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why don't you lay off the asians, lou
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[11 Jan 2008|03:12pm] |
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Don't call it a comeback. I've been here for years.
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[23 Jan 2006|12:30am] |
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what'cha tryin' ta SAYDA MAAAAAEEEE |
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Holy fucking frijoles. Is this what we're doing now? "Nudging" people? Have you no shame, any of you?
I'll double-handedly take each of you nudgers on starting with you, Poehler. Nudge Bates and he quickly breaks out two tickets to the gun show if you catch my drift and frankly you'd be a retard not to. Front and center, no need to thank me. Arnett I'm fixin' (Bates is Southern, ya'll ain't heard?) to part my heavenly clouds and rain down a veritable tsunami of pain in your general vicinity. No one will pay heed to your cries of anguish and Kanye West will be forced to react on live television by insisting "George Bush doesn't care about Will Arnett and who the fuck is Will Arnett?" Damn right, Ye. As for you, Shawkat. I doubt I'm strong enough to take you on physically (have you seen the arms on this kid?) so I'll have to hit you where it hurts by laying some truth on you: neediness isn't attractive. No wonder Cera left you.
You all asked for it, so there it is. I've been gone a while, forgive me if you're able. The truth is that I got monumentally distracted peering up Justine's skirt. I swear, that thing is ten inches if it's a day. The Welcome Wagon better bring some muffins this time or this diva shall throw herself a tantrum of Elton-like proportions.
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[23 Oct 2005|05:54pm] |
It's seldom that I apologize, but I'd be lying if I said I don't feel a tinge of regret at neglecting to keep up with the rough and tumble world of internet journaling. You all had expectations, how could you not. I excel in practically every facet of both my personal and professional life and let's not even get started on how impeccable my hygiene is, so why the slacking here? I wish I had an excuse or a valid reason, but the fact is that I'm just too lazy to come up with a good one. Let's just say my dog ate it.
With the requisite "my bad" out of the way, let's say we mend these broken wings. I can go ahead and tell you that personally, things are pretty much the same. Another day, another lady of the evening. At least I call them angels of the morning when they rise. But I am growing weary of shelling out the cheddar just to get my turtle waxed. You'd think I wouldn't have to and you'd be right, but the nice thing about street servants is that they're not big on talking, which as you might have guessed, I'm not either.
Professionally things are going well, despite a certain Emmy winning comedy series being put on hiatus while Fox gets that whole World Series nonsense out of the way. The Zach Braff movie I'm in is in post, as is the Jennifer Aniston one, and Amy and I are both revving up for the first of what I hope will be many more on-screen love affairs. I keep assuring her that we could very well be the next Mel Gibson/Danny Glover combo but she insists our chemistry is more in line with Eddie Murphy and Nick Nolte. And considering Mr. Murphy's fondness for street meat, that might be a more accurate comparison.
Let me know what you're up to and if you'd like to be graced with my presence. Christmas might just come early, but I assure you I never do.
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[25 Sep 2005|01:24am] |
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pencil me nassty |
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The year was 1988. The place was Reno, Nevada. The smell was the neighborhood Taco Bell burning to the ground after an angry mob lit said Bell ablaze after it ran out of tacos on Free Taco Tuesday. I was attending the annual convention of Hogan Family fans, aka The Hoganthon '88 at the Ramada Hotel. Conventions were nothing new to me, having done the con circuit back in my Silver Spoons days. Let it be known that despite being drunk off his ass, young Ricky Schroeder can still tackle an overzealous Spoons fan to the ground in seconds. But back to the story, I had my own room at the Ramada as did my colleague and chaperon Sandy Duncan. We were the only two from the cast who could make it, since the kids who played my little brothers had a soccer game and the dad guy was actually dead for the last two seasons of the show. We did a whole Weekend at Bernie's thing with him when taping the episodes and it proved surprisingly effective.
Anywho, after the first day of mixing it up with my fans and having more phone numbers and panties thrown my way than even I could possibly prepare for, I made it back to my room with plans of freshening up before making the dreams of an entire Girl Scout troop come true. "Bates," I heard a sultry voice beckon from somewhere within the confines of my darkened quarters, "care to visit your neighborhood Duncan Donut?" I turned on the lights and found to my horror Sandy Duncan sprawled out on my bed with nothing on by an unfastened Ramada robe and a smile. Beside her lay a half-finished bottle of tequila and...the eye. That cursed, porcelain demon. She had taken it out for some reason, my guess being that she had found some questionable use for that additional orifice. Regardless I was not having it and demanded she vacate before the Scouts arrive. "Aren't you a little old for Girl Scout cookies?" she purred, crawling across my bed while adjusting her eye-patch. "Easy there, Captain" I said, making light of her pirate-like appearance. That's when she got angry and clutched for her eye, threatening to heave the monstrosity my way. "You don't want to do that Sandy, you need that eye to see with" I pleaded, hoping her drunken state would allow her to agree. "NO I DON'T!" she shrieked and jumped off the bed, chasing me around the room with the wretched globe. That's when she began threatening to shove it up my butthole unless I gave her what she was after, but I refused, jumping over the bed in an effort to make it to the door.
I miscalculated the leap however and wound up flat on my face on the floor with my legs still on the bed, placing me awkwardly in prime position for Sandy's dastardly deed. She made short work of my trousers and before I could cry, "Ahoy, matey!" she had plunged that infernal sphere up my butthole. I cried out in agony and quickly hauled my violated ass out of there. It wasn't long after that that I found myself on the toilet, attempting to expel the eye from betwixt my cheeks. It eventually gave in to my Herculean efforts and I was able to fish the eye out of the murky toilet water with an aquarium net I always carry around in case of emergencies. I returned the eye to Sandy the next day after she had sobered up, and feeling the need to apologize explained, "This was up my butthole. You put it there." "That's okay," laughed Sandy, "it's not the first butthole it's been in".
Watch Arrested Development this Monday. It's all new and that ugly woman from Monster is on it. She doesn't look as ugly on our show, however, thanks to our stellar make-up people who somehow manage to up my handsome factor from a million to about a billion.
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[18 Sep 2005|05:51pm] |
First, there's this.
Secondly, I'd like to take this opportunity to wish Teri Hatcher and the entire cast and crew of Desperate Housewives the best of luck this evening. I've got $1000 bucks going on you saucy vixens, so don't let me down. I should also add that this morning I legally changed my name to Tony Shalhoub, just to be safe. It might result in an awkward moment tonight should the real Slim Shady be asked to stand up, but when you've got Ellen hosting you're bound to run into at least a couple of awkward moments. And by awkward, I mean staggeringly unfunny. Name change notwithstanding, you can still call me Jason when I'm lying helpless in your arms. Or Monk, if you're nasty.
Now seriously folks. Thanks to all of you on the show for your support and nerve-calming handjobs. They have meant the world to me and I was totally able to get that stain out of my tux. Win or lose, it doesn't matter. I already feel like the luckiest man alive thanks to my Sex and the City dvd's finally arriving in the mail. So be on your best behavior tonight because remember, you're rolling with me tonight and my crew don't clown. Seriously, no fucking clowning or I'm popping some caps. I have no idea what that means.
LOVE YOU GUYS! :-*
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[10 Sep 2005|04:37pm] |
So that's how it's going to be. You win this round.
The phone, she won't stop singing her siren song of well-wishes and pleas for monetary compensation, as if I got to that place I'm at by writing checks. In all fairness that's slightly true, but I was at least cautious enough to ensure that my ass could cash any check my bedroom eyes may write. But yeah, I've had to dust my old answering machine off and hook it back up, because I've never believed in voice mail. It's not that I'm not fond of it, I just literally don't believe that it exists.
Mostly people are wishing me luck and asking if I'm nervous about my upcoming and inevitable loss at the Emmys. If you're wondering the same thing, I'll tell you what I told them. Was Michelangelo nervous about the public reaction to Birth of Man upon its completion? Did the Beatles second-guess Sgt. Peppers? Did Jaleel White ever feel typecast even though he single-handedly created a cultural icon? Of course they didn't. And neither do I. Win or lose, it's all about the trail of bodies you left dying from laughter in the wake of your comedic A-bomb. And I'm pretty much responsible for a veritable Hiroshima. Although, if I lose to Ray Romano I might just lock myself in my bedroom, hide under my pink frilly bedspread and eat bon bons until you won't even be able to recognize me anymore. Acne-ridden and bloated, Mitch will have to invent a storyline wherein I can become "Fat Michael". Come on, if Friends can get away with it so can we. And look how many Emmys they won.
I'll be getting AIM soon *pinky swears*. I've been preparing myself for the moment I do by reading Teen People so I can speak coherently in the alien tongue of my younger co-stars, and I've also been perusing Maxim and Cosmo so I can adequately converse with Portia and Will, respectively. Oh and Jet Magazine for Amy.
Edit: Dear "the one", I got your comment and replied back and immediately deleted both of them, forgetting that anonymous comments do not get email notifications. I am retarded, but grateful for your offer.
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[01 Sep 2005|12:49am] |
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Jesus, who do I have to blow to get a fucking paid account around here. I'd do it? But I'm Jason Bateman. I don't buy my own paid accounts, this much is gospel. Let's let those fingers do the ass-kissing, shall we? Until then you're stuck with these three icons that, while I found them equal parts insanely attractive, informative, and funny at first, have all grown tired. I'm just as sick of them as you're probably not, because honestly who could get sick of this old mug. Put your fucking hand down, Arnett.
I thought for paragraph two I would enlighten you as to the details surrounding my swinging bachelor life. But rules are rules and the non-disclosure agreements I typically have my underaged counterparts sign with in own blood, well they apply to me as well. So no goodies for you, but perhaps we can bake a batch of our own together. Pepperidge Farm remembers, and I scarcely forget a tush.
This would have been a more impressive update, but this is all you're going to get for free. Sort of like last week's episode of Yes Dear. Did you see that? Yeah I was pretty let down too. That show has really gone downhill since the second season. But maybe if you're real good I'll update with some of my very own Yes Dear fan-fiction and you can bear witness to how great that show could be if it really, really tried.
AIM suggestions also. Do it.
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[19 Aug 2005|07:18pm] |
This much I know: Somebody somewhere right now is making a joke or a reference at the expense of C. Thomas Howell. They'll point out the obviousness of the downward spiral of his career trajectory, or they'll make light of certain entries in his filmography (namely, Soul Man) and laugh and laugh and laugh. At what, I'm not sure. It stands to reason that versus most people, Mr. Howell has accomplished quite a bit over the course of his 39 years and let's not forget - the man is still working. Sure, nothing Oscar-worthy appears to be on the horizon for C., but he keeps trucking on. If an actor falls in the forest, does he make a sound? Maybe I guess. If it's method acting or something. Or if his leg got twisted on a branch. But we've strayed off topic.
You see, I used to be C. Thomas Howell. Not in the literal sense, obviously. We never did any kind of Freaky Friday body switch or anything. But he is my brother in former child star obscurity. What happened to him, it happened to me too. My story has taken a different turn ever since Opie walked into my life three years ago and handed me the keys to a luxury ride that I confidently steered down Emmy Nominated Avenue. I didn't do it alone, to be sure. There's a shitload of miscreants riding with. A lesbian, an underground comic, two star-crossed teenagers and a Will Arnett (he really defies classification). But the point is that it could have all turned out so differently than it has. Had Opie or Hurwitz or the network had ever decided that I wasn't what they were looking for, had they decided that they were really looking for something more in a Ralph Macchio or a Corey Feldman, I'd be right there alongside Howell. I'd be the punchline to a "whatever happened to" joke. So it just goes to show...something. There was a moral I was trying to impart, I swear. Don't make fun of washed up actors because they just might surprise you? No, that can't be it. Don't make fun of C. Thomas Howell? No, no that can't be it either. I mean, did you fucking SEE Soul Man? Whatever, I'm not sure what the moral of any of this is, but here I am. We'll figure it out together.
By the way, someone might want to get Amy some oxygen.
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