Originally recorded on Mickey’s Birthday at the SomaCow Studios and then edited and posted as a podcast at http://somacow.com
Damn, I love cupcakes. The awesome girl that I am seeing at this time went out and bought me a metric ass tonne (spelled ‘tonne’ because it is metric) of cupcakes with Star Wars decorations on them. Damn, I love Star Wars. Seriously. Can you name any other religious documentary series that is as captivating? I thought not, kumquat.
Speaking of the awesome girl that I am seeing, she also bought me the entire Star Wars collection on DVD. Well… not the entire collection. That would be just plain silly and give way too much money to George Lucas who doesn’t deserve all the money. I was gifted the DVD’s of the six movies.
The entire collection would include 37 copies of the original Star Wars movie, and really, what is the point of that. Also, the gift didn’t include the cartoon of the Clone Wars. The jury is still out on whether I like that or not. And the “entire collection” would also include the Star Wars Christmas special. NO ONE wants that.
The “entire collection” would also include Luke Skywalker on the Muppet Show. I have the digital copy of that.
Anyway, people often ask me, “What exactly is Mickmas?” Well, it is a holiday in June that celebrates my birthday. It is a time for celebrating the things in life that really matter. Drinking beers by the pool, hanging with friends, meats on the barbie, Star Wars, boobs, fruity drinks by J, and listening to the Greatest Internet Radio Talk Show, ever.
Thanks for listening. Send gold, send towels, send shirts, donate to the Cure For the Run, and dance.
Originally regifted at SomaCow.com. If you are reading this on some con Asian site blathering about pharmecuetacils, our work here is finished.
In this, our finest hour, we discussed Bad shoes, Bacon lasagna Fail, and we hark the Harold Anal Gel regarding a holiday of such stupendous splendifferanimousacity, I just don’t have the words.
It’s almost Mickmas, kids, and that puts us at SomaCow in a giving mood. So much so, that we have gifted YOU, the teeming masses of the Heard, with an opportunity to own some cotton! I am talking about T-shirts, people. They are on sale, they are nifty, and you can buy them here.
Mickey is aging again, apparently. I know this will sound odd, but… I have now known Mickey for, like, 9 years.
He doesn’t change.
Like, okay, you know how he is always dieting? HE NEVER LOSES WEIGHT. And it’s not that he is fat, cause he never GAINS weight. He doesn’t age, his voice doesn’t change, his skin, hair, eyes, demeanor, style, and the cut of his very jib are the EXACT SAME as the day I met him.
I am starting to think he might be a T-1000.
So, what do you buy for the man who thinks he knows everything? I’ve been on the horns of this dilemma since ten minutes ago, when my wife leaned over and said, “hey, it’s Mickey’s birthday soon.”
Do I go full man, maow maow man and buy him something for his bike? His truck? His gun?
Do I go sentimental, and make him a scrapbook of all the great time he and J saw eye to eye on a matter?
Do I get him a pony? A hooker? A hookah? A snapdragon? Peas? A Tattoo? A Dog?
I know this much… He does a lot around this website. The forums, the files, the audio uploads and clean ups, the whipping of the Production Staff, the flogging of the Hopper, the fighting of various and sundry virii, the drafting of graphics, the forming of ideas…
Christ… What do EYE do around here? Besides bitch and blog poorly?
http://www.twitter.com/somacow – +1 point for every positive tweet you send his way about him. No cap. Make sure you use the hashtag #Mickmas
If you have a Mickey in your life, hug him! Let him know how much he means to you!
Listen to me, folks, and listen good. We talked about a range of subjects in this hour, including Mickey’s birthday, turkey legs and sundry street food, and the need for Mike Myers and Adam West to do something useful with their autumnal years, but none of that matters.
What matters is that you understand Joe Piscopo is crap. If you already know this to be true, skip along with your bad self, and enjoy this episode. The rest of you, hold still for a moment.
Born Joseph Charles John (already, what the fuck?? What kind of insane parent names their fucking kid Joe Chuck John? RABID WEASEL PARENTS, that is who. And Joe Piscapoe is their perfect weasel child. Bready of eye, rank of fur, he wriggles and slashes his way from project to project, spreading mediocrity and gayish gauntness to the small screen like some kind of Rotten Johnny Weaselseed. But there is no fooling us here at SomaCow, JoeChuck. We know you for what you are – talentless also-ran base faced eater of broken meats)!
In all sincerity, we wish Mickey a Happy Birthday and discuss the finer points of SNL cast members, least of which is certainly Joe Pisscapough, who not only lied about the evidence that lead this great nation into armed conflict against Iraq, but also was probably responsible for the 400 years of oppression forced upon black men and women long ago.
That was probably offsides, and it really isn’t my intention to list off the terrible crimes against humanity that Joe Pizzapoke has wrought. But, as long as there is white on my screen and honor in my heart, the truth will out! Nefarious bastard!
Anyway, we played the following great bands, none of which do hackneyed impressions of Frank Sinatra ad nauseum. Unless we played Richard Cheese, but I think he does a lovely Frank. Ad Nauseum.
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