Let's get this straight - not everything is extreme.
No cake baked on some lame television show about people who should be busy working and hosted by people's who teeth are so white they can be seen from space has ever, EVER, been extreme.  I don't care how big, how many eggs, or how much sperm they pump into it...not fucking extreme.  You're extreme makeover of your face or rectum or house is not extreme - its a pathetic attempt to indulge a life based upon what you learned from a marketing campaign and that's an oxymoron because marketing doesn't teach anyone anything, it just makes them feel worthless unless they consume something they really don't need.  Get a life, you're not fucking extreme if you pierced your face 3800 times - you're a freak, still admirable in some context, but definitely not extreme.
Neither is your house (or crib), or your pimped ride.  The truth is, the more money it costs and the more attention you beg for it, the less extreme it is.
Truth is this - something becomes extreme IF your life is in jeopardy.  Or, and I'm making an exception to my gut feel on this one...or if severe bodily harm to the point of becoming a fucking paraplegic is at eminent.  Oh, and porn.  Porn can be extreme and if you don't get why, just keep going to church and blocking 99 of every 100 websites from your browser.
Surfing can be extreme, as can motor-cross or swimming with sharks or skateboarding down a 40-degree decline at over 30 miles per hour without a helmet...that shit is extreme.
Please...stop referencing your sound systems and fountains and makeovers and granola and wireless phone and internet provision and hair growth formula as extreme.  Unless they're highly toxic and have proven to cause rapid throat tumors with rectal bleeding and bone liquification, your product is not extreme.
Stop saying that! 

(Extreme Ironing pic found HERE.)

Thank Boognish that Febreze was in the can here at the office.
I didn't treat my pits like upholstery for kicks, but rather because I don't have deodorant here at the office.
This feels almost like a tale that could become a fable, passed down thru generations to inspire...meh, I lost that thought.
Oh, by the way, Tucker Max is a moron - not because he SUPPOSEDLY treats people poorly (Karma is the judge, not me) - but because his stories are lame, not-funny, and only moisten up wanna-be Sorostitutes who have reached 40 and realized they should have lived it up before their ovaries decided to stop functioning and baby-dick-driving bone smugglers with Calvin and Hobbes bumper stickers announcing what athletic franchise they use to define their hollow personality's with.  Really - I'd challenge Max to go head-to-head with just one day in the life of Axel Rose.  He's almost as lame as David Sedaris, whose sister kicks his ass in the funny department.
Eat a bowl of camel shit, Tucker Max - your book sucks, your movie tanked, and in 3 years you'll be blowing hobos in East St. Louis to try and make a dime.  

...covering bob dylan's like a rolling stone...fucking listen to it.

For years now I've been elated by the consistent deforestation of my scalp built into my genetics at conception.  Lately, I've been appreciating the newest addition to this social curse - itchiness.  Now, not only does my scalp resemble an ass cheek, but I am constantly scratching at it like a chimpanzee who doesn't have any feces to toss.  Next time - baldness as physical handicap...may as well be the way some cocksuckers treat you.

Just because you can't get laid in that obscure ASU athletics wife beater and feathered moustache, doesn't mean you need to amplify all the efforts that got you un-laid to begin with.  STOP FUCKING YELLING OUT THE SPORTS FEED ON YOUR JACKBERRY EVERY 12 SECONDS IN THE MIDDLE OF THE GODDAMN DINER!  Humans are eating here and your voice immodulation disorder is not nearly as funny as Will Ferrell (you just sound like a wounded seal that unfortunately learned English from ESPN).  Repeat after me: I am not Dick Vitale - I am just a Dick.  Here, at the breakfast joint, we care about where the blueberry syrup is, not that UNC is up 3 over UNLV in the 2nd.  Write it on a napkin and slide it over to your embarrassed friend whose flesh is wrinkled not from age, but the consistent volume and jabbering of your voice.  You're an asshole.

I looked around at the top ranked poster sites and found only crap.  Most are not even Cookie Monster – they’re little rats nibbling on a cookie…MONSTERS DON’T NIBBLE, lets get that straight here and now.  Then I found one of Cookie Monster, but there’s 3 mini portraits at the bottom – this isn’t a New Kids On The Block panorama.  I don’t need frosted mullets and lavender scarves, I need Big Clue choking down four boxes of Chips A’Hoy, possibly with crying children in the background.

Oh, here’s a sure sign of the apocalypse – someone was selling the Got Milk campaign Cookie Monster poster for 175.00.  Now, I know the Canadian dollar may be strong against the to-be-Americano, but…really?  175.00?  For a Cookie Monster poster?  You really do need to move out of your mother’s basement.  Hustler’s move diamonds and stolen cars, not children’s posters.

So…can anyone help me?