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Tuesday, July 26, 2005 

The Conversion

If I were Will Ferrell I would take great pleasure in making people laugh until they threw up. They would grab their sides, snorting with humor, screaming, “Please Will, please stop!”.

But I wouldn’t. That’s the kind of sick sadistic bastard I would be.

I would roam the town drinking and when someone tried to get into a fight with me for grabbing their wife’s boobs and yelling out, “Wow I lost that bet! Those are definitely NOT real” I would make them laugh until they forgave me. Then I would make them laugh some more and buy me a drink, because I would like to drink, no matter who I was, and then while they were still laughing I would punch them in the stomach.

Everyone knows getting punched in the stomach when you’re not expecting it knocks the wind out of you. They would fall on the ground and after I took a nice satisfying swig of scotch I would say, “Not so funny now huh?” Then I would walk off with my drink in one hand and their wife’s boob in the other.

Of course eventually I would come across the infamous Blog Ho, and I would, once and for all, turn him gay.

“Blog Ho” I would say. He would look around, stunned that Will Ferrell was on his doorstep at 7 in the morning with a bottle of scotch in hand. I would be up so early because I would stay up all night drinking, preparing myself to convert the Ho.


“Ho, kiss me you fool!” Realizing that I probably taste like sweet sweet scotch the Ho would jump at my face eager for a taste. Here’s where I would like to say that I would be gentle and sweet to the Ho, but I wouldn’t. Truth be told the Ho would be bleeding after and unable to walk for a couple of weeks.

The Ho likes it rough.

After I left the Ho would crawl over to his diary, leaving a trail of blood and semen, and shakily write the following entry: Today, today the Ho was turned Gay. Gay like the blue jays, gay like my son one day, gay like the fags who wave their flags in the gay gay parade. Oh yes, the Ho loves being gay.

Ho would leave his family and follow me around for the rest of his life, but I would never make sweet sweet love to him again, or share my scotch. Instead I would sit inside, watching him camp out in my bushes, tortured by nature, and laugh. Laugh the long slow laugh of a person who has peed in those bushes.

I would make lots of movies and get paid lots of money and when I got a bad review I would call up the critic and tell him how much money I had, then I would ask him how much money he had. Of course he will have no money. Critics are angry because they make twenty cents a day and I will tell him how children in Ethiopia eat better than his children. Then I would offer to buy his children for five dollars.

My agent would be mad at all the bad press I received so I would tell him to go fuck himself. Then I would make him laugh until he threw up and while he was busy cleaning up his mess I would fire him.

Eventually the doctor would tell me that I would have to give up drinking or die.

That, my friend, is when the laughter would end. I would smash my liquor bottle against the doctors head and throw his nurse through the window. No one takes away Will Ferrells liquor.

No one.