d be like that old joke:
Q. I’ve started smoking after sex. What should I do?
A. Use lube.
Now I know some people would rather be other rock stars, but really, Robert Plant is the way to go here. Here’s a rundown of his competition:
Any of the Beatles: John – Dead. George – Dead. Paul – Owes $50 million to gimpy ex-wife. Ringo – Still pestering me to let him sleep on my couch.
Any of the Rolling Stones: Mick Jagger – Moonlights as the Crypt Keeper. Keith Richards – I’m pretty sure he’s dead. The rest of them – Ummm, aren’t they animatronic, like the weasels and whatnot at Chuck E. Cheese?
Elvis: Dead and probably still fat.
Michael Jackson: Either dead or living the life of a recluse with Jim Morrison, Elvis, and Bubbles the Chimp on a UFO, which is probably even more irritating than it sounds.
So looking at Robert Plant’s life right now, I’d say he’s got a huge leg up on his competition (especially on Heather Mills, ZING!).
Holy shit, my 75 year old mother just called, and you have no idea how hard it is to concentrate on fornicating rock stars, legless jokes, and forehead junk when you’re talking to your mom. Where were we? Oh yeah, I’d totally go with Robert Plant. As long as he wasn’t sporting a facial scrotum.