Ya know Scott, how crazy is it that we have, like, twelve people who read this blog every day?
I am vaguely aware of what kind of numbers you can get if you post each and everyday so I guess I always think we would have more readers if we tried harder, but then that means a lot more work out of the two of us and I have kids to feed!

I assume this answer drove away at least three readers. Well, who the hell needs you, Mom.

Ya know Scott, remember that time you beat that one kid with a Wiffle bat? How awesome was that?
For the record, he had a couch cushion to protect himself. I would never wail on an unarmed man like that. Oh yeah, it ruled though.

Ya know Scott, what exactly is the theme of this blog?
For a while it was about the ennui of post-grad life. Then we went through our VH1 phase and it was about weird stuff in the news and celebrities. Then it was about the folly of ugly people on the internet trying to make friends. Now I think it’s an ongoing dialogue about Russian literature and more specifically how neither of us have ever read any of it, nor intend to.

Ya know Scott, huh?
Indeed I do not, but I would dearly like to — oh ever so much. I would exchanging knowing nods with black youths on the street corner and between us would pass a moment of meaningful knowingness. I would mentor them in an after-school blogging workshop and they would open up to me right before the national high school blogging championships about the hardships of ghetto life and I could hold them tight as they sob and say, “I know, Jamal, I know.”

Ya know Scott, my cat likes to sleep in the bathroom sink. Is that weird?
I think it’s kinda sweet. Very zen, very Frank Llyod Wright.

Ya know Scott, this joke needs a punchline: Two brothers are having dinner after their mother’s funeral. One of them says to the other, “Ya know what I miss most about Mom? Every Sunday night we’d always have pot roast, and it was always fucking delicious. So then the other brother says, ” (insert punchline) “
Whoa, whoa — let’s go back and fix the setup first — A. I don’t believe a word of it so far. People want their comedy to about everyday stuff like African baby adoption and sexually promiscuous starlets. This doom and gloom stuff has to go: Now the joke is about Scarlet Johansson and a under-fed Nigerian in a limo on their way to the Oscars. B. People need a catch phrase to pull them in; something they can say during sales meetings and everybody will know they also watch TV and they deserve to be respected goddamn it. C. Nobody is still reading this question. Anyways the brother says, “Didn’t you suck her dick enough during the eulogy?! YOU”RE LIVING LA VIDA LOCO!”

Ya know Scott, isn’t it ironic that you’re such a great writer, but your spelling/typing skills are lacking? Is that ironic? (Aubs?)
The best part is though is when my dyslexic is acting up, I know a storm front is rolling in.

It’s not ironic to me, Joel. Thinking writing is about the letters in the words is like thinking music is about the notes. Most people are bad writers cause they get hung up on the technicals and lose the special sauce. While I respect their talents to a point, most grammarians are elitist honkies trying to keep poor people down or head-in-the-sand dicktards (by the way I recommend stealing you special sauce from the Onion).

I absolutely have a problem, but how can I stop when my sloppiness is so gosh damn endearing! There is a theory that my undiagnosed learning disability is really the source of my mighty powers. I had to rewrite my brain to survive and the occasional sparks that fly can be beautiful. Would you ask Ray Charles or Daredevil if he would prefer to see if it meant give up their respective gifts? Ben Franklin, F. Scot and Shaw all couldn’t spell. The English language doesn’t deserve respect, bend it and twist it as you will. Spelling is for robots.

Ya know Scott, I really miss Mitch. Don’t you?
I miss him, too. Someone that unrelentingly weird and sure of themselves is amazing. The theme of this blog should be to keep kids of the horse.

Ya know Scott, if you get to Heaven and you’re allowed to ask God one question, but it had to be about badminton, what would it be?
I would try to use an analogy for a birdy that hits the net and still goes over as a metaphor for the existence of man. God would call me pretensious and then run off to make more toys for all the good boys and girls in his workshop.