Holy Crap Are You Still Here?

Oh hi...I didn't see you there.

You may have noticed that I don't update the blog very often. Or, more likely - you haven't noticed. Because you never visit the blog. Oh spare me your denials, we both know it's true. I see the analytics on this end and let me tell you something, this blog gets less action than Jennifer Aniston at a bridal show. See what I did there? I made a mean-spirited Jennifer Aniston joke, making fun of her crippling loneliness. And nobody noticed. Because nobody's reading this. Which is just as well, I guess, since bridal show's aren't really good places to get action anyway...at least in my experience. I was trying to make reference to her inability to find a husband and...okay you know what? Nobody' here anyway, so this is where I'm gonna try out my C material. So quit your bitching.

I guess I have only myself to blame, really. I mean let's be honest - this isn't really my job. My job is to interview superheroes and occasionally, shoot them in the face. I'm a holdout from the old days of broadcasting, before there was such a thing as the internet, and this whole "world wide web" thing has me flummoxed. Except, you know, internet porn. I'm quite good with that. Savante-like, even.

So why am I writing this, if I know none of you losers are even going to read it? Well it turns out it's in my contract that I have to blog at least once a month. That was in exchange for a non-extradition clause, so in the end I'm pretty sure I came out on top. So now for every blog post I make, I can enslave as many third-world orphans as I want! Everybody wins!

Now, will I start updating more often if people actually start visiting? I think the better question is if more people start visiting, will I update more often? Think on that, Einstein.

All right, well I'm off to make a baked potato. I know none of you care, because I'm talking into a void right now, so I can pretty much say whatever the hell I want. Hmm.

Daredevil's an idiot, but I liked his movie.

Yeah, come at me.

My Deadpool Problem

I don't know who Deadpool is. My mother doesn't know who Deadpool is. The guy I buy enemas from doesn't know who Deadpool is. Burt Reynolds doesn't know who Deadpool is either. And if Burt Reynolds doesn't know who you are, then you may as well not exist.

But that doesn't seem to sway you idiots.

I have an e-mail address. It's Shell@TheShellShow.com. Do you know why I have an e-mail address? It's so hot chicks can send me naked pictures of themselves, primarily. It's also for news magazine shows to e-mail me million-dollar offers to appear on their shows and explain why I shot that "inspiring" teenager in the face. You know that kid who got his face torn off by bears at Bible camp? Then he had a new face sewn on after Robbie Williams put together that fundraising song, "We're Spreading Our Love on Your Face"? Yeah, he got a new face. It looked like it was winking at me. So I shot it. But that's beside the point. The other reason I have an e-mail address is so that my fans can write me and tell me how awesome I am, using lots of adjectives to describe my awesomeness.

But lo and behold, that's not what happened.

No, instead of getting e-mails from hot chicks and TV producers, all I get is e-mails from 15-year-old nerds begging me to put this Deadpool idiot on the show. That's it. That's all anyone ever writes me about. No hot naked chicks. No money. No hot naked chicks with money. Bah! Here's the thing, nerds - NOBODY KNOWS WHO DEADPOOL IS!!!

You know who I book on my show? Folks that people have, you know, heard of. Folks like Guardian, Wonder Man, and Booster Gold! A-list names!! But Deadpool? Really? Why don't I just go book Spencer Pratt while I'm at it.

I mean really, what is it about this guy that makes 15-year-old nerds go crazy? Is he giving out free rides in the Batmobile? No, he's not. You know why? Because he's not Batman. He's Deapool. And nobody knows who that is. And he probably rides a scooter.

So stop e-mailing me about this idiot, guys. Maybe when you get old enough to become a Nielsen participant and your opinion actually means something, I'll book him. But until then, stop bothering me. We really need to get back to the foundation of what my e-mail address was built on, namely offering me hot pics, money, and praise. Is that really so hard?

That's what she said.

Thoughts...from the FUTURE!!!

In 1979, flush with cash from my moonlighting as a Times Square mugger, I visited a fortune teller for a look into my future. At the time, I was developing a radical new concept for a television show - it would be a "talk show!" With a host that sits behind a desk, and interviews celebrities! Nothing like it had ever been attempted before, and I was eager to find out if my brilliant concept had legs.

It's been a longstanding policy of mine to stay away from gypsies due to an unfortunate event from my youth involving a thresher and a little girl who would grow up to become Cher, but I made an exception on that fateful night in 1979. As I walked through the beaded curtain into a small room with a table in one corner and a popcorn machine in the other (apparently the gypsy screened old Fatty Arbuckle movies on Tuesday nights. Popcorn was ten cents. Coke was ten years. Ha! Get it? Wikipedia is your friend, buddy.), I saw the old gypsy woman hard at work polishing her crystal ball. Later I found out that it wasn't a crystal ball, it was actually a snow globe from the Darien Lake amusement park in upstate NY, which I guess explains why my future involved so many roller coaster rides. Gypsies love that park.

Anyway, I could continue to bore you with the minutiae of the gypsy woman, her collection of midget-skin suits, her werewolf daughter or the suitcase handcuffed to her arm containing the nation's nuclear launch codes, but that would be getting us off track. You want to hear about my future! Here's what I learned that night, loyal reader:

In 1983, I would eat a bag of dried apricots and immediately regret that decision. This turned out to be accurate.

In 1988, I would form a boy band using orphans I found on the streets of Guatemala. If you replace "form a boy band" with "start an illegal inter-species street-fighting ring," then yes, this was rather accurate as well.

In 1989, I would meet Corey Feldman. Well, if you replace "meet" with "punch" and "Corey Feldman" with "Tatum O'Neil in the throat," then this panned out.

In 1992, I would brush my teeth. She was way off on this one.

In 1994, I would marry Brooke Shields. Okay, replace "marry" with something unprintable, and this one's good.

In 1996, I would invent Google. This one happened, but the Illuminati went to great lengths to cover it up. Dan Brown wrote a book about it.

In 1997, through a random series of events culminating with me hitching a ride to the international space station in the wheel well of the shuttle, I discovered the names of the 11 secret herbs and spices so closely guarded by KFC. This one's only 10/11 accurate.

In 1999, I would fix the Y2K bug through the power of knitting. I think at this point my gypsy fortune teller was having a stroke.

In 2003, I would eat a fish taco and get really bad food poisoning. While at the hospital I would meet a small child by the name of Justin Bieber and throw up on his head. The acidity of my vomit would permanently burn off all of his hair, forcing him to cover his scalp scars with elaborate wigs. The only wigs that would affix to his head without irritating his skin, however, were made by a company that specialized in Lesbians with Leukemia. The rest is history. Yep.

In 2005, I would be so angry after leaving Star Wars Episode III that I would run into traffic and get hit by an ice cream truck. Actually it was a Pontiac Aztec, but close enough.

In 2008, I would watch a 14-hour "7th Heaven" marathon despite having no interest in the show whatsoever. I couldn't find the remote.

In 2010, I would be responsible for the dissolving of Tiger Woods' marriage. This one's probably true, I just have a few more texts to send.

I'm going to stop here. You may have noticed that the gypsy didn't actually say anything about my talk show. Yeah, I noticed that too. Which is why I paid her in counterfeit money. But I hear you wondering if she predicted anything for me past 2010. Yes, she did! But I'm not going to ruin it for you, loyal reader, because some of it involves YOU!!!

Well no, not really. But that would be a cool way to end it, right?

Reality Bites. Or, How I Learned to Stop Worrying and Just Shoot Everyone in the Face.

So you might have noticed that many of my guests lately have been reality TV "stars." And I'll be honest, I have no idea who most of these people are. I mean, I know I pretend to be familiar with their "work" and that I give a crap about however it is they embarrass themselves on national television, but for the most part during these interviews I'm reading a teleprompter and imagining the best way to core an apple.

So why book so many of them? They're filler, folks. I need something to fill the time between your Tom Cruises and your Paul Walkers, and Reality "stars" are surprisingly easy to get. They work for scale and whatever drugs are left in the green room from the last guest, so we usually try to schedule them after anybody from England.

Oh, and there's another perk - they're relatively easy to shoot in the face. Now, I know I've developed something of a reputation for ending a lot of my interviews by shooting the guest in the face, but it's actually a lot harder than it looks. Legally speaking, that is. Remember when I shot Julia Roberts in the face? Well her lawyers sure do. They won't stop bothering me. I've shot a few of them in the face but they just keep regenerating, like John Travolta's hair.

But see, reality folk don't have lawyers. They have "handlers." They usually come from the local dog tracks, and are easily distracted by shoes or dead birds. That makes my job that much easier. Plus, the "personalities" actually love all the extra attention that getting shot in the face brings you, so then they can appear on the cover of Us Weekly or something with a huge headline that reads "My Face!!" See? It's win-win.

I mean, what else were they going to do? Visit Regis and Kelly? Host something on the Gameshow Network? Date Brandon Davis? Getting shot in the face opens up a whole new world of opportunities, which is why my show stays well stocked with Reality show losers.

Now don't you fret, I'll still book A-list guests. Well, B-list. I just won't shoot them in the face, unless they deserve it. Probably if they don't, too. Depends on my mood.

Next week, Paul Walker and his handsome face!

New episode!

...Finally. Yes, The Iron Man interview is finally live! No, I will not tell you why it took so long. Yes, it involved a tariff treaty and a meeting with Meg Ryan's lawyers.

Check it out here!

Mysteries of the Mysterious Gift Basket! Mystery!

So there's been some discussion lately (mostly among the "blogosphere," which I can only assume is some type of VD clinic waiting room) about the contents of The Shell Show's gift basket. A gift basket, for the uninitiated among you, is basically a basket of crap that a talk show will give to its guests so they can't complain that they weren't given anything. It's also a way to one-up all the other talk shows in town because if you're the only show giving out authentic nails from Jesus' crucifixtion, you're virtually guaranteed to be the only show that scores an interview with Elisabeth Hasselback. Score!

So anyway, after the recent recall of peppermint enemas due to lead poisoning, people have been asking about what else my show includes in its gift baskets. So here you go:

One (1) Copy of Sanjaya Malakar's autobiography "Dancing with Myself," autographed.
Two (2) "Dukakis '88" bumper stickers, gently used.
One (1) "A Goofy Movie" crew T-shirt, size XXL.
Four (4) Sparrow eggs, ripe.
One (1) Jar of Nutella, autographed.
One (1) "Free Willy 2" coloring book, colored.
Three (3) Mitt Romney bobbleheads, slightly burnt.
One (1) Coupon for a free prostate exam, redeemable in Rhode Isand.
One (1) 8 x10 glossy photo of Christopher Eccleston, signed by David Tennant.
One (1) Crinkled Walgreen's receipt with the home phone number of one (1) of these women scrawled on the back: Anna Wintour, Rozilyn Papa, Antonella Barba, Alison Stokke, Brittany Murphy, Pat Sajak, Demi Lovato, Tubgirl
Twenty Seven (27) Tickets to my one-man stage show, "Go to Shell: Live at Denny's!"
One (1) Shake-weight, slightly sticky.
One (1) Eighteen (18) - pound bag of magic rocks.
One (1) Home Hepatitis-C Test, used (positive).
Two Hundred (200) Bolivian Fighting Fleas, dead.
One (1) Human ear.
Five (5) Copies of "Double Team," VHS.

What the hell is Twitter?

I don't know, but I'm on it!

http://twitter.com/TheShellShow

Go there, follow me. I'm told that if I get enough followers they'll make Reign of Fire 2. Or something. Maybe Robocop 4.

A man can dream.