Jimmy? Hey, Jimmy? Jimmy, where you at? God damn Craigslist-hired Production Assistants. I guess I have to continue typing my own countdowns, for pete's sake. I mean, seriously, my own god damn countdowns! Jimmy, I'm gonna slice open your...
Jimmy? Thought I heard him come in. Jimmy? I need to put a cow-bell around his neck.
Note to self/Jimmy: forced cowbell usage on P.A.'s and sneaky people in my life, is this a good idea or just an old forgotten one/illegal one? Also, remember to ask Jimmy if he can hear my words as I type them. Is that a dumb question? Ask Jimmy.
Never mind, Here's a countdown brought to you by me, I guess.
5...
4...
3...
2...
1...
(Jimmy, this is where you would have cued the following: a flashing, break-neck quick montage of eons and eons of painful, screaming, violent, dripping, bloody, smelly, impossibly improbable evolution of life on earth, from soupy minerals and one-celled organisms all the way to a hairy caveman cramming seeds into soil with his beautiful opposable thumbs and a stick...but, you're not around, are you, Jimmy, you dick?)
blast off! (play video below as you say "blast off" to yourself)
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