A friend claimed they had NO IDEA what this song was. Even after I held the “pleeeeeeeease Catch My Diseeeeeease” key for 5 full seconds, which produced a few side-eyes from passers-by on the patio of the restaurant we had lunch from. To them I say, “you’re just jealous I didn’t ask YOU to catch my disease” – and to that friend, I say you’re full of it for two reasons. 1 – my voice is WAY better than Janet’s, and 2 – I think you’re being a contrarian and a jerk! You’re really gonna sit there and tell me, you DON’T remember the 2006 Australian Record of the Year?? COME ON! I’m fine with us not being friends anymore… “coz that’s the way I like it“.
I don’t like this, Gronk. I don’t like it ONE BIT! Congrats on the comeback award, you know we love ya for it. But last night at the Espys.. What was THAT?
You were poised, calm, collected, well spoken? WHAT THE HELL IS THAT?
Gronk I… Gronk I don’t know how to say this… but, you didn’t make me wanna spike a single object around me… NOT ONE! That moment had NO bromanship WHAT. SO. EVER. Are you growin up, and becoming and adult on us, Gronk? Listen, if you’re NOT gonna pop mollys and twerk on ESPN’s Jemele Hill at Kentucky Derbys, party till your pants literally rip off, or generally ball overtly like the world is in the palm of your hands ready for spiking – we’re gonna need you to let us know RIGHT NOW! But, before you make any rash decisions, ROB, I want you to THINK.
Think of who you’re ROBbing here, ROB! Think of the Pats Nation you leave in mid-spike-limbo with our collective breaths held for the slam of the ground. Think ROB! Think of the blah blah blah. But Rob, that’s not enough. I want you to close your eyes and think, Rob. I want you to think of those shoulder pads barely phased by the chumps you just bulldozed past into the end-zone. KEEP YOUR EYES CLOSED, ROB! Think of the NOIZE YOU CAN’T IGNORE! Don’t worry, this isn’t a concussion test, you’re fine. Think of Foxborough in an absolute FRENZY, Rob! All those Dunkin Donut Coffee crazed, clam-chowder slurpin, relentless Patriots in the stands backed by the best owner in Football.
Then I want you to look at who’s running up from the line of scrimmage to meet you after that spike, Rob! You see those boyband locks bouncin your way on the shoulders of the greatest quarterback of all time, don’t you? DON’T YOU! That’s your teammate, Rob! That’s your QUARTERBACK, ROB! LOOK AT THOSE BIG BLUE EYES OF PURE AMERICA! Thats… That’s Tom. Do you see Tom, Rob? Rob see Tom run. Tom sees Rob run. Tom’s not lookin for a high-five, Rob. That’s not for champions. Tom’s WAY too pumped his boy just Gronked the world again. Tom’s comin your way for one reason and one reason only. Point to your chest, Rob. Now smack your forehead, Rob. That’s what Tom wants, Rob. He’s comin in for his signature head-bump that will get you closer to that concussion than any of those floozy linebackers could. Are you gonna leave him hangin, Rob? Are you gonna let that man down, to rest easy on his signature Ugg boots without earning that comfort from knocking one hardworking Bellichick-bred noggin against another?
That’s what I want you to think about, Rob. Dry your eyes, Rob. I think we both know how you’re gonna act from now on. You’re the Comeback Player of the Year. You can comeback from this sudden bout of unbecoming professionals
Okay, so you think your sex life has taken a turn for the worse? Well at least you’re not my good friend Brussels Sprout. Brussels Sprout never gets laid. As in never, ever. Sure, you might be going through a six week, seven month, or eight year dry spell, but at least you can whack around your private petting zoo with your fingers. Brussels Sprout? Bro, Brussels Sprout doesn’t even have hands. Brussels Sprout ain’t ever getting off. We’re talking about a lifeform with negative orgasm probability, a body constructed of anti-sex-matter, a black hole of hole hope. Yeah dude, it’s THAT bad.
Look, you could try to help Brussels Sprout out here, really you could. Even ignoring the fact that Brussels Sprout doesn’t have internet access, you could try registering Brussels for eHarmony or OkCupid, but those algorithmic apps will just crap out a big old bag of electronic dust. They’re not built for a desperate case like this. There isn’t even a gender option for Brussels Sprout. You could lower your standards for online dating, thinking that maybe Tinder or Grindr or, god help us all, Plenty of Fish, might seem like the sort of low-hanging option that could get even the sleaziest scum a shameful sex score. But it’s not going to work. You have to chat on those apps. And Brussels can’t even read. Besides, who’s swiping right for a picture of a green, shriveled testicle? People want faces. Not sprouts.
Hey, you think to yourself, let’s just fly Brussels out to Amsterdam or Vegas or somewhere, anywhere where prostitution is legal. Which, in theory, totally could work. But how exactly is Brussels supposed to fly? You see a lot of vegetable identification cards and passports laying around? I sure as shit don’t. Without that paperwork, you’re not catching a flight. The TSA don’t play, son. And really, are you going to pay for that disappointing half-hour shame shower? Because Brussels can’t pay. Brussels doesn’t even have a job. No bank account. No life savings. Zip, zero, zilch. Do you see now? DO YOU FEEL THE FEELS OF BRUSSELS SPROUT YET?
There’s no fixing this problem, and that’s okay. It’s okay that Brussels Sprout is going to die alone, fading away from life in a sad, virginal wave goodbye to the waking world. It’s okay that Brussels Sprout will never feel the touch of loving embrace, the glowing warmth of sexual contact. It’s okay that Brussels Sprout has a pathetic, hopeless sex life. Don’t let that get you down. That’s nothing to get sad about. It’s just the way Brussels’ life was always going to work out.
But you, you’re different. Yes, you. You, on the six week, seven month, or eight year dry spell. You on the lifetime train of virginity. You about to give up on love. Don’t’ do that. You can find someone. Don’t be so hard on yourself. At least you’re not a Brussels Sprout. Just remember that!
You know when a tune you and your friends dig comes on, and that one friend who took one semester of show-choir insists on belting along to Mariah Carey, like she can carry those notes all the way up to the mountain tops Mimi blows to “Touch My Body” from?
[Sidenote: Hey, JANET! THE STEREO IN THIS CAR ONLY GOES SO HIGH. MAYBE IF YOUR PARENTS LOVED YOU, THEY’D HAVE BOUGHT YOU AN SUV WITH A BETTER SPEAKER SYSTEM AS YOUR GRADUATION PRESENT. BUT, WE ALREADY ESTABLISHED THEY DON’T – JUDGING BY YOUR SORRY EXCUSE FOR A CAMERA PHONE – JUST LIKE WE DON’T LOVE YOUR OFF KEY BELTING. WOULD IT KILL YOU TO CARRY A SIMPLE HARMONY? YOU DON’T HAVE TO GO CHRISTINA AGUILERA ON US – NEITHER DID SHE, FOR THAT MATTER. SO YOU KNOW WHO SINGS THAT SONG? YEA, LET’S KEEP IT THAT WAY! ALSO, DON’T MISS THIS LEFT TURN, JANET! THANKS]
Well, Late Late Show Host James Corden has that moment from time to time, except when the passenger answers “Me” to the age-old “who sings this song” joke setup…well, you look like a dummy if you don’t let em go for it. Besides, if you’re actually driving Rod Stewart and Lord Pretty Flacko Jodye around… the only thing better than their music, is them ruining their music, right? Miguel, and Mark Ronson WHERE YALL AT?
2nd thought – skit proposal: insist they shut up because you really like this song… then ride around to awkward silence for 4 minutes… I’d watch that ALL DAY!