ME: Boy, it sure is great being a shirtless denim model. I get to stand out here in the middle of some vast empty desert wasteland. Just me and my denim jeans. Not a shirt to be found. This is the life every man dreams of.
Enter YOU
YOU: Hey, you really should be wearing a shirt out here.
ME: Nuts to you, idiot! I’m a shirtless denim model. My very nature forbids me from wearing a shirt.
YOU: Well, standing out here in this vast empty desert wasteland without a shirt is a good way to get a nasty sunburn.
ME: Poppycock! I am a shirtless denim model, the sun cannot harm me!
YOU: Oh yeah? What about the time you drove from Jersey to Arizona with your window open most of the time? Your left arm and the left side of your face were beet red, so just think what would happen if you don’t put on a shirt.
ME: That’s a lie! I have never in my life been sunburned on half of my upper body!
YOU: Yes you have. Your left half was all red and your right half was all pasty cracker white.
ME: Screw you, idiot! I’m out here in the middle of this vast empty desert wasteland, trying to make a meaningful soliloquy about the nature and desires of the modern American shirtless denim model, and you have to come out here and ruin it!
YOU: Hey man, I’m just trying to do you a solid. I don’t want you to get skin cancer.
ME: Skin cancer? Just a second ago, you were only worried about me getting a little sunburned. Now you’re saying I’m going to get cancer! What’s next, is the sun going to give me syphilis?
YOU: Maybe.
ME: Really? And just how is the sun going to give me syphilis?
YOU: Well, maybe Huitzilopitchli will see you in all your shirtless glory, come down from the sky and have his way with you, giving you syphilis in the process.
ME: I find it hard to believe that some little hummingbird dude is going to give me syphilis. Why would Huitzilopitchli want to do such a thing?
YOU: I don’t know. Maybe he’s upset that there haven’t been many sacrifices made in his name in the last few centuries. I mean, I know you don’t consider yourself a very religious person, and you have absolutely no Aztec heritage, but would it be so hard to sacrifice a few hobos in the name of Huitzilopitchli? Nobody will miss a few lowly hobos. We could go down to the train station and pretend to give out free sandwiches. Then when the hobos come close, we…
Enter WILMER VALDERRAMA
YOU: Um, why is that dude from That 70′s Show here?
ME: I don’t know. These one-act plays usually don’t make much sense. Actually, I’m somewhat offended by the flagrant disregard for the Aristotelian unities.
WILMER VALDERRAMA: I have an eight-inch schlong.
ME: No you don’t.
WILMER VALDERRAMA: Yes I do. I use it to have the butt sex with sexy ladies.
YOU: What kind of sexy ladies do you have have butt sex with?
WILMER VALDERRAMA: I can’t tell you. It’s a secret.
ME: Shenanigans! You’re just saying that do make people think you’re some kind of slick butt sex player. But you’re not.
WILMER VALDERRAMA: Jennifer Love Hewitt is an eight.
YOU: Oh boy.
ME: An eight? On what scale?
WILMER VALDERRAMA: 10. She’s an eight out of ten.
YOU: Oh crap.
ME: Eight out of ten? You’re saying My Jenny is a B? A low B? You little piece of shit Latka wannabe! Now we tussle.
Tussle ensues
YOU: Stop it please! There’s already too much violence in the world! We don’t need Wilmer Valderrama tussling with a shirtless denim model!
Tussle continues
WILMER VALDERRAMA: Please stop tussling with me! Your shirtless chest is so smooth, my girlish slaps have no effect on you.
ME: Ha, ha, ha! There’s not a man alive that can compete with the well-oiled chest of a shirtless denim model. And you’ll get no quarter from me until you’ve been properly subdued.
Tussle subsides. WILMER VALDERRAMA is subdued
WILMER VALDERRAMA: Oh, I have been subdued! Alas! Woe!
ME: Your old timey interjections can’t save you now.
YOU: Wonderful. You’ve subdued Wilmer Valderrama. Now what?
ME: Um…
YOU: This is horseshit. None of this makes any sense. And don’t try to claim it’s postmodernism. It’s not, unless you cynically define postmodernism as a half-assed collection of random nonsense.
ME: But…
YOU: No! You shut the hell up! I don’t want any part of this retarded one-act play. It’s only a matter of time before Sir Ian McKellan shows up, asking where he can find some pussy.
WILMER VALDERRAMA: If he wants to find some pussy, he should ask my giant wang.
YOU: Shut up, you no talent man whore piece of trash! We get it, you boned Lindsay Lohan. Big deal. If I had a nickel for every freckled slut with an eating disorder that I’ve banged, I’d have 35 cents right now. You are worthless. Your TV show is the worst kind of unimaginative sitcom garbage and your future success hinges upon your portrayal of Erik Estrada. Why do you even exist? What can you possibly contribute to society? I know people on the Howard Stern show might find this hard to believe, but there are many, many sexy ladies out there, sexy ladies who are more than willing to have sex with a man, even if he’s not a talentless sitcom actor. Hell, you can go to any mall in America and find sexy ladies who are twice as sexy as Lindsay Lohan and Mandy Moore. So why should we be impressed by your sexual conquests? Huh, Wilmer? What makes banging Lindsay Lohan more impressive than banging the sexy Asian lady who works at the hair extension cart at the mall? Tell me, Wilmer! Tell me what it is about guys like you and John Stamos that turns Howard Stern into such an ass-kissing sycophant?
WILMER VALDERRAMA: Did I mention my schlong is eight inches long?
YOU: Fuck this guy. I’m leaving.
Exit YOU. Enter SIR IAN MCKELLAN
SIR IAN MCKELLAN: Wassup, bitches! Anybody know wher–
ME: Actually, Sir Ian, I don’t think we’ll be needing you anymore.
SIR IAN MCKELLAN: Oh, alright then. Toodles.
Exit SIR IAN MCKELLAN
ME: You know something, Wilmer? Maybe being a shirtless denim model isn’t all it’s cut out to be. Sure, I get to stand around without a shirt, but I should be looking for so much more in life. Any idiot can stand around without a shirt, just like any idiot can have sex with sexy ladies. At first I thought I was better than everybody else, just because I was a shirtless denim model. But now, now I see that anyone can be a shirtless denim model. Like being a talentless man whore, it’s a profession that requires no skill, no dedication and no shirt. How can I possibly be satisfied with a life of doing something that any greased-up bozo could also do? And how could I ever live with myself knowing that I walked around boasting about my ability to do nothing remarkable, as if I were better than everyone else. You know Wilmer, you and I aren’t so very different. I believed that I was the only man on Earth who could stand shirtless in the midst of a vast desert wasteland, just as you believe you are the only person who has sex with sexy ladies. Funny, isn’t it? Just moments earlier, we were tussling. I even subdued you. But now I see that we have nothing to fight over, for we are the same man.
WILMER VALDERRAMA: What are you talking about?
ME: Hush now, Wilmer. There is no ‘you’ or ‘me’ anymore. We are one. Hold me.
WILMER VALDERRAMA: Please don’t touch me.
ME: Don’t fight it, Wilmer. We must become one, for our souls were meant to be together.
WILMER VALDERRAMA: Help. Please.
Curtain
I feel bad about feeling sorry for myself for nobody reading my crappy site when you are coming up with much better material more regularly and you hardly ever complain about nobody reading it. Life is a slow thankless march toward death and I was a fool to believe otherwise. On a lighter note, I’m having a delicious pizza for dinner.
I wish I had pizza. I didn’t have any supper at all, although I have some rice and yogurt in the fridge, should I get hungry. I stopped caring about readers long ago. What bothers me is that I know I have a few regular readers who never post comments. That pisses me off. Comments were once the best part about this blog, or so I’ve been told. Sadly, the only people who read this silly blog (not ha-ha silly, but pathetic silly) are idiots and webcrawlers. At least some blogs get comment spam, I don’t even get that. It’s very depressing.
Wilmer Valderrama is completely unknown to most of America (even those who could recognize him as “Fez” would probably stare blankly at you if you asked them “Who is Wilmer Valderrama?”) But he is a major tabloid superstar, appearing all the time in Us Weekly (the wife has a subscription, which may be funny to you and may be funny to me, but isn’t because let me tell you, I’m flipping through that thing the day it arrives in the mail saying things like “What a great dress Marcia Cross is wearing” and “Who-boy that Lindsey Lohan looks a lot better since she grew back her boobs and dumped Wilmer Valderrama” Which gets us back to the point, that guy is all over the tabloids. Ladies follow the tabloids like other folks follow sports. Wilmer is a lot like, say Roberto Petagine. Most people would say “Who’s that? Is he the guy who plays Fez?”, but you know who he is, he’s plastered all over the baseball talk pages. Roberto “Wilmer Valderrama” Petagine, that’s a good nickname.
Also, what the hell is a shirtless denim model? Like jeans?
And yes, a shirtless denim model is a jeans model. Despite your subscription to tabloid magazines, you obviously have not been exposed to nearly enough fashion advertising. As far as I can tell, men buys jeans that are advertised by well-oiled shirtless male models, usually standing in the middle of a vast desert wasteland.
omg this shit is so fucking funny i love you willmer you are so funny well i have to go right now i wish i can write more love you guys
serenity
ps. my brother said hey