Hollywood = America's Angriest Rage-Hole

Everyone in Hollywood is angry.

Well, everyone except perhaps Warwick Davis, but he's actually in London. He only left his heart in Hollywood (in a glass display case at George Lucas's house, to be exact), so he doesn't count. Other than Warwick Davis's happy heart, however, every single person in Hollywood is angry. I don't know if all the botox corroding their emotion centers is making it happen, or if Jack Nicholson is personally and deliberately (and intentionally) enraging every single person in Hollywood, but it's happening.

You probably don't believe me, Mr. or Ms. Blog-Reader, because chances are you hold onto the happy delusion that Hollywood is a cinnamon-scented wonderland of toe-prancing make believe artists with lollipop eyes and balloon animals filled with their own colonic gas roaming begonia-steeped yards hidden behind cotton candy colored marble walls. Well, it's nothing like that. Instead, if you want to more accurately envision what Hollywood is like, picture a festering black hole full of rotten lamb corpses, ziploc bags full of maggot-infested hamburger patties and a big old pile of blackened and sun-swollen tripe oozing a thick oily discharge. That is the emotional picture of Hollywood.

It is a place where Shatners mock snivelly cream-bearded stick-leg corner dwellers, where the Orson Welleses make brutal fun of snow peas in a verbal manner not unlike beating a bag full of puppies with a giant tube of soft but still painful bologna, and where even the venerable and shirt-eschewing Casey Kasem will drop kick your mind like a 400 pound morbidly obese Chuck Norris with a fist full of Ding Dongs leaping from a water tower on top of a table covered with tiny, delicate sparrows. That is what Hollywood is like, grandma, so drop your illusions and sweep them away, sweep them out the door the way you swept grandpa out the door after that incident in Houston with the pills and the weird locked door. Hollywood does not love you, it does not love me, and it most certainly does not love itself. Even Jack Palance, the epitome of gnarled old bits of dried up sassafras roots, yes, even he will take a jagged piece of glass to your dignity and slash it down the center like a flu-ridden horse leaping into the grandstands to escape the wrath of Seabiscuit after an all night bender at the Waffle House eating tainted oats.

What I'm trying to say, Mr. and Ms. Blog-Reader, is that Hollywood will not make your dreams come true, and even if it did, which it might, it will only sour you up like a lemon rind dipped in grapefruit oil and rolled around in earwax.

That's all I'm trying to say.

Well, except that Jorge and Excremando both smell.

Oh, and also, I'm Five Times Better. There, I said it, DING!