My television has been off for about two weeks now, and I’m actually considering either downgrading my Direct TV package or putting a hold on my service until school starts in August. There isn’t anything for me to watch nowadays–and I’m saying this even though I have brand new episodes of “The Office” and “House MD” stored on my TiVo. And they will probably stay there until I build enough interest to work through them.

It really does pain me to call that “work” because those are my favorite television shows. I mean, I used to count down the days between airings and ditch some of my evening classes just so I could get back home in time to watch the opening credits (I was obviously jonesing pretty badly). And I celebrated every new episode by treating myself to the greasiest, fattiest, your-heart-is-going-to-explode-any-second-now fast food (i.e., the best stuff on Earth). Considering how I prioritized those shows over everything else, you’d think I was practicing some sort of religion and not just watching T.V.

But that writer’s strike has completely ruined television for me. For the months I was forced to live without scripted T.V., I learned to survive off “Project Runway,” “Top Chef,” “Inside the NBA,” and animes. I became so self-sufficient that I didn’t care at all when the strike ended and new episodes of my beloved sitcoms began airing again. How are Jim and Pam doing on “The Office”? Has Dr. House phased out his old team yet? I still have yet to find out because I am currently preoccupied with “xxxHolic Kei,” “Soul Eater,” “Moyashimon,” “Naruto Shippuden,” and “Samurai Champloo.” And I don’t think that is likely to change anytime soon.

However! Even though I have little use for watching television, that does not mean the T.V. unit itself is also useless. In fact, it has become exponentially more useful ever since I left it off. Because while you just see an old, dusty, television set, I see my new best friend.

Meet Mr. T.V. Head!

Mr. T.V. Head, and his bucket o’ parts. Buckets of fun for everyone!

Mr. T.V. Head does everything people usually do on their own, but I am pathetic and desperate for friends an awesomely awesome being of awesomeness! And that means whatever I do, my best friend does with me!

Exercising!

Cooking!

Suffering Intense Stress!

And when I’m not home, Mr. T.V. Head always makes sure robbers stay away!

But, like all friendships, there will be rough times…

Where being a true friend means hurting the person closest to you…

But best friends always understand…

…that their friendship will overcome the pain of being insulted by a television set with paper eyes and an aluminum foil mouth.

Can someone update me on what happened on “The Office” and “House”?

My annual gynecology exam is coming up. Yay…time to go get a clamp shoved up my privates and my insides swabbed (although, it actually feels more like a scraping than a swabbing…they must use pumice shards instead of Q-Tips or something). It’s not a horrible experience or anything; it’s just a bit of a hassle to have to lie there in a freezing cold examination room with nothing on but a paper gown while the doctor feels your uterus. At least my gynecologist is cool. She always tells me two things: (1) get lots of calcium in my diet, and (2) do those Kegel exercises. She says they’re healthy, but what she really means is “tighter va-jay-jay, tighter leash.” She’s great! It almost makes me look forward to my checkups.

You’ve got to wonder though: how do gynecologists deal with rotten poontang? I can’t even deal with photos of them–and thus scored an “F” on my final report for sex ed. I was supposed to research gonorrhea, but instead wrote about the clap…as in, the noise you make when you slap your hands together. I don’t care! I’ll take the “F,” even an “E,” if it means I don’t have to see any pictures of stank, diseased vagina! Ugh, can you imagine having to look at one? The smell alone could kill you (and no, this is not based on personal experience; common sense is enough to tell you that a wiggidy-wack vagina does not smell like flowers). And then having to check the insides with a swab? That Q-Tip better be two feet long or else the patient is just going to be sent home with a box of douche.

I wonder if gynecologists feel grossed out about certain vaginal afflictions. Maybe not the same way I do because I’m easily repulsed by busted birthing holes, but there must be some forms of crotch rot that doctors find extremely heinous and never want to deal with. And maybe on days where most of the patients have issues, the doctors have to draw straws to see who gets stuck with the worst one:

P.S. What’s the man’s equivalent of a gynecological exam?

My Pulse is riddled with inappropriate questions–which I cleverly call the “Inappropriate Question of the Day” or “I.Q.D.” I know what you’re thinking: that title is a perfect example of Sylvia’s creative prowess! If only I could be as original as she is!

Anyway, I’ve received a number of messages from people who have wanted to know why I ask such nasty things. The answer is quite simple, but in order to fully understand it we must go back in time to when dinosaurs ruled the Earth! Mwahahaha! 1982, when I was born. Actually, that’s an understatement; I wasn’t just born–I was born awesome. And awesomeness = asking inappropriate questions. The end.

…Okay, fine! I started the I.Q.D.’s because nothing else fit on my Pulse (*cough* stingy 132-character limit *cough* *cough*). And I know appropriate questions would have worked just as well, but they’re overused and boring as hell. As if you needed another person to ask you who you’re voting for or what you think about Iraq. So unless I’m trying to trick someone into giving me some lovin’ (e.g., “I’d really love to hear your thoughts on global warming; why don’t you get naked and share them with me?”), I try to stay away from appropriate questions by not asking any. Trying to avoid answering them is way more difficult; as of right now I have to loudly fart my way out of it. There has got to be a better method!

I prefer to ask inappropriate questions because that’s the only stuff I genuinely want to know about. For instance, one time my crotch literally smelled like french fries and I wanted to see if anyone else had experienced something similar. I posted an I.Q.D. on my Pulse and found out that I was the only one (and then I called my OBGYN and told her I thought I was dying because I had McDonald’s vagina). Asking the I.Q.D.’s has also given me the opportunity to get to know other Xangans better–because you don’t really know someone until you know how they maintain their pubes.

As long as I’m on this topic, and because I don’t have a transition sentence, if you happen to need a good laugh I very highly recommend you visit “Yahoo! Answers.” People go there to ask or answer all types of questions, ranging from homework help to health advice. But who cares about those? I’m telling you to go there because of questions like these:

“I want to make Hamburger Helper, but I’m not the greatest cook. Can someone help me out?”

“I just got a Brazilian bikini wax from a new girl and she totally ripped my vagina skin. What now?”

“A guy told me you could make a virus that can harm the PC. How do you do that? Please tell me! Thank you!”

“Why does my penis sometimes shrink and pull inside, as in turtle head, or worse, no turtle at all?”

HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA! These are real questions I found on “Yahoo! Answers,” but I cleaned up the grammar and spelling because it was too disgusting to look at. By the way, what the hell is the guy with the shrunken dick talking about?

A few nights ago, while I was driving home on the freeway, I became involved in a car race. I don’t know how or why this happened, since I was too busy trying to decide what I wanted to get from McDonald’s for dinner (choosing between a Filet-o-Fish and a Big Mac: the ultimate test). However, I guess my very dirty, 13-year-old Honda Civic appeared extremely threatening to the driver of the shiny, blue ricified car that was in the next lane. And thus, he stepped on his gas and sped by—announcing his victory to all via the fart-knocking noises coming from his upgraded exhaust pipe.

You know that is probably the extent of his racing career, i.e., speeding past people who don’t give a rat’s ass that he’s trying to reenact scenes from “The Fast and the Furious.” Although he outfitted his car with expensive parts to make him a more formidable racer, he’ll never actually race his car because of those expensive parts. As in, he won’t make use of any of his upgrades for fear of causing damage and depreciation to them. That makes about as much sense as hiring a ninja to beat up people in a super stealthy and cool fashion, but not having him do it because you don’t want his outfit to get messed up. So instead you have him following you around school and the mall, occasionally throwing a shuriken when people are looking.

Therefore, I have to ask: what the hell was the point of doing all that sh*t to your car in the first place? Please, explain it to me because right now I just think it’s extremely asinine and totally poser to put in all that money for this:

What the f*ck is this hideous piece of crap?

I’ve been getting rid of my old law school textbooks by selling them through Amazon.com to people who have no idea that they are buying what the cashier at my school’s bookstore calls “the worst pieces of sh*t I have ever seen.” So what if most of the pages look like this:

That is high quality book-briefing! And all done entirely in Crayola markers! Highlighters are for pussies! People who buy my textbooks will never have to brief another case again–assuming they can figure out what the colors stand for since I neglected to include a reference key…but whatever! See those notes I wrote in the margins? All Sakura Gelly Roll pens…the glittery kind, too. That’s right: I use the good stuff.

Unfortunately, I’ve had to label my books as being in “acceptable” condition because Amazon does not recognize such obvious displays of brilliance. Thus, my textbooks of awesomeness are lumped together with textbooks of crappiness simply because the pages happen to have “considerable notes–in pen or highlighter.” I did try to get into the “good condition” category because, after all, I had used markers rather than highlighters, but I couldn’t find a loophole for the stuff I wrote in pen. Even describing it as “notes written in margins using thin tubes of glittery ink,” was not going to save me. As a result, I’ve only made an average 10.5% return on all my books–not counting the measly $3.99 credit Amazon automatically adds for standard shipping.

And therein lies the problem: the $3.99. The only thing it  will cover is Media Mail, and that takes 7 to 10 business days because the packages are placed on a covered wagon pulled by a team of snails. By the time the buyer finally receives the book, he’ll have aged 100 years and be stricken with dementia. That’s why I always have the “Expedited Shipping” option for those who are willing to pay $6.99. I assumed the additional $3.00 was meant to cover the cost of upgrading to Priority Mail.

However, one of my buyers sent me an irate e-mail last week, complaining that he needed his book for a homework assignment and it was taking too long to get there. I responded with, “you should have chosen Expedited Shipping then, cheapass. Priority Mail is $4.80.” If I upgraded his shipping,  I’d only end up making 18 cents–which would then set my goal of getting a Wii Fitness back a couple years. So not worth it! He can just piss his pants waiting for a book that will be obsolete by the time he gets it!

And yet, even though I know he’s just being a douche bucket, I can’t help but wonder: what is the shipping etiquette for Amazon sales? Is the shipping credit supposed to completely cover the cost, or am I supposed to cover the remaining balance for Priority Mail?

Any and all advice will be greatly appreciated.