Archive | October, 2009

My Dream Last Night

30 Oct

Did you know that even gods dream? They do. Last night, I had a fantastically strange dream that I’d like to share with the internet, so that maybe some rich benefactor will get behind it and grant me all of its beautiful unconscious wishes.

My dream last night opened as many of them do, with me beating up a member of the British Parliament.


Eat my fist, Bingham of Cornhill.

After I wipe my hands of that limey sonofabitch, I find myself sitting in the green room of Jimmy Kimmel’s studio in Los Angeles, California, waiting to be interviewed. I sit quietly, repeating my pre-television mantra: “don’t say the f-word. don’t way the f-word,” when the door opens and Olivia Munn, whom I’ve spent a lot of time blogging and tweeting about  recently, walks in and sits in one of the couches across from mine, typing something on her cell phone. My giant bear/pterodactyl hybrid growls and I put a calming on his neck. Even though I’m bitter that she ruined my “Get a Celebrity to Tweet at Me” experiment, she still seems pretty badass, and in my dreams I’m not inhibited by such silly things as “Cripplingly Low Self-Esteem,” or “Respecting the Tastes of Others,” so I approached her, employing my most tried and true pickup line.

“Hey, my name is Kyle.”

“Oh, hey! I’m Olivia,” she says, putting her phone in her lap.

“I know who you are, you’re kind of famous.” I stand proudly, making no effort to conceal the erection that has risen within my parachute pants.

She laughs softly and looks up at me with amorous eyes.

“Here let me give you my number,” I say, fumbling for a piece of paper. My first instinct is to give this woman a dollar with my number written on it, but in my dream I think no wait I might need that for parking and start looking for something else to write my number on. Believe me, though; If I met Olivia Munn in real life and my choices were “Park really far away” or “Give this woman my number,” my choice would always be “Park really far away”–unless I’m parking in Gotham City. That place is riddled with crime…or should I say Riddler-ed with crime?! [Editor’s Note: You owe DC Comics $6,000.]

All right, make that $10,000.00

Make that $10,000

As I struggle to find a piece of paper, Olivia reaches into her purse and gives me her number on a tiny piece of paper. I reach into my wallet and pull out an entire newspaper from the 1960’s. I write my number on it and the URL to my website (So she knows I’m more than a pretty face) and hand it to her. The sight of my telephone number with “IronKyle XoXoXXXSex” written beneath it sets her womanly loins ablaze. She then invites me up to her room.

Actress Olivia Munn arrives to the "Semi-Pro" Los Angeles premiere at the Mann Village Theatre on February 19, 2008 in Westwood, California.


We go up the elevator, having delightful comic banter all the while. Mainly just me with the comic part and her with the banter. I’m always the funny one in my dreams. We reach the door to her room and walk in.

“I’m going to shower. I’ll be right out. You can watch TV or use my computer or whatever.” She motions around the room, smiles, and walks into the bathroom.

I immediately check the mini-fridge for my power-drink–whiskey. There’s none in there. That’s fine, I think to myself, One time Brett Favre had to play a game without his usual pounding of a full flask of whiskey before hand and they still won. They just relied on the ground game. I would rely on my ground game–the easy stuff: Dick jokes, self-deprecating humor, self-defecating humor. I’ll be fine, I think.

All of a sudden, a strange sensation starts to emanate from my genitals. I pull the waist band of my pants forward and to see that my penis is made of liquid metal. Just for kicks, I turn my penis into a hammer, then Jimmy Fallon, then an even bigger penis. I get an epiphany and turn my liquid metal penis into a flask of whiskey and drink up. The whiskey tastes like it came from a penis. It was probably urine.

Olivia pokes her head out of the bathroom door, hair down, towel on.

“I couldn’t stand the thought of you watching TV out here by yourself. Would you like to join me?”

I turn my penis into a tiny Brett Favre. He looks at me, winks, and gives me a reassuring nod. It’s game time.


"Rock 'n roll, good buddy."

“Absolutely,” I say, still looking at my penis. My voice now sounds like Optimus Prime’s.

Just as I enter the bathroom, Olivia turns and removes her towel. I then hear a horrible noise from all around me. It sounds like the ghost of a duck is screaming at me from the under-world.

I awaken to find that I’ve received a text message from my friend Lanny that reads “Do you like websites?” I curse Lanny and roll over, desperately hoping to pick up where I left off in the dream.

I don’t.

The End.

Mailbag 5. Yea.

28 Oct


Hey everybody. Kyle here. If you’re a regular reader, you can skip this and jump right into the article. If you aren’t a regular, that’s OK, nobody’s going to hit you. I’d just like to explain what I’m doing here.

I get a lot of reader e-mails, fan mail, and I’m-going-to-kill-you mail. Every now and then, a reader will ask for my insight on a specific issue. I compile the best of these questions and answer them in a “Mailbag” column. Enjoy.


“U.G.L.Y., you ain’t got no alibi you ugly!” Why do ugly people need an alibi? -Lerin, San Marcos, TX

Lerin, let me show you some pictures.

Adolf Hitler.

Adolf Hitler.

Theodore Kaczynski, the Unabomber

Theodore Kaczynski, the Unabomber

Timothy McVeigh

Timothy McVeigh

Osama Bin Laden

Osama Bin Laden

Phil Spector

Phil Spector

See a pattern? They’re all ugly. Practically all of history’s greatest villains are ugly. When police carry out an investigation, they always try to find the ugliest people first. Ugly people commit the most crimes, and are almost always the prime suspect. Thus, ugly people are always asked to provide an alibi when there is a crime nearby.

What historical figure would you be if you could be any figure from history? -Sam, Denton, TX

I’d be myself from the 90’s when I was banging Tiffany Amber Thiesen as well as playing “Wilson” on television’s Home Improvement.

I’ve recently become obsessed with the facebook sim-sensation, Farmville. What advice would you have for a lowely farmer such as myself? Especially in such a turbulent economy. -Jack, Oklahoma City, OK

I’m going to be honest with you, Jack. When I first read this question I wasn’t 100% sure what exactly FarmVille was, so I decided to do some research. I got my own farm. I was one of the 56.1 million FarmVille users. I chose a pre-existing strawberry patch–it was faster and I needed only a cursory understanding of the game. Soon I gained enough experience and neighbors to grow more and more and more.

Soon, I found that I had too many crops to maintain. I wasn’t making as much money as I could. I’d forget to water a crop here or there and I’d come back the next day to find a pile of death. How to solve this problem? Friends. I sent out several gifts to a number of my best friends. When they came to visit me, to thank me, I sent an associate of mine to their home and burned it to the ground. Where were they to go? They were homeless–and I, the only friend they had with crops vast enough to offer them gainful employment. I think you can see where things go from here.

Enslave everyone you know.

What year is this? -Angela, Denton, TX

1996. Act accordingly.

How in the world did Jimmy Fallon get his own TV show? I mean the guy literally got paid to laugh at Will Ferrell on Satuday Night Live for a few years and now he has his own late night show? I just don’t get it. I’m great at laughing at Will Ferrell. Why don’t I get a show? -Nolan, Flowermound, TX

See, Fallon was in Almost Famous. Didn’t remember that, did you? No, you didn’t. I can tell by that stupid look on your face. After Fallon was on Almost Famous, everybody laughed and thought “Wow, he is almost famous. Let’s make him totally famous,” and gave him a gig on late night television.

Either that, or NBC was trying to hold on to the 18-25 demographic for late nights and was attempting to do so by grabbing the most-easily identified young NBC comic they could find.

The Mayan calendar predicts the end of the world to come in 2012. Would now be a good time to start stockpiling food and supplies? Other than the obvious, what should I stock up on? -Lanny, Denton, TX

The Mayan calendar predicts that the world will end on December 21, 2012. Well, it kind of predicts it. The central texts of the Mayan culture are mainly historical and don’t offer a whole lot of prophecy. However, in the ruins of Tortugero, there are inscriptions that reference the year 2012 as the end of the age. Scary shit.

Although there is a staggeringly high amount of scientific evidence that bunks this theory, there’s nothing wrong with being prepared. In a way, Lanny, you’re launching a pre-emptive strike on the end of the world. That’s huge. Here’s a list of things (other than food, water, and shelter) that you’ll need:

  1. Guns: Although ultimately guns are a finite source of security and food procurement, they’ll come in handy big time in the early years when there are still all those pesky humans still running around. People are bat shit crazy when they think their lives are in danger, and they are way, way less likely to stab/shoot/steal from you if they’re dead.
  2. Ammunition: Crap, I forgot. Guns suck without this.
  3. An abundance of non-perishable food items: Like the guns, these are also finite, but they’ll buy you enough time to utilize the next item on the list.
  4. Seeds: Grow your own vegetables. Learn how to do it first. That’s important, because nothing stinks more than watering a portion of dirt for weeks on end to no avail. Ah, wait. Yea, something does suck more: being one of the only survivors of a devastating apocalypse. Being a lone survivor  of something like that can be really stressful. That’s why some of those seeds should be used to grow:
  5. Weed. Lots and lots of weed.

Enjoy oblivion, you poor motherfucker.

No Retweet, No Surrender.

23 Oct

This is Olivia Munn:

oliviamunnShe’s currently the co-host of the hit G4 show, Attack of the Show along side Kevin Pereira. The show is based around video games, video game culture, technology, and trying to keep Olivia Munn’s cleavage on the screen as much as possible.

attackI don’t watch this show, but I’m vaguely familiar with it because a lot of my friends watch it. And since I know about the show, I know about Olivia Munn’s existence. Turns out Olivia has a twitter page, which is actually pretty entertaining, and the same can be said of her personal web site.

A few weeks ago, I decided that my goal for the month of October was to get a celebrity to tweet back at me. I thought Olivia Munn would be a good choice because she seemed fairly active on her twitter, didn’t have 4 million followers, and seemed to appreciate cool things–and I’m a cool thing.


Jesus, I'm cool.

There’s a couple of ways I could get her to tweet at me: respond to her(“@oliviamunn, …”), tweet at her, I could re-tweet her, where I just repeat something she said and credit her, or I could just try to be so infinitely entertaining that she just founds out about me and starts following me, then tweeting at me, then holla-ing at me, then making love at me, then marrying at me.

I decided the best way would be a relentless series of comical responses as well as tweeting at her about nothing in particular.

Here’s a few of my attempts:

OliviaMunn: I think I just fell in love with New York City.

IronKyle@OliviaMunn: I thought I had fallen in love with New York City once, but then I found it cheating on me with Chicago in the back of an Arby’s.

OliviaMunn: Tip for ur life: Never read magazines that r sitting in doctors office. Sick people have been touching them.

IronKyle@OliviaMunn: That’s not so dangerous. Just boil the magazines before you read them.

OliviaMunn: Be nice to people like a hero: In case you didn’t see the NBC PSA I did with Masi Oka that Milo Ventimigli..

IronKyle@OliviaMunn: My fondest hero memory was when Spiderman let me borrow a pair of his socks when we went bowling.

OliviaMunn: Don’t hate me, please. I know everyone is wondering where their Playboy is that you sent in to me to sign..

IronKyle@OliviaMunn: Instead of signing them, you should do something really personal, like draw a funny hats on all the pictures. THAT’S special.

Here are a few instances of me just tweeting at Olivia Munn:

IronKyle@OliviaMunn: The other day I saved a baby turtle from the middle of the street. I like to think that one day it’ll one day be the ninja kind.

IronKyle@OliviaMunn: My back hurts.


I like to think that these responses are pretty funny, and if not that, a little unique. I have one week to attain my goal of Olivia Munn response tweet. I can’t give up. I won’t give up. Never. Ever. Ever…until the end of October.

The News As It SHOULD Be.

22 Oct

Don’t you hate the news? Isn’t it depressing/infuriating/boner-deflating? I try to stay away from it as much as possible–I know this isn’t helping me be an informed citizen, but damn it, how does me knowing that three people died in a Detroit marathon improve my life at all? It only reminds me to stay the hell out of Detroit, because nothing good has happened there since Home Improvement, and that was in fictional Detroit.

Every now and then I’ll scan over the Drudge Report and read the headlines, just to keep up. I read what is probably equivalent to a short paragraph of text and the next hour or so of my life is ruined. Today’s entry is in two parts; In the first section I will re-write some headlines to make them more “scanner” friendly, and in the second, I will re-write some news stories so that they don’t make me want to go out and destroy something beautiful.

God do I want to blow you up.

God I want to blow you up.


—-Section 1—-


“Suicide Bomber kills 29 in Assault on Iran Guards.”


“Shit sucks.”


“Brown Warns of Climate ‘Catastrophe’; ’50 Days to Save the World.'”


“There Probably Isn’t Anything to Worry About, but This Story Would Make a Great Michael Bay Film.”


“FBI Adds Gang Member to Most Wanted List.”


“FBI Adds Another non-Joker Criminal to Most Wanted List. (Boooring.)”


“7 Months After Stimulus 49 out of 50 States Have Fewer Jobs.”


“Congratulations! You Now Have 49 States Worth of Unemployed Americans to Compete With. Go to hell, Liberal Arts Grad!”


—-Section 2—-

Feds [thank] Mass. man for alleged [bargains!] in U.S. malls

BY Beverly Ford In Boston and Helen Kennedy In New York

Updated Wednesday, October 21st 2009, 3:03 PM



This Feb. 11, 2009 image from video shows Tarek Mehanna outside federal court in Boston.

Sudbury Police Dept.

Tarek Mehanna, 27, of Sudbury, Massachusetts, is seen in this Sudbury Police Department photograph released to Reuters on October 21, 2009. Mehanna was [thanked] at his home on Wednesday morning [with breakfast in bed].

A wealthy Massachusetts college professor’s son was [thanked] Wednesday for plotting to shoot up [sales at] a mall after he was rejected by all the foreign [bargain] groups he contacted for training.

Tarek Mehanna, 27, who lives with his parents and writes a blog about [fun hats], was [thanked] for conspiring to detonate [prices] and [save] Americans [a ton of money!].

His laptop contained photos of himself pointing at the sky and grinning gleefully at [clouds], according to [buddies!].

He also allegedly distributed video files of [rabbits] being [petted] in Iraq.

At his [birthday party] in Boston, the judge [of fun] had to repeatedly ordered him to [stop tickling everyone] to hear the [nice things everybody thought] about him.

Under prodding from his father, Ahmed Mehanna, he finally stood, tossing his [confetti] loudly to the floor. Mehanna had been out on [parade] since he was [thanked] at Logan Airport a year ago on charges of [brushing his teeth] [after] a [candy] [bonanza!].

He had been about to board a plane to Saudi Arabia, where he had a job lined up. His father called the charges [awesome!].

“This really, really is a [boobs],” Ahmed Mehanna told reporters.

The FBI said Mehanna and his [BFF for like, forever] Daniel Maldonado, who is [helping] ten [people] [cross the street], talked in code of “making peanut butter and jelly” – meaning waging holy war [on rainy days].

“They were willing to participate anywhere they would be accepted by groups who were engaging in [mark downs], for example [Kohl’s] or [Ross], but their desire was to be able to fight in [America] against [high prices],” the FBI said.

A 2004 trip to hook up with [bargain hunters] in Yemen was [awesome], too. Mehanna, who was [Jacked up on Red Bull], but inspired by the success of the 2002 Beltway [dancers], who [entertained] Washington DC for three weeks by [doing the foxtrot with] random people at gas stations, the men allegedly then planned to [choreograph a big dance off] at an American mall.

“The three men discussed logistics of a mall [dance off], including the types of [shoes] needed, the number of [vests] that would be involved, and how to coordinate the [power slides] from different entrances,” the FBI stated.

The plan was abandoned because they couldn’t get their hands on any automatic [strobe lights].

Online, Mehanna allegedly translated and distributed [Tony Robbins] propaganda, including a 65-page book called “39 Ways to Serve and Participate in [Bargains and Dance-offs.]”

In a February 2006 online chat, he allegedly discussed his desire to become the “[giant metal] wing” for [the Megazord].

The FBI also found a poem he wrote about the joys of [bargains], that includes the lines:

“You turn and behold/The voices are singing/ Coming from Maidens so fair and enchanting/These are the [happy people] with round and firm [wallets]/Pure untouched [sandwiches], they’re better than the [moldy ones]/Seventy-two in all, with large [meats] of dark hue/Each one created especially for you [at an affordable price].”

Liveblogging: The Real World Season XXIIIWhatever

20 Oct

Every now and then, I like to go look at my “Drafts” folder at posts I started but have yet to finish. Sometimes they get finished, sometimes they just sit and take up space. Here’s one I found tonight, my liveblog of an episode from the newest season of the Real World.

Here we go. I’m liveblogging the Real World.


Why are they all matching?! They’re wearing bandanas.

That’s literally as far as I got when I quit and turned off the TV.

I’m a Wedding Artist.

19 Oct

After eight or so years of dating, my friends Lanny and Angela are getting married. This is pretty exciting, I’ll admit. They want to have a pretty traditional ceremony. I would like to respectfully say that that idea sucks. Weddings should be tremendous, theatrical affairs that no one will ever forget. Your wedding day should mark the best day of your married life, with all days following becoming worse and worse until you die in each other’s arms Notebook style.

The other day I texted Lanny, asking if he wanted to get loaded on Dayquil and shoot stuff at the junkyard, and he told me that he was doing “Wedding planning stuff.” Off hand, I asked him where they were planning at. He told me they were planning at his house in like thirty minutes. I chugged my Dayquil, fired a couple rounds at what I thought to be a bat but was actually a shadow, and got in my car.

When I get to Lanny’s house, they’re already meeting in the kitchen, sitting around the table. I stroll in, still dazed as hell from the Quil.

“Kyle? What are you doing here?” One of the blurs in front of me asks.

I pointed at the blur and said “Dsfeeeeet.” Then I fell down. With somebody’s help, I get up, shake out the cobwebs, and sit down on a chair opposite the rest of the group. I think I suffered a concussion.

“Are you all right?” Lupe Frayre, Angela’s mom, asks.

“I’m good. I’m good.”

“You sure?”

“Yea, I’m good.” I mean to give the whole gang a ‘thumbs-up,’ but my motor functions are still malfunctioning, so I end up flipping them all off. A collective gasp shoots through the room. My vision is still not 100%, so I think it’s a family of snakes hissing at me. I get scared, start swinging my arms wildly, and fall down again. This time, however, I’m able to get myself back into my seat. After another concussion, my vision is almost entirely restored.

“Do you need us to call a doctor?” Lanny’s father asks. Angela is sitting in silence, arms crossed, shaking her head at me.

“Yea, I do,” I say. Lucy Thompson, Lanny’s mother, walks toward the phone. “A wedding doctor.” I lean over the table and smile wryly. Silence.

“Jesus,” Henry Frayre whispers.

“Maybe you should go home,” Lanny says.

“I plan on it. My house is where my porn is.” I wink at no one in particular. I elbow Henry and he immediately recoils. “But first, I have a few ideas for the wedding–if you’d be so kind to hear them.”

“We won’t,” Angela says. There is murder in her stare.

“Well, I parked the wrong way on the driveway, so you guys can’t leave and might as well hear what I have to say.” Gary Thompson’s face is now in his hands. “Plus, I need to come down off the Dayquil and the two concussions.”

“Hurry,” Lanny says.

“OK.” I put my hands together and stand. “As you all know, I’ve been a father figure to Angela and Lanny for almost ten years now.”

“I actually don’t know that,” Gary, Lanny’s father, says.

“Yes, I’d agree. I feel like I’ve been more of a father figure to Angela, considering that I actually am her real father,” Henry says.

“Well,” I say. I begin to pace around the room as if it were a stage. “I’ve helped mold them into the people they are. In a way, I helped create them. They are my babies. My babies.”

“With all due respect, Kyle, two years ago I had to teach you how to make scrambled eggs,” Lanny says.

“It’s a complicated process,” I say.

“It’s putting eggs in a pan.”

“It’s putting my foot in your ass if you keep talking to your father like that.” Everybody seems to pretty upset by this. “OK, OK, I’m sorry. I’m sorry. Can I go on?” Gary leans back in his chair, arms crossed. “OK, so. This is what I’m getting at.” I put both palms down on the table, scanning both families. “I want to walk Angela down the aisle.”

“What?! No,” Henry interjects. Similar sentiments are being put forth by Angela’s mother.

“This is getting ridiculous. Kyle, Henry has waited his entire life to walk Angela down the aisle.” Lupe reaches over and puts her hand on Henry’s shoulder, patting him lightly.

“And I’ve been waiting for the past three or four days when I first had this idea.” Nobody seems moved. “I almost, like, cried.” Still, no one seems to care. “OK. I can understand your anger, but I’ve worked on a compromise.”

“Let’s hear it,” Gary says.

“I want to walk Lanny down the aisle.”

“Good Christ,” Angela says.

“Angela!” Lupe says.

“I’m pretty sure Jesus is up in heaven hating every second of this,” Angela says. “I’m almost positive this guy isn’t going to heaven. Almost positive.”

“Angela can be waiting at the altar,” I say.

“I’m positive now.”

10 Reasons My Friend Lanny Can Never Come on My Dates.

17 Oct

Here’s my friend, Lanny:


Lanny is a jokester. However, Lanny is also the devil. For example, a few years ago I walked into Lanny’s room after I had heard him yelling about something.

“What’s wrong?” I ask.

“Freakin’ 24,” Lanny says, gesturing toward the television.

“What’s wrong with 24?”

“They just let one go off,” Lanny said.


“They only let 0ne god damn nuke go off. One out of like, a dozen.”

“So they stopped all the others. That’s a good thing, isn’t it?” I asked.

“No. It’s bad,” he said.


“I want them to let one more go off. You know, just to see what happens.”

“You want them to detonate just one more nuke?!”

“Exactly,” Lanny said, pointing at me.

“That’s like a doctor asking if you’ll donate just one more of your kidneys,” I said. Lanny shrugged and took another drink from his Shiner.

“Just one more. That seems like a pretty reasonable thing for me to ask.”

I shook my head and, seeing the futility in arguing this point, left the room.

Lanny loves when bad things happen. That’s the message here. I remember once when I was on a date, I was having a delightful conversation with a young lady over some pan cakes when I received this text from Lanny: “Ask her if you can put some maple syrup on your dick.” Of course I didn’t ask her that, that’s something no man needs permission for. The point is that Lanny loves to send me texts like that in order to derail me while I’m on a date.

Every now and then, Lanny will try to go on one of my dates with me. This just can’t happen. In order to clarify why Lanny can never go on one of my dates, I’ve compiled a list of ten reasons for him to study. Here we go:

1. By going on one of my dates, you’d have to be there. This is pretty self explanatory. You’d just be a third wheel, and that’d make getting a table more difficult, it’d clog up conversation, and the issue of the bill would become way more complicated.

2. When you begin to lose an argument, you simply repeat the word “Dookie” until the other side just stops talking to you.

3. You love AIDS jokes. Specifically, informing me that I’ve been given AIDS–usually in ways that are scientifically impossible. Here’s an example:

“Kyle, you know what I put on that fork just now?”

“What, Lanny? What did you put on this fork just now.”

“My finger.”

“Well, I wish you wouldn’t do th–”

“You have AIDS!”


4. While I’m telling a story, you regularly will, with your left hand, make an “O” symbol and, with your right pointer finger, penetrate that symbol over and over again–all the while smiling and looking directly into my eyes.

5. Your solution to almost any problem is violence. Remember all those times when I’d describe real, serious problems I was having with someone and your advice would be “You should stab them in the heart”? Of course you don’t, because:

6. You’re a drunk idiot.

7. You constantly ask me for an alibi as to where I was on 9/11.

8. You think it’s OK for you to say the “N” word as long as you say “Just kidding” after.

9. You love to create terribly unfair situations and then accuse me of being an unreasonable.

“Hey man. Me and Wes were talking. We think you should pay the rent this month,” Lanny says.

“I pay rent every month,” I say.

“No, like. You pay all the rent.”

“What?! No! No way, man.”

“Hey, stop yelling. Why are you yelling right now?”

“Because you’re trying to make me pay all the rent myself!”

“I think you’re being a little unfair about this.”


“Yea…” Lanny says, rocking his hand back and forth. “Kind of an asshole.”

“Get out of my room.”

“So can I count on that check later?”

“Get out.”

10. You’re too damn good looking. Let’s not beat around the bush on this one. You’re a handsome guy, and a way better dresser than me. I can’t handle competition on my own date. Definitely not in-house competition. Next time you want to wonder why you’re not invited on my dates, blame those beautiful cheek bones.

There, Lanny. Print this out. Keep it tacked to your wall and read it every day. Thanks for reading everybody. Good night.

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