There. If you don't think having that man dumped into your brain isn't funny, I don't know what is. What the fuck is with that guy, right? I just heard a story about the time he left a fucked-up note on Julia Louis-Dreyfus's car because she parked in his spot, and nothing about the story was surprising. If'd they'd said, "Tom Arnold approached her in the female toilet wearing a clown wig and eating dried barley from a plastic pumpkin, while singing an ode to his own nut sack" I'd be like, "Sounds about right."
Jesus christ, Gary Busey. Time to lay into the anti-psychotics like it's two free sides hour at the totally insane buffet. Anyone ever see that show about the dude who just followed Busey around? It's pure madness.
A crocodile contemplating his choices at the drive through.
Writing a spec script for Small Wonder.
Having to follow Roseanne Barr around like you're an elephant poop-cleaner-upper, with a trough and a broom, tidying her continuous flow of detritus. (She was married to Tom Arnold! Married? Can you imagine that shit show? That's gotta be the greatest hits of un-erotic foreplay followed by the Olympics of gross fucking.)
Short Answer: I decided to stop because I've become entangled in this sitcom hell, dominated by images of fat people doing moist, flappy things to one another's fat pockets. Doesn't get much less funny than that. (When I have sex it's like's the pairing of two magnificent stallions. Wait, I mean, there's one stallion and someone's getting railed. Sometimes it's the stallion I guess, but there's a mare present. She's uninterested unless the stallion is squealing, but...it is magnificent, in it's way. And then the stallion cries.)