Ideas! The sign of a vigorous mind. Ideas! The noblest product of man. Ideas! I love them! I am a man of ideas! I’ve got tens of ideas! And they’re all bad!
I’ve got ideas, bad ones, about how I’ll make assloads of cash. I will steal people’s wallets. I will then take the wallets to an alley, smash them open with a hammer, and sell the gooey innards for cool cash. Cash!
I will start an all-talk radio station manned by one marginally coherent fascist yokel. The frequency of the station will be weak enough to reach only a single home, but strong enough to dominate the entire bandwidth of the radio in that home. Cash cow!
I want to convert a munitions plant into a drainage ditch factory. Slave labor, of course. And the soda machines could have canned coffee and soda with little particles in it. Or else, I’ll manufacture a magazine based on what tee-vee stars have to say.
Then there are my ideas about how to save asswads of money and trouble. Take washing forks. Tough, right? You need a dishwasher. Too expensive for me! So what I’ll do is put all my dirty forks in the turlet and flush it like five times. Flush! Flush! Flush! Then I’ll throw all my forks away! EEZ-EE! They’re out of my hair, not my problem. I’m not going to use forks that have been floating around in my turlet water! Then I’ll just get new forks… Kah-LEEN!
And I’ll use tea bags six times. Not for making tea, though. And instead of cleaning my toothbrush manually, every goddamn night, I’ll take them to get sandblasted twice a year—done!
I’ve also got some bad ideas about how I can acquire all the chicks I can eat. One idea is to dress up like a 13-year-old girl, enroll in the local junior-high school, take honors classes, go out for the cheerleading squad, become captain of it, and go to sleepovers with the other girls on the squad. Then, when the time is right, I’ll hit on the cheerleading advisor, who will surely be a lesbian chicken hawk. By the time she gets my sexy little school-color skirt around my ankles and realizes I’m a 37-year-old man, she won’t know what the story is!
My other ploy for winning chicks is to enroll in a high-class co-ed finishing school, where they will teach me manners, ballroom dancing, how to eat properly with a fork, and the correct treatment of ladies. Then, on graduation day, I will pick out some ripe graduate, lead her behind the podium, and go like Cousteau under her gown—zim-ZAM! It’ll be sweeter than a pornie!
I’ve also got some sub-par ideas about making the world a different place. I’d become dictator and round up suspects and torture the country’s brain trust. Start a two-front war or two. And, instead of being able to change your name when you turn 18, like you can now, under my system you’d be able to change other people’s names. I already know what I’m going to change your name to!
I am thinking of gumball machines that take dollars. I’m thinking of extinguishing cigarettes in my anus. Who isn’t! I am not a stupid man. I never said that. I do have some bad ideas, though. If you have bad ideas, I would like to hear them. I am thinking of compiling the bad ideas of the world and writing a new Bible with them. Just call and leave your ideas on my mother’s answering machine. She will then tell them to me, I assume.
