Greetings. My name is Grady, known by my Scenic Anemia cohorts as G Money. I am the forgotten writer on this website, mostly because I don’t do squat besides dole out verbal bitch-slappings on our official forum. Lets just say I’ve been basking in the awesome glory which came as a result of giving Maxim what it deserved after that terrible Black Crowes review. But I digress. There has been quite a lot happening since then, especially the addition of our Canuck friends, Ian Fortey and Glenn Thompson, and Adam’s rise to power as editor-in-chief-almighty of Scenic Anemia. Overall, you can say things around these parts have been mighty sweet; just ask Fortey about his recent endorsement deal with Thunderbird.

However, recent developments shrouded a dark cloud on my rainbows-and-unicorns routine. Three weeks ago, I traveled to Nashville, Tennessee for my grandparents’ 50th wedding anniversary. The vacation was fine, I managed to black out most of it. Unfortunately, when I came back to Sioux Falls, I no longer had a job. Seems as though the year-old gossip involving myself and a couple of temps at the Christmas party gained a bit of momentum into the realm of truth when apparently several eyewitnesses stepped forward to explain an unwholesome display involving the aforementioned, myself, not a lot of clothing, and even less shame. So much for loyalty. I will neither confirm nor deny these heinous allegations.

Suffice to say, my dismissal came as a bit of a shock to me, especially because of the innumerable discrepancies in the accusations. Ultimately, why was I fired? Everyone else wanted a piece. Badly. I don’t blame anyone, I’m fucking cute. However, that would violate a sacred rule passed down by my mentor, Blake Hardcastle (pictured right): don’t do ugly chickz. Either way, I have been without a job (officially) for a shade over three weeks. Since I was on vacation before the layoff, I haven’t worked in almost four.

What do I do with all this spare time? Well, I’ve given myself a pedicure, started doing daily housework, taught myself Spanish, started working out (fuck!), started taking regular showers, et cetera. One thing I refuse to do is turn on the fucking television.

Now don’t get me wrong, I’m not one of those people who is above sitting on the couch watching C-SPAN, listening to plaque form in my arteries. Or watching the horizontal bars of scrambled signal on Cinemax, hoping to see a nipple (or was it an elbow?). Either way, we can all agree that basic cable eats the most inner chasms of ass; it is like watching a prolapse in action, in all its nasty, albeit amazing glory.

My girlfriend watches enough TV to drive me up the fucking wall. Its true. We live in an apartment the size of a storage room at Payless, so as you can imagine, there’s no real escaping it. From Saved By The Bell in the morning, to the psycho babble of Nancy Grace come bed time, with plenty of Jon & Kate Plus 8 in between. It is the closest thing to hell I can possibly imagine. Though armed with the knowledge that summer programming is the brainchild of shitty diapers and endless Target toy aisle temper tantrums, she still continues to watch. But I keep my mouth shut, which separates me from the stars of Decision House; I’m a good boyfriend. At least so I think.

The other night, A Shot at Love 2 With Tila Tequila ended with the monkey-fuck “reunion” special. (For those who are unaware of the basic premise, I offer synopsis. A bisexual alien-looking Asian girl courts a handful of (presumably) straight guys, and an equal number of (obviously) lesbians of the lipstick varietal. They go through a bunch of challenges that were likely conceived by Bam Margera, Chris Pontius, and David Blaine. At the end of every episode, whats-her-butt gives someone the boot. Insert a bunch of crying and testosterone-laden screaming in between. It is the infinite purgatory which represents cable television.) I was busy getting railed by my iMac in chess, so I missed it. However, since my homepage is set to Yahoo!, I got blindsided by the headlines while drinking coffee the next morning, shortly after throwing a dictionary at Screech. Turns out she got dumped. Aww.

She looks like an alien.

First of all, does anybody believe this shit? I did a little digging, and found out that people do. MANY people do. People who, from what I can only imagine, have significant others who are on what the medical profession calls “suicide watch.” Or they’re ranting on blogs. Anyway, this chick IS ACTUALLY taken seriously…

We undestands Jessica. We are the people who care, and we are the only one’s that matter. Oh, before you spend the next two hours trying to find the power button on your Packard Bell, give Adam a shout, he’s single. Or maybe he can wright you?

Secondly, it has been mentioned how good looking I am — in all actuality, a very attractive young man. I’m no David fucking Beckham or anything, but you’d remember me if you saw me. For a long time. I’m that Hall & Oates video you saw back in grade school. This, along with years of training from a pro, I’m a stern but fair barometer on other geezers’ looks. No one will be able to convince me that this guy wasn’t there for fashion tips and hot dudes. And for the record, Jay, I could give a shit less about that fucking cesspool of a state you live in. See you next season on I Love Money.

The chickz on the other hand, were a delight. Besides feeling the need to constantly remind the viewing audience “eww, boys are soooo gross” and “I do. NOT. like boyz” (we assume it was with a Z). I’m guessing this is the soft language of subtlety, man-hatingly suggesting they are undoubtedly aware of the average IQ of their core demographic.

Either way, the season is over. Tila will presumably return to the mothership soon, en route to Sarpedion V, for the annual viewing of the vast family sarcophagus she hopes to be entombed in someday alongside the winner of Shot at Love 3. Or 4.

If you need me, I’ll be on the roof, ready to take a two story bellyflop onto my parking lot with my TV not too far behind.