Film Events

Hoooo-RAH! The greatest holiday of the year—Fourth of July—is right around the corner, and I’m happier than a dingo with a fat Australian baby in his mouth. I love Fourth of July because it contains all my favorite things: Explosives, binge eating, binge drinking, and binge porking. And it has absolutely nothing to do with that holiday hog, Jesus. The Fourth of July is all about KICKING ASS—whether it’s kicking the asses of those dandy British fops during the Revolutionary War or kicking the ass of Ronny Schlamicker, who very unwisely tried to baloney-block me with Shirley Roundtree at Camp Wannawee’s July 4th Big Bang Extravaganza of 1983! (Note to Ronny: All is forgiven, and you should drop by for dinner—that is if you’re no longer eating from a tube.)

Have I mentioned I have a lot of readers in prison? It makes sense if you think about it: I watch tons of TV, they watch tons of TV… I make wine in my toilet, they make wine in their toilet… BUT! What’s interesting is that the incarcerated readership of I Love Television™ is almost exclusively female. And I’m still trying to figure out why. I assume it’s because male prisoners find me threatening. They are threatened by a) my tats—even though I drew those tears on with a Bic pen, and b) my sexuality. It’s just too much for them. Male prison is already a hotbed of pent up sexual frustration, and I can easily imagine a horny riot breaking out after reading one of my columns. But lady prisoners love me!

Let’s talk… TECHNOLOGY. Now, while I am generally in favor of technological progress, there is definitely some room for improvement. Example: And I hate to play “Monday morning quarterback” here, but… before Steve Jobs died, I kinda wish he’d spent a little less time on the iPhone, and a little more time on making a FUNCTIONING INTERNET. I’m sorry, but my internet STINKS! When I flip on a light switch, does it take anywhere from ten to 45 seconds to turn on? NO! It comes on immediately. And yet, when I hit the internet porn button on my internet, I’m forced to wait… and wait… and wait—sometimes up to a full minute for it to come on! THAT AIN’T RIGHT, AND I’M TIRED OF WHAT AIN’T RIGHT!

YAY!! Summer’s here! And that means two things: 1) There’s an anus-load of new TV shows to watch, and 2) my thong finally gets to emerge from hibernation! (Naturally, number two is far more important than number one, which is why I’ll spend the bulk of this column talking about number two.)
Oh thong, how I’ve missed you so! You must’ve been so lonely crammed in that dark, musty corner of my underpants drawer for lo, so many months. But now? You’re free at last, free at last, thank god it’s summer, because you’re free at last!

There are three great inventions of the modern era: 1) Totino Pizza Rolls. 2) Corporate sponsorship of crappy television columns [Thanks again, Totino Pizza Roll company!], and 3)… the internet! Now, I’m old enough to remember the dark days of humanity before the internet was born. For example, if I needed to publish a “fact,” I’d either make it up, or go to the library. (HA! Right. “The library.”) If I wanted porn, I’d rent it from a skeezy adult shop, and suffer through several minutes of boring exposition (usually involving pizza deliveries, suspicious job interviews, or a weekend lesbian getaways) before the banging would finally commence. And before the internet, there wasn’t a public forum for videos involving hilarious and crippling trampoline accidents.

Memorial Day! The official holiday for “remembering things,” as originally created by the Hallmark Greeting Card Company back in 1965. Now, I love Memorial Day because a) it reminds me to remember to take a day off from work, and b) it’s the only holiday designed to celebrate a function of the brain. Does the liver get a holiday? MINE CERTAINLY DOESN’T! HAHAHAHAHAAHAHAHAHAHAAAAAA!
Goddammit, I need to remember to get my own comedy show.

Dear entire state of North Carolina: Please forward the following message to your customer service department… because I have a bone to pick with you! In the past, I’ve excluded you from my vicious rants about hillbillies, largely because—even though you’re squarely in the South—Clay Aiken was born there. However, there aren’t enough Clay Aikens in the world to make me forgive your recent vote in favor of Amendment One, which puts a state-wide ban on same-sex marriage, partnerships, and civil unions.

I treat the internet as if it were a person. Because if it actually were a person, the internet would be my Uncle Charlie who has been medically diagnosed as an “idiot,” but unfortunately controls much of the Humphrey fortune – so I pretend to be nice to him. Let's continue the analogy: Uncle Charlie the internet is made up of billions of people (like cells in the human body) except each “cell” is fundamentally fawked in the head. That's why Uncle Charlie the internet is a monstrosity that does and says terrible things – when it's not obsessing over cute otter videos. Uncle Charlie should not exist, and if I could, I would murder it… but? I have an inheritance to consider.

As a child, I fancied myself an amateur detective. In fact, the neighborhood kids referred to me as “Encyclopedia Humpy” for my deductive abilities, and encyclopedic knowledge of places where one could find cigarettes and porn. To this day I remain famous for solving the following mysteries: “The Case of the Crudely Drawn Penis.” “The Case of the Bully that's Actually Super Gay.” “The Case of 'Hey… What's that Monkey Doing?'” “The Case of Sylvia Masterson's Missing Hymen.” And of course, my most famous case, “The Hound of the Bastard Bills” (an absolutely cracking yarn featuring myself, bastard twins each named “Bill,” and their dog “Peanut” who loved eating other animals' vomit).