I am convinced there is a conspiracy involving the “Paranormal Activity” hype.

I heard all the raves and the hyperbolic statements, like ” ‘Paranormal Activity’ is the most terrifying movie you’ll ever see,” or some crazy thing along those lines. So Saturday I went to see the movie, which was reportedly made for $15,000. And what I saw did scare the hell out of me…because I realized that all the hype was complete bullshit — and if it was authentic, then the world is full of idiots who have no idea what a good movie is.

“Paranormal Activity” was the most boring, un-terrifying movie I ever sat through. The rest of the audience obviously felt the same, as halfway through, people began blatantly talking on cellphones or to each other, and no one cared — not even me, and I hate when people do that in a theater. It took thirty mind-numbing minutes or so for the first scary moment to occur: a bedroom door creeks. That’s followed by such terrifying moments as a loud bang, footsteps, an even louder bang. During one of the movie’s supposed “big moments,” the audience actually burst into laughter. After the movie, we all filed out of the theater feeling ripped off, with a number of people saying out loud what a horrible, worthless movie we had just sat through. If “Paranormal Activity” scared you at all, it is probably because you have never seen another horror movie in your life. Or you think ladybugs are scary.

“Paranormal Activity” is as exciting as watching people sleep. Why is that? Because most of the movie takes place as the terrorized couple — Katie and Micah — sleeps.

This movie, which felt like a cheap online student film, has been getting such insane Internet buzz that it came out of nowhere and landed at No. 1 at the box office over the past weekend. Really? Really? Come on, really? I have to applaud DreamWorks for mounting what must be one of the greatest marketing schemes in history — and obviously paying off plenty of reviewers and 12-year-olds to talk the movie up on Twitter and Facebook.

Don’t believe the hype: “Paranormal Activity” is a snooze fest. The Internet has lied to us again. (Save your money and instead rent “Drag Me to Hell.”)

Whenever I use the bathroom at work I panic. No, I don’t worry that I won’t make it to the toilet, or that I’m going to catch someone “peeking,” or that I’m going to slip and my mouth is going to fall on some guy’s dong. I worry that I’m going to be a victim of mistaken identity. Here’s the scenario: I walk into an empty bathroom and it reeks to high heaven, like the last guy in there had a Mexican atomic bomb drop out his ass. Then, as I’m walking out, in walks someone else, who, naturally, thinks I’m the stinky culprit. When this happens, I feel like one of those guys who spends 10 years on death row for a crime he didn’t commit. Oh, the injustice!

Have you ever heard this, the worst advice in history: Live every day like it’s your last? Imagine that. I know that if I lived every day like it was my last, it wouldn’t last more than one day.

Here’s my itinerary for the last day of my life:

• Wake up.
• Quit my job.
• Confess to crimes I didn’t commit. “Oh, that unsolved double murder in the park last summer? That was me.”
• Eat four dozen Boston creme donuts.
• Vomit.
• Eat another four dozen Boston creme donuts.
• Empty out my bank account. Buy as much porn as I can afford. Watch all the porn.
• Burn all my credit card bills.
• Head over to the White House. Urinate on President Bush.
• Kill some people I don’t like.
• Write my will. Nah, screw that. Let relatives fight battle-royale style for my possessions.
• Finally try one of those hot dogs at 7-Eleven. What would I have to lose at this point?
• Wait for the authorities to pick me up. Or wait to die. Whatever comes first.

The moral: If you have only one day left to live, take advantage of it.

I want to talk about parking.

Fire hydrants are a big scam. If you park too close to one in New York City, it’ll cost $115. I’m not saying fire hydrants don’t come in handy — when there’s a fire. But if I park my car in front of a hydrant, and there’s no burning building in the vicinity — which is usually the case — what the hell’s the harm? Of the thousand times I’ve parked my car in front of fire hydrants, I have interfered in a total of zero fires. It’s a perfectly good parking spot. And if my car ever caught fire? Well, there’s a hydrant right there. But I respect the logic in keeping the hydrant clear in case there’s a fire. So I say, if there is a fire, then give me the damn ticket. That’s fair. If anyone dies as a result of my parking choice, double it. I’ll admit when I’m wrong.

I’m also against handicap parking.

These spots are always available. Think about that. Why aren’t handicap people parking there? Because they’re handicapped. They’re not driving around. They have enough trouble being handicapped. Stephen Hawking isn’t driving over to his local Laundromat to clean his clothes. He’s sitting at home talking like a robot, while I’m driving around looking for a parking spot.

And why do we give special parking privileges to handicapped people when so many other afflicted people are left out in the cold? I’m emotionally crippled — that ought to be worth a damn parking space. Let’s take this a step further. You have a small cock? My friend, you can cut the line at the grocery store. Have bad acne? Give the poor bastard a seat on the subway. You’re a man with breasts? Give him a complimentary order of onion rings at Burger King. Ugly? Stupid? Short? Bald? Bad teeth? Shitty life? Let these poor fucks park their cars wherever they want. You’re a handicapped, black, albino midget with a speech impediment? Sir, you can take your car right into the produce aisle. Your wife is cheating on you? They should valet park your car wherever you go. If she’s fucking your brother, they should wax the car, too. Let’s stop playing favorites.