I Believe, by Rosicky Jones

I have been riding Mr. Shirley’s coattails for a while now, and I feel as though you don’t really know me.  So let’s get to know Rosicky.  I like speaking in the third person.  I believe in laziness.  I believe insurance should pay for my use of a motorized scooter because of said laziness.  I believe women should not be allowed to breast feed in public unless I am then allowed to throw dollar bills at them without becoming a social pariah.  I believe in Mitch[1] Hedberg[2].  I believe in Bono.  I believe Albert Einstein should have a national holiday.  I believe Edgar Allen Poe was secretly happy.  I believe Martin Luther King should never be forgotten.  I believe Mr. Rogers should be celebrated. I believe that all of Brad Pitt’s new girlfriends have been upgrades over the previous ones.  I believe I would happily take his leftovers.  Sometimes you can judge a book by its cover.  I believe in laughter.  I believe if I had a million dollars I would be rich.  Money doesn’t buy happiness is a lie… it’s just an excuse for poor people to stay poor.  When a product’s sales are very high they are always described as “selling like hotcakes,” well then why don’t people open up hot cake stores, they would be raking in the dollars because if anything is going to sell like hotcakes, it’s probably going to be hotcakes.  I believe that if online music file sharing is illegal then reading a book at Barnes and Noble without buying it is also illegal. I believe that free food should not count against any diet.  I am a proponent of legalizing marijuana[3], because all my friends say I am funnier when they are stoned, so I guess we should legalize pot.  Speaking of marijuana[4], I think driving a car[5] while rolling a joint with children in the backseat should be an Olympic event; and if it were my uncle would win gold.  Stevie Wonder[6] is the greatest male singer of all time.  Since Britney Spears is “trailer trash,” a single mom with two kids, is twice-divorced, and doesn’t own any underwear; does that make her a country singer? I wish I was rich enough to hire a midget to follow me around with a stereo providing my life a soundtrack.  Last night my friend came over and proclaimed; “last night at Hooters I ate so many wings it wasn’t even funny.” This statement led me to the conclusion that there is an amount of wings that is funny, like 22 wings are funny but 23 wings are not; I don’t understand this saying, is there a specific number when things become funny? And then in turn, at what point do they lose their humor?  I am ashamed to say that this problem keeps me up at night.  I think that Jared from subway is well past his allotted 15 minutes, and frankly, I am getting upset.  Michael Jackson was innocent[7].  I wish Meg Ryan was still hot. I believe in writing, from the mundane (this crap) to the epic, like Joyce or Kerouac.  I believe that too much of a good thing is still a good thing.  I believe nobody “plays hard to get[8],” that is just an excuse for ugly people.  I believe that a majority of music on the radio makes my ears bleed.  Ernest Hemingway[9] is overrated. I have a lot of opinions on Suge Knight, but I am legitimately afraid to write any of them down, and coincidentally I am kind of regretting writing his name down at all. I believe we will never see another Tom Brady, Tom Cruise, or Tom Jones.  When did Al Pacino become Ralph Cramden?  I hate when people sing the instrumental parts to songs[10], reread that last sentence to appreciate how much stupidity that action entails.  I am drunk.  I like grilled cheese and ramen noodles, mainly because that’s all I can afford. My ex-girlfriend, who happened to be Italian, hated Godfather I and Godfather II, so I dumped her.   Lalalalalalalalalalalalala, I just wanted to see how that looked in print.  I believe in sport.  I believe that taking two Tylenol pm’s and trying to stay awake is not a fun game.  Am I the only who hopes that Kanye West performs during the opening of the Bush library party?   I have so many opinions that make so much sense they have become senseless.

[1] Back in 2005 when Pope John Paul passed away I did not feel any sadness, I felt that I should, but I didn’t and I felt guilty. Then, about a month later my favorite comedian of all time passed away- Mitch Hedberg, and I was sad as fuck. I am not Catholic; frankly I am not religious at all, but feeling more remorse for a comedian I had never met that died of a drug overdose than for the leader of the Catholic faith made me feel a little “funny” about my priorities. This story has no real point but I figured it would give all 8 people who read this crap some insight into my soul.

[2] “An escalator can never break: it can only become stairs. You should never see an Escalator Temporarily Out Of Order sign, just Escalator Temporarily Stairs. Sorry for the convenience.” ~ Mitch Hedberg

[3] Albert Hofmann, the Swiss chemist who discovered the hallucinogenic drug LSD, dies at the age of 102. Sir Alexander Fleming , the Scottish biologist and pharmacologist that discovered penicillin died at the age of 74.

They both made their discoveries on accident.

They both personally used their discoveries multiple times throughout their lives.

I just found it ironic, no, fitting, that the man who discovered LSD outlived the man that discovered penicillin.

This is why I will never go to rehab, even when my drug use becomes so bad that I alienate friends and family.

This is also why I will not take penicillin, even when my syphilis becomes so bad that my friends and family alienate me.

[4] Why do drug dealers always need a ride somewhere-WHY? I have been buying copious amounts of drugs from these Greek cats for about 3 years now, and they are still constantly broke. My habit alone has to be enough for them to maintain an apartment and a car payment, but they don’t. Every time I roll over there they ask me to run them across town, or to taco bell, or to the arcade, or to the zoo. Yes, one of them asked me to drive him over to the zoo, and drop him off. I was too stoned to ask him any in depth questions, but the lunacy of the incident was not wasted on my sober brain.

[5] There are no more ice cream trucks on the road. The gas prices have destroyed the ice cream truck industry. One of the greatest joys of my childhood was listening to the ice cream track pass by only to decide to purchase a goody once the truck was a block away. Now because of George Bush- I am still blaming Bush for everything, even for Bennigan’s shutting down- we have no more ice cream on wheels.

[6] He is also the only man to actually go blind from masturbating.

[7] I am actually serious about this.  MJ’s death hurt me, I was in pain.  I love him. And I am the furthest thing from an impartial party – but my logic behind believing in his innocence is actually… logical- wow, that made no sense, but bear with me.   Macaulay Culkin circa 1993 was the most adorable kid on the planet.  He was the pedophile pin up.  If any kid was molestation material, it was Culkin.  Adult Culkin testified, under oath, at Jackson’s trial that MJ never touched him.  If MJ didn’t touch Culkin at his pedophilic apex, then he wouldn’t touch anyone.  Got it… he was innocent. INNOCENT!!!!!

[8] My rejection tale begins about 5 years back while I was waiting tables. There was a lascivious brunette with my name written all over her. I flirted with her and laid the foundation for the day I would ask her out.
It was a Saturday night, around 8:30, and there was a festival in town that would last ‘till around 1 am. I asked Elizabeth if she would go with me and grab a drink, if we somehow managed to get out prior to 1 am.
She said yes, and she also said that it sounded like fun. So I had affirmation and reaffirmation – I was in like Flint… is it Flint… and why is Flint in, Flint sucks… where was I… oh yeah.
We were cut (sent home) at 10, even though our restaurant closed at midnight.
Why were cut at 10, you ask, because I told my manager that if he cut Elizabeth and I before 11, I would give him the blunt I had in my car.  Restaurant managers are usually drug addicts, so a blunt usually goes a long way with them.
As we were getting ready to leave Eliz, told me that she couldn’t go. She said that she forgot she had a family reunion to get to.
A FUCKIN FAMILY REUNION. AT 11 PM ON A SATURDAY NIGHT.
I was pissed off now, not only had I lost my pseudo date, but I was out of the only thing my sorrows could be drowned in- my blunt.
And that my friend is the worst blow off story ever!

[9] Do you know what an adjective is Hemingway?

[10] Especially if the song has no lyrics to begin with

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