THE BLOG
07/17/2014 09:57 am ET Updated Sep 16, 2014

The Definitive List of Things We Should Split Up

Hopefully, California is going to be split up into six separate states. I say hopefully because why not? I have no idea why, actually. I don't live there. I don't go there. I guess the idea of splitting up a state sounds pretty cool regardless of whether it ends up being a complete disaster. Which it probably will. Also... which new "state" will have priority with the "west side" sign? I have to think West California, right?

But you know states aren't the only things that can be split up, however. There are TONSOHMYGOD of other things that can be separated, like, Dunkin' Donuts with Pizza Hut. I don't need the two in one location. I've never had a hazelnut coffee with a meaty p'zone. Here are the ones you haven't read about. I haven't been able to confirm any of these. Some of them might even be something I dreamt a few days ago.

Separate...

The brain of Kentucky state Senator Brandon Smith from reality:

I tend to look at Republicans like I do a dog with three legs. I sigh. Sometimes cry. I think of the better days that dog (the Republican) had.

Last week, when Republican state Sen. Brandon Smith of Kentucky said that the climate on Mars is IDENTICAL to the climate on Earth, confirming it by stating "Nobody will dispute that," and that, "There are no coal mines on Mars. There are no factories on Mars that I'm aware of," (so there). You've kind of thrown in the intelligent towel, wouldn't you say?

If you were ever taken seriously before this day from your constituents (doctors), there is no possible way you can be in the future. I think we should separate his brain from his brain stem and study it. Because it took me .00004 seconds to google, "Mars climate," to know that, "temperature measurements at the Viking landers' site range from 1.0 °F to −161 °F." That's it. Conversation over.

Separate...

Alaska from North America:

Dig a channel deep enough to separate it from North America. Devise a pulley system to tow it out to sea, preferably toward Russia, and have Russia buy it from us for a year's worth of free coffee coupons. Alaska will soon be part of Russia, and Sarah Palin can be removed from my T.V.

IF FOR SOME REASON, SHE STILL MAKES IT ONTO AMERICAN TELEVISION, WE CAN USE RUSSIAN SUBTITLES, WHICH WOULD MAKE MORE SENSE, ANYWAY.

Separate...

The idea of going to Target with having fun:

That's it. No need to elaborate. You're always going to get run into by a mom pushing a cart with three kids in it. And I'm always going to get in line with the trainee working the register. Just how it goes sometimes.

Separate...

The Body and Men's sections at Gap.

The only time I'm physically walking into a GAP (Gap?!?) and not shopping online is when I'm with my significant other. Which means that as I'm deciding between which pair of tan, darker tan, camel tan cargo pants I'm going to buy, eventually I'm going to have to venture from the men's section to the women's, because women obviously take 3 hours to shop at Ga(A)p.

For some reason, G@P sets up their "Body" section in between the two. I guess to entice the guy to buy some form fitting yoga pants or underwear for your girl. The problem, is that there's a really good chance that the girl we're with can't fit into this shit. And by buying her yoga pants you send her a message. THE MESSAGE. And that's a thirty minute conversation on the car ride home from the outlets. So what ends up happening is that we walk by the body section, we stop, and stare... at a mannequin...

True story. I once saw a guy stand there, paralyzed (excuse the pun). After six whole minutes he fainted, knocking over the display table and he and the mannequin ended up in... how do I say this -- a suggestive but totally random position.

So please... put the Body section over near the women's winter jackets or something. If you care, that is. If you don't care, you'll keep having to have Derek fold everything back up on the table. I'm sure he wouldn't mind.

And finally...

Separate...

Every housewife from every "Real Housewives" show.

Put them all in different nuclear submarines. We're separating them because if you haven't noticed, each one is addicted to the other, like Forever XXI and moms in their 30s. It's Forever TAH-WENTY ONE -- not Forever Old. Imagining what a Jersey housewife will act like toward an Atlanta housewife is money in the bank in my book.

Drive the submarine to Tristan da Cunha, which according to Wikipedia, is the most remote island in the world. Dock the subs, but don't let any of them out. We're spending the next six months in here observing. Like Darwin and the turtles in the Galapagos. The housewives are only afforded one 6x6 plexiglass window to look out at the beach from, once a day, and for 30 seconds. Probably going to be tons of fights around the window area. Not being able to sink their botox'd toes into the white sand is going to drive them crazy -- er... crazier.

The housewife who ends up with the LEAST number of scratches to her face wins a charitable donation to her own charity, which she is the president of.