It's Oscars time. Somebody wake the Grouch.

Thursday, January 21, 2010

Nothing is Funny, A Lament for Conan O'Brien.

Here's the problem, people. Nothing is funny. In a world where Conan O'Brien can be driven out into the wheat fields like a scalded horse, and his television show can be given to a ginormous anthropomorphic chin instead, how can we find the laughter? How can we find the giggles in a world where giant shaven man-chins are our overlords and masters? We can't, that's the thing. I know you want to laugh, and you want me to prance and caper and tell silly ha-ha's, but, people, Conan was swept out to sea by a tsunami of cold hard cash, and he is drowning in his money, literally drowning. On the other hand, a grotesque skyscraper-sized chin is still there on a major American network telling Bill Clinton jokes. How can this be?

I don't even like chins. That's the thing. A chin is just a gross protuberance made of bone and gristle with little whisker specks all over it and lunch stains. I can't sit there in my black velvet recliner, churro in hand, dulce de leche dip on the table beside me, and turn on my 120 inch flat screen television and watch a massive tumor-shaped human chin standing under klieg lights telling rad 90s-era jokes. That literally makes me want to puke my dulce de leche into my own lap and die. Literally.

Yes, it's a time for literalism. Right now, Conan O'Brien is building a life raft made of his own sinew, sweat and skin in order to ride out the money waves, whilst in the dark shadows of some back room, Leno-chin is putting on its stage make-up and making kissy faces to itself in the mirror.

I might just have to turn off my TV and go back to playing my gnome mage in World of Warcraft. He is about to complete the Dead Mines. It might not be funny, but at least World of Warcraft doesn't have any Texas-sized living chins rising up from the Abyss of Decay to tell Monica Lewinsky jokes.

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