This is actual news.
Pectoral politics, sheesh. What’s next? I’ll tell you what: This is about to go below the belt. And by that I mean right below the belt. The penis. Penis measuring contest. Winner gets France.
In other news, that other news made me want to move to the forest forever.
In near-future news, I move to the forest forever.
In two hours after near-future news, I die from the first thing I eat, proving that forever can potentially be quite short, especially in the forest.
In two days after that news, Putin and Obama measure their dicks at my funeral. Winner gets to fondle my corpse in France. Where that sort of thing is acceptable.
My name is Ben and I blogged this.
Meet Kelly Hildebrandt. And then also meet Kelly Hildebrandt. They are both named Kelly Hildebrandt and soon they will be Mr. and Mrs. Kelly Hildebrandt. It’s a touching story about two people embarking on a life of utter confusion.
She found him on Facebook one day while searching for other people named Kelly Hildebrandt. While there may be a million fish in the sea there was only one other Kelly Hildebrandt in the search database. Girlfriend snatched him up right quick. They even share a middle name: Coincidence.
The only question remains, will she take his name after marriage. I suggest the hyphenated approach. Kelly Hildebrandt-Hildebrandt. It shows that even though she found her husband by clicking on a shirtless picture of a man with her same name, she is still a liberated woman of substance.
I make jokes because that’s what I do, but more power to ‘em. After a blood test, that is. Given that they share a name and look somewhat similar, you can’t be too careful. People make meaningful connections over arbitrary stuff all the time, be it politics or music or candy or whatever. What’s so different about names? It’s way less strange than Star Trek-themed weddings.
So live long and prosper, Kellies Hildebrandt. But seriously, get that blood test.
My name is Ben and I blogged this for love.
I follow the politics. I’m hip to the shit. Well, maybe I don’t follow politics but I’m up on the election. Okay, so not the whole election but I at least watch the debates. I mean, not the entire debates but the highlight parts. Okay, sometimes I skip those also but I’ve seen most of the commercials. So when I say that I’m hip to the shit you will have to agree.
I, for one, am tired of all the snitching. “Barack Obama voted 96 out of 95 times to deny funding to the troops. One time, when everybody was just hanging out, maxing on a chillax, Obama just out of nowhere voted to cut funding, even though there was no vote going on. That’s how much he hates soldiers.” “Sarah Palin rejected 9 out of 9 friend requests from homosexuals on Facebook. She is a social networking Nazi.”
When I was a boy, if you tattled on somebody for something naughty they did, they got punished but you got smacked in the face for snitching. So to the four remaining candidates, who are clearly all reading this blog, I say this: “Nobody likes a snitch.” Nobody. Not the millions of undecided voters still remaining; not your loyal consituents who look to you as paragons of virtue; not my father, the half-lit degenerate gambler who taught me the expression.
And stop airing your commercials during my cartoons, I already know who I am voting for. Obama. In the battle of milk chocolate vs. white chocolate, I gotta choose milk. White chocolate is for people with money. And if you’re a white chocolate-buying snob who doesn’t have money, well, you’re just an irresponsible shopper. I mean voter. I mean…wait, what are we talking about?
My name is Ben and I blogged this.