FUCK THE RALLY MONKEY.

There are so many things to discuss. Nick from Italian Class with Curly Hair has heeded my call to track down Woodrow Wilson's corpse, locating it via some weird person's site devoted to presidential gravesites. That's...somehow more creepy than that guy that went to all the US Starbucks locations. But it's probably a hell of a lot cheaper. We thank Nick. I think Inna texted me that his rotting body was in the National Cathedral a few days ago, but I was high on eye steroids. Let it be noted: if you're a necrophiliac with a penchant for committing sordid acts with important historical figures, you'd better mosey on over to the District. I suspect there's more than just Woodrow there to satiate your thirst for dead man anus.

"Stay away from my decomposed orifices."

I tuned into SNL last night to watch the Ashlee Simpson Mess, but was sorely disappointed. I was going to liveblog it, but it would have ended up looking like this:
12:10 - Ashlee looks ugly. Hair looks like blonde shit logs.
12:11 - She says she wrote this song herself. Danger danger, Will Robinson.
12:12 - Now we know why she was lipsyncing last time. Jesus.
12:13 - Slitting wrists.

Creating cleavage where there was none before. I need to talk to her people.

God, that show is so fucking unfunny. The whole time I was watching, I felt so bad for the actors forced to regurgitate that crap. And WHO THE HELL THOUGHT KENAN THOMPSON WAS FUNNY ENOUGH TO BE ON THIS? Oh wait, this show is really crappy, it doesn't mean jackshit if you get on it. Lorne Michaels must masturbate to Good Burger or something.

I feel I've done something illegal by acknowledging that this film even exists. And calling it a film.
I like Amy Poehler. Someone with mad influence should get her out of that comedic cesspool and into something good. PUT HER ON DR. HOUSE. I'm going to send an email to Fox as soon as I am able.

You equal funny. Unlike the rest of your castmates. Horatio Sanz, you need to fucking stop chortling at anything vaguely humorous you utter. You're an Hispanic trainwreck.

Tonight was Game 4 of the ALDS between the Yankees and the Angels. For the first time in my career as...I don't have an official occupation, but just being an Emma is enough, I was rooting for the Yankees. Historians of E. E. Grimshaw, at least going back three years, certainly know why. That was when I was afflicted with a mysterious skin ailment that threatened my breathing passages slash life. The cause?

I HATE THAT MONKEY.

At this point, some of you novices are probably scratching your heads. Wait, doesn't Emma love anthropomorphic animals? Wouldn't she orgasm on the street if she saw a puggie in a Halloween costume? It happened last October. Like many, I fell head over heels in love with the Anaheim Angels' Rally Monkey in 2001. It was a trained monkey that came out in the later innings with a sign that said 'Believe in the Power of the Rally Monkey.' I had pictures all over my room. My Canuck roommate began giving me suspicious looks as my side of the room began rapidly filling up with monkey pictures. And then...I found rallymonkey.com. I ordered a t-shirt. It came in the mail. I wore it. Within hours, my whole body was covered in a rash and I swelled up like Boy George in a Misfits shirt. People feared me. I went to the ER, I was dowsed in Benadryl, et cetera. The Rally Monkey never apologized. Fuck that thing. I gave it love, it gave me disease.

I have just been informed that the Rally Monkey is named Katie. Like Katie Holmes. Another mindless cunt that gets diddled by something inhuman.