Sunday, February 28, 2010

Because It's All I Have

Quack, Quack, Quack, Mr. Ducksworth.

I Hate You Sidney Crosby

Yeah, I pretty much rest my case.

Silver medal my ass.

Anyone want to start a curling club? We have four years to train. All I want is an Olympic medal. Is that too much to ask? And I think that at this point it's too late for me to start training in any other sport. So it's going to have to be curling. Unless they're going to make diarrhea an Olympic event. In which case, hand me the Kati Roll and let's get training.

Saturday, February 27, 2010

Belligerent Foreign Policy

Main Entry: jin·go·ism
Pronunciation: \ˈjiŋ-(ˌ)gō-ˌi-zəm\
Function: noun
Date: 1878

: extreme chauvinism or nationalism marked especially by a belligerent foreign policy

jin·go·ist\-ist\ noun or adjective

jin·go·is·tic\ˌjiŋ-gō-ˈis-tik\ adjective

jin·go·is·ti·cal·ly \-ti-k(ə-)lē\ adverb

How many goals will count as "belligerent"?

The New Cold(er) War


3:15 PM EST.

Oh, it's on.

Friday, February 26, 2010

Snow and the Nine Circles of Douche

What's this? A weather-related post? No post like a snow post, I say. A snow post is when you use powdered sugar instead of a condom. TRY IT! What?

Neither of my bosses came to work today. They've left me the key to the generator shed and just enough petrol to kill whatever slaughtered all of our sled dogs. I am MacReady. The snow turns people silly, just silly. I'm one of them. When I drifted to the bathroom in the dark this morning I pretended I was an Imperial Probe Droid. And then I started peeing. I'm a real boy!

I bring you the Snowy 9 Circles of Douche:

9.) The Petwalkers- Dogs need to use the sidewalk even if it snows. Sadly, so do I. There's already only a little narrow path for both of us to use. And I get confused when we're both wearing sweaters. But then one of us starts pooping. You're an animal! Go in a drift. Like me! People don't clean up after their dogs when it snows. Because like, eventually the snow will melt? I don't understand. I just want the same rights dogs on the Upper East Side have.

8.) Walkers- I am a habitually unselfish walker, even when in a hurry. I defer to my smaller walking compatriots, but if someone is bigger than I, I delight in cutting them off for the sheer novelty of it. When it snows, this becomes exponentially worse as people shamelessly jockey for the clearest parts of the path and and get all fussy about avoiding the slushiest part of corner crossings. When a line forms to step off the fucking curb I feel my heart turn black and my hands start to shake.

7.) Umbrella Users- It's not rain. See DP's post. People who keep their umbrella up until the Last Possible Second while descending subway stairs in the snow need to be drowned in a corner crossing slush pond.

6.) Ornery Shovelers- Look, thank you for shoveling. You're doing a great job. Without you, this shitty walk would be slightly more shitty. Your futile efforts are a study in entropy, but god forbid any one of the 1.6 million people living on this island need to walk past you while you are actively shoveling. The sighing. The agitated pausing. The eye-rolling. It's like watching Jay Cutler, except I don't feel bad for an entire Midwestern city.

5.) Snow As Default Conversation Topic- I am guilty of this. Sometimes it's the only way to get people to stop talking to you.

-"How are you?"
-"It's really comin' down!"
-"How's your day going?"
-"The weather said it may keep up until three this afternoon!"
-"I'm gonna stop talking to you."
-"Boy it's been a crazy winter!"

4.) The Panickers- These often overlap with the 5th circle. Like a Venn Diagram. People in this circle are oft referred to as "Chicken Littles" by no one but myself, as they are both alarmist and taste wonderful with a lemon-garlic rub on medium high heat for seven minutes.

3.) Weathermen- You are only relevant for one season out of the year. And you fucking know it. How you take your time with your radar-data-fed musings, now, meteorman. "Check Back at 11 To See How Your Commute Will Be Affected During Tomorrow's Snow Emergency". Oh? So it's an emergency? BUT YOU WON'T TELL US UNTIL YOU'RE READY? Oooooh you pricks. I love when you're wrong even more than I like when I'm right. And when both of those things happen at the same time, it's like snowposting.

2.) Children- They can't help it. Their exuberance. Their lack of school or responsibility. Their sled-mounted gleeful laughing reminders that it's over for adults. They aren't even aware that there are degrees of douche yet. And oh how I envy them. The bitter jealousy washes over me like a tide.

1.) The Guy on the Downtown 4 Train Yesterday at 5:15 PM- Holy shit this guy was the ruler of douchedom. About 5'10", wearing a peacoat and a light blue scarf. First he cuts in front of a guy to get onto a crowded train, and then parks himself right at the door with a crowd of people still trying to get on. The guy he cuts off goes "why did you cut in front of me? that was really rude!" Yuppieclowndick replies, "I said excuse me, I wanted to get on the train." Bewildered man "I can't believe you would do something like that." Bonerjones replies "Shut the fuck up." Bewildered man, making his way past him, shakes his head "I don't like your attitude." DoucheofLourdes flies into a rage "Oh you don't like my attitude?! You've got a fucking problem?" I am now between the two of them, trying to get onto the train. "Why don't you step out here and tell me about my attitude?" CorporalDouche is now blocking the doorway to a packed train with people trying to still get on, his black leathered thumb hooked over his shoulder toward the platform. "COME ON, LET'S STEP OUTSIDE, GIRLFRIEND!" People stare. Bewildered man has now become bewildered everyone, and DoucheChunnel just looks around and then goes back to standing...the man he was yelling at now a full ten feet away inside the car. I loved it. But god help that man's actual girlfriend.

Turbine of Social Awkwardness: Part II

Okay, not a turbine. But social awkwardness. This is the tandem umbrella. If I saw you using it on the street, I would kick you in your hipster shins. "Oh, it's so whimsical. It's like you're Zooey Deschanel and I'm Joseph Gordon-Levitt." Ugh.

But umbrellas generally: I don't believe in them. I believe they exist I just don't think we should allow them in civil society. In the past few days, during this rain/snow/whatever, I have been hit in the head many many times with other peoples' umbrellas. I am quite a petite man so I can only imagine that normal sized people get smacked in the face many more times than I. Considering how cumbersome they are, people so quickly and easily forget that they're holding this vinyl awning over their heads.

Even if you can avoid being poked in the eye by one of the metal supports, the conservation of matter states that the water or snow being blocked from YOUR head by your umbrella will inevitably land on MY head. It has to go somehere. And it always ends up on my head and/or trousers. You crumb-bums.

They're not even particularly practical. When the weather is like it is today (i.e Snowpocalypse), the umbrella really is only keeping your head and the first four inches of your shoulders dry. The rest of you? Might as well be nude on a frozen Minnesota lake. The umbrella is the least practical way to keep moisture off of you. I want to punch its inventor in the cock. Or vagina. Depending. A poncho? Brilliant. Simple, water-repellant, worn by Mexicans. It's a delightful piece of clothing. The raincoat? Staggeringly clever in its simplicity. Look! Its just a coat that's water proof! It keeps all the things under it dry! Umbrella? Uh... well... It's like this thing, that you hold over your head. And it sort of keeps PART of you dry. Sort of. And it gets in the way of your body's natural movement through the three dimensional world. Fuck. That.

I am very mild-mannered man. Very passive and non-violent. Some might say I border on meek and thus will someday inherit the earth. But if your umbrella hits me in the head today I'm going to insert it deeply and painfully into a body cavity of yours to be named at a later date.

Thursday, February 25, 2010

Today's Forecast...

NEW YORK - Meteorologists were stumped today when precipitation began falling that wasn't snow, wasn't rain, and they were hesitant to describe as the ever-elusive "wintery mix." Scientists have decided, tentatively, upon the moniker "bullshit." As it, "Gee, Bob, it's pretty pretty bullshit outside." Also considered were "Bigfoot's dick" and "cocktaco."

The falling bullshit is affecting all aspects of life in the tristate area. From traffic, to power outtages to the Giants signing of recently-dismissed Philadelphia Eagle Brian Westbrook. When reached for comment, Giant's General Manager Jerry Reese had this to say: "Well, with all the bullshit falling around these days, we thought it would be a great idea to sign the former Eagles running back. We'll enrage Philadelphians by bringing one of their marquee players to an archrival and we'll alienate our own fans by trying to solve our running game woes by signing an injury plagued 30 year-old halfback who never actually runs the ball and only catches it out of the backfield."

Fine. I just liked the picture of the weather-man dong. could you?

This is Shamu and his trainer. One of the two living things in this picture is no longer alive. Hint: It's not the enormous aquamarine mammal. Shamu killed his trainer. Shamu is a KILLER whale. large glossy can you Kill? We put you in a tank and fed you dead fish from a bucket. We gave you the privelege of jumping into the air over and over again for the delight of Floridians. And you repay us with this, the least surprising thing ever.

In fact, it is so unsurprising that this particular version of Shamu had been involved IN THE DEATH OF TWO OTHER TRAINERS. This Killer Whale deserves to be locked a tank full of water! Unlike groundhogs, Killer Whales can not be begrudged their insidious plot to destroy humans, one overly affectionate wetsuit-wearer at a time.

Drew Barrymore is making a movie, and I can think of three people who would disagree...if they were STILL ALIVE.

Wednesday, February 24, 2010

Power Wheels : A Greek Tragedy

SCENE: A Neighbor's Backyard in Suburban Pennsylvania, 1993 CE

Me: Oooh Joey you have a Power Wheels?! That's so awesome!

Joey: Yeah! It's the best! We should ride it!

Me: All I've ever wanted is a Power Wheels, I can't believe you have one and that we are such good friends!

Joey: Truly fate and the gods have allowed for us to become rulers of this tract of grass, which we shall bestride like noble colossi mounted on 4 rubber wheels!

Me: Yeah!


Me: What was that?

Joey: Oh no, it was the wizened voice of the majority, warning us that the gods don't want you to ride on this Power Wheels throne I possess.

Me: What? Nonsense! I am merely twice the weight of a normal seven year old! Gods be damned, Joey!


Joey: The oracle at Delphi foresaw this. I must exile you, both from this verdant land and this mobile throne from which I rule it.

Me: Oh, to have defied the gods in such a public, unhumble manner! Surely there is no greater sorrow than that which I feel now, of being too heavy for Power Wheels at so young an age!


Joey: Foul wraith! Take your corpulent peanut-buttered self away from this place! Lest you bring us both a fate worse than that of Prometheus, Sisyphus, and Oedipus combined!

Me: Your mom's a real dick. It totally would have been fine.

*Lists aimlessly on swing-set*

When was the last time...?

Watch out y'all. Centaur Sleepover just got real. Real personal. Real confessional. Real embarrassing. For everyone.

When was the last time you peed your pants. Can you remember? Because I can totally remember. And it was really embarrassing. Mostly because of how recently it was. It wasn't yesterday or anything. But I think I was 12 at the time. I was at summer camp. There was some kind of an assembly or show or something going on in the evening.

Given that this was the summer, I had consumed something close to my body weight in water an Gatorade during dinner. My body weight at the time was about 68 pounds. But needless to say, I had to piss like a drunk racehorse by about halfway through whatever we were all sitting on the lawn watching. I seriously can't remember what it was. Because I was so desperately trying to hold the diluvian torrent in my bladder. They were really sticklers about letting us leave during these things. I would have sneaked away but I had no idea where the closest bathroom was and they definitely would have noticed if I just ran off to a tree.

So I laid down on my stomach, on the lawn, and absolutely pissed my shorts.

Did I run my ass back to the bunk and throw the shorts in the trash as soon as the assembly thing was over? You fucking bet I did. Am I cripplingly embarrassed about the incident to this day? Again, that's a big affirmative.

Why did I write this again?

Be honest with yourselves. When was the last time you did something like this?

Oh. I see.

I'll just be over here, losing all of my friends and dignity. Feel free to never speak to me or of this ever again.

Tuesday, February 23, 2010

A Formal Invitation

I've been a fan of The American Experience series on PBS for some time now. It's usually 60-90 minutes of something really interesting told in a linear fashion without commercial interruption. It's gold, Jerry. Last night, however, I discovered that most of the specials are available online for free. This was excellent news, and I watched the special on the Donner Party. You can watch it here. It is fascinating, hard to grasp, and depressing as hell. I think it would make an awesome theme party.

Head West with me! In celebration of a new, never-before-used shortcut to California, please attend the Donner Party!

The Rules of the Donner Party:

Everyone must wear a blanket tied at the neck. Large safety pins will be provided for all guests if necessary.

For Men, no one can be clean shaven. You need at least a few days' worth of scruff to attend. Women in attendance must wear skirts and there should be more women than men. Most of the men should have died by now. Because women are tougher than men.

No music with lyrics can be played at the party. Dancing and darkness are encouraged.

The Menu:

A Cake shaped like a Baby (Babycakes!)
Chicken Wings
Sno Cones
18 40s, to be rationed amongst the group.

Admission: You can only attend if you make a personal food donation to a homeless person. This way, we can eat wings and cake without feeling like complete assholes.

"If you're starved for a good time, join the Donner Party!"

Ignore me.

In Soviet Russia, Photos Print You!

I ordered some photo prints online from Walgreens at around 9:30. Less than 45 minutes later, I received an email telling me that they were ready for pickup at the Walgreens a scant 3 blocks from my office. What a country!

The world we live in astounds me. Truly.

In Soviet Russia, Kindle reads you!

For twelve dollars I bought a 2 gigabyte USB flash drive a few days ago. Remember when that was bigger than any HARD DRIVES? What a world. Now you can carry around more stored memory on a key chain than you used to be able to have on your whole computer. What a country!

In Soviet Russia, blog writes you!

Okay, now I'm even annoying myself.

Monday, February 22, 2010

Ahh, The Classics

When people ask me if I've read Moby Dick. I say yes. When people speak of Ivanhoe and Robinson Cruesoe and Dickens, I weigh in with one relevant line, perhaps a chuckle, and then I return to my pipe and my memoirs written on parchment.

I am a fraud.

I barely know how to read. This is being typed by an eighth grader I pretend to tutor in algebra while I dictate, listing back and forth in a rocking chair, my robe sullied by another evening of ramen and oysters. I pay him in stories and backrubs. His name is Telford.

Wishbone, and Wishbone alone, brought me to my liar's way of living. His small dog antics in the big dog pantheon of literature made me feel like all I had to do was tune into PBS at 4:00 to learn everything I needed to about the world. were never my dog. You belonged to Greatness. I often lay awake in my bed, the flame of my lantern guttering as the last of the midnight oil expires, and whisper "If only...Wishbone...If only...."

They canceled you, and with you, my potential. My will. My pride. My desire for pants.

If only they knew, Wishbone. Enough for tonight, Telford. Why are you typing that?

Where do you think you're growing?

You think you're going to grow naturally, in whatever direction pleases you? I hate to disappoint you, my little verdant friend, but it's just not gonna happen. I'm gonna trim the shit out of you. If rigid shapes and forms that plants shouldn't take aren't your thing then you better get the fuck out of my way.

Ssssshhhhh... Be still now. This won't hurt. Well, I don't think so.

What should we make you today? A standard blocky wall shape? A giraffe? A bear? How about an easy to solve maze for tourists to roam through?

Oh, I see, you're not going to make this easy, are you? Oh, wait, you are. Because you're a hedge. Don't try to pull any of that The Shining shit with me. I'm not afraid of you. In fact, I'm going to give your name to a high risk, high reward investment opportunity. How do you like that? Not at all, I'll bet. The recession is going to shit all over your good name.

All of your tiny little leaves, crying out for fresh air and sunlight. Straining for that phtosynthetic reaction they so desperately crave. Tough shit. You're going to be a dinosaur head.

Sunday, February 21, 2010

The Weekend: A Haiku

Gin bucket flowdeth-
Greas'd the skids of a slow death.
Monday comes, go rest.

You had me at "pizza"

You've seen these commercials for Domino's Pizza's new retooling (heh heh... tool) of their pizza? Sure you have. Well, according to my online order tracker, "Oumar put my order in the oven at 12:56." I'll admit. They got me. I can't even remember what the "old" Domino's Pizza tasted like. I remember that I didn't like it. And I really like this stuff. Half of me is ashamed. After all, I live in New York City, pizza capital of the world (Italy? Where? What?) and I'm ordering from a national chain of shitty pizza. I do this frequently. I would actually guess that I order from Papa John's and Domino's more often than any of the delicious authentic pizzerias surrounding me. The answer for this is simple. Domino's and Papa John's and Pizza Hut and the like aren't really pizza. They're delicious but they're not real pizza. It's like how Burger King and McDonalds are freaking amazing, but are in no way real food. So when it's entirely possible to be in the mood for Domino's or Papa John's but not really in the mood for pizza. When I'm really in the mood for pizza, I order real pizza. Domino's is the gummi bears of pizza. Not real, mostly unsatisfying but unbelievably succulent going down.

I'm a sucker for advertising in general, I make no bones about that. So this advertising campaign may totally be what has me. It's happened before:

1. Bud Light - There is absolutely no reason why I think I prefer Bud Light to Miller Light or Coors Light or Natty Light or Michelob Ultra or Amstel Light. Absolutely none. My taste buds suck. I have no way of telling which I like. If it's cold, I REALLY can't tell the difference. And yet there were so many great Bud Light campaigns over the years that I think I just gravitated towards them. Coors Light started to win me back with the fake press conferences ads after they totally alienated me with the nonsensical cool-down train commercials. These commercials were made by someone who is unaware that football is played IN THE WINTER. Everyone's all hot and sweaty and then the Coors Light train comes through and makes everyone chilly and fun. In reality, at a football game in December, you're about to light your own pants on fire to stay warm. Beer hardly does the trick. I've been known to sneak a flask of whiskey into a Giants game to keep my genitals from freezing.

2. X-Men Origins: Wolverine - I rented this movie only because the ads told me to. I knew it was going to be terrible. But the ads had primed me for the movie so much that I actually ended up liking it. It's really weird. And it's not like the commercials were great or anything. But they were moving images of superheroes and characters from comics that I had read as a child. I'm such an easy sell. The only way it could have been better is if Wolverine chopped the shit out of a Coors Light train.

3. NBA Playoffs - The ones with Jeremy Piven where he stops the action and looks right into the camera talking about how awesome the NBA Playoffs are? Yeah. I don't like basketball really. Or rather, I just don't follow. I like basketball just fine but I never watch it. I started watching the playoffs because of those commercials. And Jeremy Piven is a fucking crumb-bum but I still watched. For whatever reason, those commercials were awesome to me. They were the opposite of Dane Cook's baseball playoffs commercials. I love baseball and those almost made me NOT watch the playoffs. "People, it's the playoffs. One hundred and sixty two games and it's all come down to this. There's only one October!"

/Gets run over by Coors Light train

Saturday, February 20, 2010

Beyond Thunderdome

"Two days ago, I saw a vehicle that would haul that tanker. You want to get out of here? You talk to me."

Gin Bucket Recipe:

1 5 Gallon Water Cooler Jug
2 Pounds of Ice
2.5 Liters of Gin
1.5 Liters of Triple Sec
3 Liters Sprite
3 Liters Mountain Dew
2 Liters Orange Soda
32 Ounces Green Powerade
1.5 Liters Tonic
.5 Liters Sour Mix
3 Lemons, Sliced and Juiced
3 Limes, Sliced and Juiced
2 Oranges, Sliced and Juiced

Let Sit. Drink. Serves One Mad Max.

Has anyone seen this movie and will they please explain it to me?

This is a still from the film "Primer." It's a really awesome movie.

I just have no idea what happened in it. The movie is less than 80 minutes long so I really should just go watch it again. I even went to the wikipedia page about its plot (SPOILERZ ALERT!!!1!!1!), read it, and I still don't think I get it.

It's basically about these two guys who accidentally invent a time machine. Sort of. But it's not like a usual time machine that can jump you back and forth across time willy-nilly. I'm not going to try to explain it because a) it will ruin the movie if you want to see it an b) like I said, I don't think I understood it.

Please, if you understood it, email me a comprehensive summary.

I know. This wasn't a funny post. I legitimately need help understanding what I think was an awesome movie but I'm not sure. I need my opinions given to me, you see.

Friday, February 19, 2010

Hand Me the Needle.

I can't believe they drew a fucking face on me. How long do I have to live? Three hours? Four tops? MAKE A DOGGIE! MAKE A DOGGIE! Make the pain stop. I know what you do with dogs like me when we start to get floppy. You don't even give me the dignity of taking me out back and popping me. You'll wait until I look like an octopus's used condom and then throw me away. AND I'LL STILL HAVE THIS SHARPIE SMILE. I could have been somebody. I could have been an Autobot.

Just...just promise me you'll rub me against your hair and stick me to the TV screen before I go. Can you do that for me? I love that. I don't have much time left...a dog can dream, right? Oh...dogs don't dream? Wow, you would tell me that. I can't believe you. Well, I bet you're also the kind of person that says inflated latex doesn't have crises contemplating its own mortality. Just keep me away from the fucking cat.

We'll start the bidding at One HUN-Dred DOLLAHS!

(If I knew how to upload audio files, I would just record myself reading this in an auctioneer/racetrack announcer voice. Let's just pretend I did.)

Do I have one hundred? Can I get one hundred? I see one hundred there to the gentleman in the red sweater and bondage shorts. Do I have one fifty? I'm askin' one fifty for this one of a kind item. I see one fifty there to the blond in the front row with the out-dated beehive haircut. Do I have two hundred? Come on, ladies and germs, I'm looking for two hundred dollars for this fantastmagorical item. This is the genuine article, the real deal, the bees knees, the stinky cheese, the creme de la creme. Do I have--Yessiree! Two hundred dollars is the bid from the Native American in the back. -- What's that? Not Native American, eh sonny? Just tan, huh? Been to Miami recently? Cuba? I tell ya, that place is the Paris of the Caribbean. Alright, then, two hundred dollars to the sun-soaked gentleman in the back. Do I have three hundred? Ma'am? He's practically stealin' it from you. Just one hundred dollars more. Do I have three hundred? Three Hundred! From the woman in front with the just god-awful beehive. Do I have four hundred? And we're back over here to the gentleman in the red sweater! Four hundred dollars sir! And may I ask why you're wearing bondage shorts? You know what, nevermind. All I need to know is what I already heard: FOUR. HUNDRED. DOLLARS. Four big ones. Four hundo-smackeroos. That's a lot of clams, people. A lot of greenbacks. A lot of cheddar. He is making it rain here ladies and gentlemen. Going once... Going twice... Wait! New bidder down here on the right side. Do I have five hundred? Five hundred dollars! New high bidder, on the right side, the obviously drunk gentleman in the bowler hat. Sir? Yes, folks, he's still conscious! We will take that bid! Any other bidders? Do I have six hundred? ... Five-fifty? Five twenty-five?... Five-ten?

Okay, five hundred, to the intoxicated gentleman with the splendid haberdashery. Going once... Going twice... SOLD! The space of a blog post on February 19, 2010, for FIVE. HUNDRED. DOLLARS. Thank you very much. That is our last item on the block today. Thank you for coming, remember, it all goes to a good cause.

Thursday, February 18, 2010

Zombie Invasion Sportsman Contest

A Zombie Invasion is inevitable. Pop culture demands it. But what kind of athlete would have the best chance of surviving? I interview myself in an effort to find out the pros and cons of several major athlete types in an effort to determine what sport I will practice until Doomsday.

Boxers: Boxers are among the most in-shape athletes, I've heard. Footspeed and total body strength are superior, but there is no endurance level like Dead. Also, raising your meaty, buttery forearms to block a zombie attack on your face is just giving away a free meal. What, you don't butter your forearms? Get out of my gym.

Swimmers: Languid, aerobic beasts. However, even the best swimmers may not have the groundskillz necessary to evade and destroy. The best swimmers may be too lanky to maneuver in tight spaces well, and would constantly be doing weird stretches to impress us. Also, big hands and feet.

Running Backs: Explosive, agile, and elusive, running backs likely rank highest for their evasive capabilities. Zombie arm-clubs and shambling shoestring grabs would make Asante Samuelses out of the undead, without the annoying arrogance but with the unwillingness to learn how to wrap anyone up around the hips. Fucking Asante. Running backs lose serious points for their instinct for stiff-arms, which puts the gravy-basted forearm into the mouth of the creature that loves to put arms in its mouth.

Hockey Players: Incredible lower body strength and endurance. Matched short-burst capability with the ability to create tremendous weapon-swinging torque through the core allows for a balanced attack and evade combo. Pro Hockey players, while beloved, almost never went to high school and would probably start by punching a zombie in the mouth after telling their girlfriends to stop dancing with that guy. "C'mon Claire! Northern Exposure starts in an hour!"

Golfers and Tennis...ers: Any athletes from sports with dresscodes requiring collars are either in a privately owned bunker or (un)dead within 46 seconds of the invasion starting. "BUT I NEVER GOT TO KISS THE RED CLAY OF ROLAND GARROS!"

Basketball Players: If zombies could move in three dimensions, basketball players would have a leg up (OR OFF! BECAUSE OF THE BITING! GET IT?!) on other athletes. But zombies are slow, shambling creatures, and the success of Derrick Coleman ever makes me think that basketball players as a whole might not have much beyond their purported short-burst ability and penchant for handling the rock. Mmmm. Dwayne Johnson. Such buttery forearms.

Bowlers: If you insist on calling yourselves athletes, you can insist on being the first to feel yourselves torn apart by glassy-eyed PBA Tour fans who caught up to your slow-moving, corpulent, oversponsored selves. Try picking up that spare, brah.

Rowers: The useless athletic average of hockey players and swimmers. Guaranteed to make the survival party a little douchier- provided they collected themselves after watching the death of their golf and tennis friends. We simply must get lunch at Lutèce. Brains au poivre!

Biathletes: This was never a contest, I was just wasting time until crowning biathletes the uncontested winners. They have absolutely everything. Insane endurance in the harshest conditions and most severe terrain. Nerves honed to a quiet powerful focused thrum while they USE THE FUCKING RIFLE STRAPPED TO THEM. Targets the size of grapefruits (or toddler zombies' heads) destroyed in rapid succession from half a football field away with an elevated heartbeat. Zombies would not even get close to a biathlete. Oh, out of rifle rounds? That's cool, you have two spear-shaped secondary weapons at the end of your toned, margarined forearms. Ever see a zombie coast uphill at 15 mph? Yeah, me neither. AND I'VE SEEN ZOMBIE PORN. Biathletes have always been training to protect us from zombies, they merely practice in snow and at high altitude to be all that more devastating when deployed in other environments. The competitions they hold are just for fun. Afterwards, they all sleep in coffins and masturbate to the George A. Romero boxed set. Nothing but nukes can stop biathletes.

I'm buying skis and a gun and I expect to get my one phone call when they arrest me.

For sooth

Who hath created the rolling luggage?
'Twas not Satan, though me thinks it mischief
For the common man a-wheeling baggage.
Namethed Bernard Sadow, the little shit.
He knew not what he did that fateful day,
Condemning us to a world filled with wheels.
Afore we were thus "freed," man earned his pay
By hefting his sack, on his back: no deals!
Now the sackless traverse the underground
Through a minefield of meek wheeling parcels.
Damn 'Zounds! They are a nuisance, pound for pound,
I wish them banished to the Dardenelles.
"If you can't carry it, do not pack it,"
It rolls o'er my foot? I'll surely whack it.

Wednesday, February 17, 2010

Next I Shall Tax the Peasants

I have established a line of credit for $0.25 at the deli next to work. I go about twice a week for some salad or chips or something.
Yesterday I was a quarter short. "Don't worry about it," he said, "you pay next time." INDEED I SHALL. I put on my finest Carnegie bowler and paid the man this morning. Because that is how you preserve your line of credit, friends! Who wouldn't lend to a man who walks the extra half block the next morning to repay you, and with SUCH ALACRITY! No one. How far can I take this? Should I be fifty cents short next time? Should I pull up in my Model A and wave for the counterman to come out and take my order? "No, no, you don't understand, I have CREDIT here. Add it to my ACCOUNT, good man. And not a farthing less!" How long before I show up with no money at all? Trust has been established. My ledger shows I am solvent and in good standing. I'll have the macaroni salad, again, proprietor! And then I shall BUILD A LAKE FOR THE RICH. And I expect to be greeted at the door! But be forewarned, deli magnate, slicer of beefs and cheeses, I'll not let you be a usurer, not if Carnegie, potentate of pecuniary prowess, has anything to say about it! Bully for the Free Market!

Monica's Deli is good. And if you are a quarter short, they let you pay them back.

This is going to offend some folks


I'm surely going to offend someone. Probably my cohort, Mr. Tuxedo, among others. I think he's Catholic. I can never remember. You goyim are all the same to me. Big pork-eating, head-uncovering, foreskin-having scallywags.

And since your holidays, other than Santa Day and Bunny Resurrection Day, are totally off my radar, I'm always quite taken aback by all these people walking around with shit smudged on their foreheads.

Would it be rude and very Jewish of me to walk up to someone and say "Hey, you've got some shmutz on your face?" or "What is that on your face?" or "No, seriously dude, there's black crap all over your head."?

The answer is yes. It would be very rude. Which is why I haven't done it. That and fear of fisticuffed retribution from vitriolic Catholics. I kind of want to make a cross on my head with some dirt or something (look, I don't know where one gets ashes without burning down the building I work in and that might upset some people) and see how people react.

Would they view me with disdain as a religious fanatic in our secular, cynical, New York City milieu? Would they view me with deference as someone who has retained faith even in this skeptical age? Or would they merely ask "why does this Jew have dirt smeared on his forehead?"

I thought so.

Tuesday, February 16, 2010

I Will Watch Anything Wintry and Olympic

Japan vs. United States women's curling. Fascinating stuff, and I'm not even kidding. It's the ultimate in large-scale winter bar shuffleboard. I like how the announcers break it down for me like I'm an ignorant American so as to make me understand and enjoy it. Because I am and it does. Japan won in "extra innings" or something. At one point they said "this should be an easy shot, but the pressure is taking a free throw in basketball with the game on the line". I understand that! Yes!

I don't expect the late-night posting to become a habit. Yesterday I...wasn't myself. And today I wasn't...feeling myself. I am back to feeling myself, if you know what I mean.



Sometimes I wish we had this just to avoid the awkwardness

Phew. Canadian Tuxedo's close call last night had me more worried than I'd necessarily care to admit. But I guess I just admitted it to a totally public forum. Nevermind. Anyway, I was worried. But now that that's past, I can move on.

On the B train this morning, it's pretty crowded. Not sardine-can-packed-6-train crowded, but pretty crowded. Everyone piles on and we prepare for departure. Then the D train pulls in across the platform. Everyone knows the B is leaving first. Most accept the 1 minute delay and stay on the comfortably empty D train. Most. But not all.

A largish woman bearing more than a passing resemblance to Ganon from The Legend of Zelda series clomps out of the D and begins to barrel purposefully towards the B. The B train car goes into slow motion. Everyone looks at each other, squeezes slightly closer together to prepare for the coming onslaught.

It is all for naught. Perhaps two seconds before the doors close, this battering-ram of a woman slams her considerable heft into the subway car with little regard for public safety. Bodies go tumbling in odd directions, ACLs are torn, small children scream.

Then the doors close. And it is silent.


Oh, I also think she farted because it started to smell a TON like rotten eggs in the car.

Monday, February 15, 2010

And they said it couldn't be done!

Oh, almost midnight? Oh, almost failed to post before the end of the 15th? Maybe I did? Maybe I had my first drink thirteen hours ago? Maybe it doesn't matter. Maybe sometimes you agree to do something like post on a blog every day for 100 days. And maybe sometimes your weekend proceeds as if you haven't made this computer-sitting time commitment. I'm just saying. IT'S A HYPOTHETICAL. Great weekend. Great Monday. I hope everyone had two-thirds the fun I did. But what did you do?! No one asked me this. God bless. Or whatever.

What is wrong with this picture?

Take your time.

It took me a second too.

See, I'm watching the qualifying heats of the Olympic snowboard cross right now. Why I'm doing this is the probably the bigger question since I'm not a snowboard fan nor do I understand what makes it difficult nor do know any of the competitors nor do I care in the slightest.

But what struck me is that half of these gentlemen are wearing blue jeans while they compete. I'm not trying to be all George F. Will about this, but it just struck me as strange that these guys are wearing jeans while competing in their sport at the highest level. Particularly in a sport that is ostensibly about who can get to the bottom of the track fastest. In other sports concerning where speed (aerodynamics, wind resistance, streamlining etc) is an issue we have standard outfits like this and this. But these guys are wearing the same clothes I wear to work.

Which, incidentally, I didn't have today.

Three day weekends are awesome. Yet disconcerting. Because you don't feel like you're on vacation but you're definitely not at work. It's weird. In some ways, its the best, because you trick yourself into thinking you never have work again. For one glorious extra day, the world waits for you. You are like Flashman. For a day.

Then it's back to the tedium of your clerical administrative job? What you don't have one of those?


Sunday, February 14, 2010

A rebuttal...

Borderline communist?

That's just un-American, that is.

(This is indeed a picture of the embalmed corpse of Lenin [I am the Walrus] now that you mention it)

I just found this on Craigslist and I think Canadian Tuxedo left out an important detail of his evening. He may be sitting listening to his brother and his brother's ex-girlfriend talk about politics but that doesn't mean he doesn't have the laptop out, hard at work, searching for love:

Any cute girls need a benefactor tonight?

Date: 2010-02-14, 6:03PM EST

Let me romance you. How about you come over, we chat, maybe watch a movie on the couch. Kiss, cuddle, and then have a glorious time in bed together. I'm rough, dominant, and I can let you leave with rent money. Interested?

I'm terrified.

Valentine's Day Update

I'm sitting in my brother's ex-girlfriend's apartment watching the biathalon and listening to them talk about politics. My brother just called himself a borderline communist. I'm single. I don't think there's very much else for me to say about this.

Saturday, February 13, 2010

Brothers don't shake hands...

Brothers hug. My brother is currently rolling into Penn Station and after cleaning the apartment to appear that I don't live in squalor, I offer a brief story.

My brother and I saw Brokeback Mountain together when it came out. I actually wore a shearling jacket. That's how oblivious I am.

We both enjoyed the movie. On the way out of it, we couldn't help but remark on how many pairs of brothers had gone to see Brokeback Mountain, just like us.


Hardcover books are the new slide rule

Yes, I'm well aware that's an abacus and not a slide rule. But slide rules don't look as ancient and obsolete. And "abacus" doesn't sound as good in the title. Okay, fine, I'm not a good writer. You and every ex-girlfriend I've ever had are right, I'll never amount to anything. Yes. Congratulations. Pick on the guy writing the meaningless blog. It's not like I'm in bed, in my pajamas listening to "Welcome to the Machine" over and over again or anything. I totally slip in "Have a Cigar" every third time through or so.

That didn't go how I wanted it to at all. I think we got off on the wrong foot. I'm sorry. Can we start over? Hi! I'm Desperate Pickle. What's your name? Really? What a strange name... What do you do for a living "Bill"? Really? A publisher, you say?

/kicks Bill in the crotch

Why did I kick you, Bill?

/drops curling stone on Bill's now prone crotch

Why did I just drop a 42 lb (I watch Real Sports with Bryant Gumble!!) piece of sports paraphernalia on your junk, Bill?

/breaks Bill's cell phone to eliminate the possibility of 911 call

Because you make hardcover books you bungling twat-monkey. What hardcover books do is hurt the biggest fans of the author the most. They're the people who want to buy the books first, immediately when they come out, and they pay 2 or 3 or 4 times as much for this heavy beast of a tome that is ungainly and irritating to carry around. I bought Under The Dome by Stephen King right when it came out. I bought it in hardcover. Why I'm just getting around to reading it now is the fault of a little (not actually little at all) book called Infinite Jest that I'm still only 100 pages into but have to take a break from. But at least my copy of that book is paperback. It's a huge monster of awesomely funny, densely worded narrative and extraneous footnotes but at least it has a soft, papery cover.

My copy of Under The Dome weighs approximately 27 lbs and is nearly impossible to read on the subway. By the time I pry the front cover open, I have dislodged and possibly injured nine other passengers. Not to mention the weight of the thing causes my knees to buckle when it's in my bag, causing disruption to the natural flow of human beings on an narrow, underground means of conveyance.

In this age of Kindles and other "e-readers" (note: we should stop naming high tech things just "e-" or "i-" whatever they low-tech version of them is. We don't call hybrids "e-cars." We don't call lights "e-fires." Please, let's end this stupidness) it should be absolutely unthinkable not just to sell a book that takes up more resources and space on this already crowded and depleted planet of ours, but to charge MORE for it. I have an idea. Why not charge more for the paperback? They're infinitely better and more convenient.

What? Oh, sorry Bill, I forgot you were still down there.

/beats him to death with a Kindle 2.0


Friday, February 12, 2010

You're Late.

Where the hell have you been? You smell like Play-Doh. Have you been hanging out with Play-Doh again? I CAN SEE IT UNDER YOUR NAILS. You know, I looked the other way when it snowed earlier this week and you wanted to spend time outside. Sure. Fine. Boys will be boys. Go and make your little snow fairies.

But when you're done pretending that misshapen lump by the driveway is Parson Brown, you are supposed to get your ass back inside and spend time with me. I MADE CUPCAKES. Is this going to eat itself? No. My mouth is sewn shut, you prick. Do you think I bake for my health?

Oh? What? You don't eat plush cupcakes? Since when? Too good for plush, I bet. You know who wasn't too good to risk their stuffed life for you? Me. When I lit this candle. For the cupcake I made you. Not real fire? The fuck it's not, you son of a bitch.

How were cartoons? Good? Did you like how they ended? Were all of the problems solved in the 22 minutes like yesterday? Ohmahgosh! They WERE?! Wow, well gorry boss I guess we'll just hafta tune in tomorrow, too. Wouldn't want to miss that plot again. You really are an idiot, you know that? I wear this hat to make you look smarter, but I don't think it's working. I could wear a Klan robe and a cockring next to you and you'd still look dumber.


Well, this can't be good

I went to the eye doctor this morning.

I've been going a lot since my LASIK surgery. I have 20/10 vision now but apparently I also have dry eyes.

I've gotten all kind of drops and ointments (that word makes me a little uncomfortable) and such.

The doctor has determined that I probably sleep with my eyes open.




I "sleep with my eyes open"??? How the hell is this possible?? And more importantly, how has no one noticed before? I have a mother. She's seen me sleep. I have a girlfriend. I sleep with her on a fairly regular basis. And NO ONE has ever been said to me "when you sleep, your eyes are open. It's weird." Or has no one told me because it freaks them out that much? Like when someone has a crazy scar on their face and all you want to do is ask them how they got it but instead you pretend you can't see it. Imagine the scene:

INT. NIGHT. A small bedroom in a Soho apartment. Desperate Pickle and his special lady are in bed.


Good night, baby.


Good night.


Love you.


Love you too.

He turns over to his side and begins to fall asleep. It takes her longer. They lie there for a few minutes, him asleep, her awake. After a while, he rolls over, still asleep. She looks down and gazes into his OPEN EYES. He is still asleep. Too petrified to scream, she merely gasps, breathlessly, mouth agape as the camera zooms towards her.


INT. DAY. The kitchen. A small table. Desperate Pickle's special lady is having cereal and coffee. He enters the room, pulling a sweater over his head.


Hey honey. How did you sleep?




Is something wrong? What happened?


(almost too cheerily)

Nothing! Nothing at all! Want some breakfast?




Fox just called me to option this spec script.

Thursday, February 11, 2010

I Would Eat This And So Much More

Look at that. Look at that delicious meal. Look at the meat, the vegetables. The subtle garnish at the end of the tear-drop dish. But this isn't for you. No, it's for cats. For as long as I can remember, I have been salivating at pet food. Commercial after commercial of tender, juicy lumps of meat being poured into a bowl or dish, ready to be lapped up without the use of utensils. Heaven.

When I was young I did my Christmas shopping at the dollar store. They sold canned dog food once. I couldn't afford to not buy it. I ate a lump of it at home, and it tasted only okay. But it smelled delicious and looked like cubed beef in gravy. I was disappointed. I later convinced myself that it was merely because I bought dollar-store dog food that it was not the sumptuous delight I had conditioned myself to expect. Any name brand food-Alpo, FancyFeast- those HAD to be as good as they looked.

Also, I would periodically ask my parents if it was okay for me to eat like a dog at the table. About once every two years, they would let me, and I would use my face to eat spaghetti or something. I didn't bark or anything, I just let my arms hang at my sides while I ate some of my food like a dog. I'm pretty sure this was their idea of a compromise for not letting us have any pets in the house. Did you ever have to pretend to be your own pet? No, I didn't think so.

I should've just read a book

I saw this movie last night.

I wish I hadn't.

It's not just that it wasn't particularly funny or particularly scary, one or both of which was presumably the goal. It's that it was one of the most irritating movies I've ever seen. I think I need to revise my movie watching ethos. Right now, I'll pretty much watch anything. I just like movies, period. So I'll watch almost anything with a moving picture. But this movie just flat out irritated me. I think I hate Megan Fox. Which is point one.

She's a terrible actress. At no point in this movie does she seem remotely desirable to me. It really bothers me in movies or plays when people keep talking about how x, y or z someone is but then their actions don't show them to be x, y or z. Like, in Big Daddy, how Adam Sandler is supposed to be all "down-on-his-luck" and a tollbooth operator, but he lives in this enormous loft apartment in New York City. I know, I know, he won some kind of lawsuit, but seriously? That apartment in New York? His closet is the size of some peoples' apartments. Only I live in that nice of a place.

It's like that. The main character (nicknamed "Needy"... wait, quick sidebar. Her nickname is NEEDY. And she kind of embraces this. Her BOYFRIEND calls her Needy. Everyone other than her mother calls her "Needy." How the fuck do you let this happen to yourself? At some point on your way through life, aren't you like, "hey could you guys, stop calling me Needy? My name is Cordelia" or whatever? Seriously, it made me hate her right from the start) is always saying how Jennifer is her best friend, but she seems like a really terrible friend right from the start. And other than being physically attractive, Jennifer has exactly zero redeeming qualities. I hated her from the minute she walked on the screen. And maybe that's the point. But that makes for a shitty movie if that is the point.

From a storytelling point of view the whole movie is framed in this completely unnecessary flashback with voiceover. Unless voiceover is a distinct stylistic choice (i.e Memento, Goodfellas), it's just really lazy writing... Oh, right, the writing... Okay, I liked Juno, it's a likable movie. Filled with likable people. And really strong performances from likable actors. That Diablo Cody wrote both of these movies is making me think that Jason Reitman is a genius for making Juno so good and casting it so well. As you know if you've seen that movie, Diablo Cody writes really "quirky" dialogue. Y'know, how people don't really talk? That's not necessarily a knock on her. A lot of stylized dialogue can be interesting. And in the right hands, Diablo Cody's is no different. Ellen Page and company carry it off nicely. Okay, it's a little too indie and quirky for me at some points (the hamburger phone? kind of unnecessary, right?) but in general in works.

When Megan Fox uses the same kind of dialogue, it just makes me want to punch something. This is an actual line from the movie: "You're just jello. You're so lime green jello and you don't even know it." (This means jealous) And while I kind of appreciate the reference to the green-eyed monster, that line... Woof. I REALLY almost turned the movie off then. But I didn't because I'm an idiot who likes to waste his own time. The bottom line is if you had friends who talked like the people in this movie, you would be punching your own friends in the crotch. A lot.

Remember right after Swingers came out but before everyone realized it was actually a terrible movie? And all these morons were walking around saying shit like "you're so money. You're so money and you don't even know it"? Yeah, that was awful. Thank God not enough people saw this movie for that to happen. Because that would suck. I need to stop watching shit like this. There are too much good writing and movies and tv shows and plays and puppet shows and pornography out there for anyone to watch this bullshit.

Oh, and if you're a 13 year old boy (or a brah) and your response is "Dude, Megan Fox is HOT," you should still not watch this movie. You should turn off the TV, go in your room, shut the door, turn on the computer and google "Porn." Whack away, dear friends. Whack away. Just please don't watch this movie.

Wednesday, February 10, 2010

Taco! Get in here!

This is Rex Ryan. Rex Ryan coaches the New York Jets. Rex Ryan is the son of Buddy Ryan, former Philadelphia Eagles head coach. Rex Ryan was wearing a Philadelphia Flyers jersey last night. At a Carolina Hurricanes game. The Hurricanes were playing the Florida Panthers last night. Not the Philadelphia Flyers. Rex Ryan is ridiculous and I love hockey. Rex Ryan and I are Flyers Fans who work in New York. I am Rex Ryan.

You call this a blizzard?

You call this a blizzard?

Why, in my day, we didn't even call it snow until there were eight, ten, twelve inches on the ground! What is this? TWO? Maybe THREE inches?

Fuck that.

If you can walk through it, it's not a snowstorm. Hell, if there isn't even enough on the ground for a friendly, bone-crushing game of snow football, I don't even want to hear about it.

Half of the people in my office are either "out sick" or "working from home" which is code for "Gigantic pussies." Society can't simply stop every time there's a little snow. Look at Minnesota! Or Canada! Or Iceland!

This isn't shit.

This is barely enough snow to get my dander up. I almost went outside in shorts. And sandals. With nothing but a bowl of chili to warm my hands and inflame my innards. Now, aught-nine, that was a blizzard! Why, the Death Bowl was so intense the next day, we broke a poor fella's rib. Yessiree. That was some good yellow snow.

Schools are closed. People are calling in sick. The B train has been preemptively offline since last night due to "inclement weather." Shouldn't we be waiting to see if the weather is actually inclement?

This is hardly even bad enough conditions for Canadian Tuxedo's father to teach him a much needed lesson in snow-driving humility. You couldn't flip a car in this if you tried. I know because I tried this morning. Admittedly, I wasn't driving so much as throwing molotov cocktails at the rear windshield of an SUV. Don't worry, it didn't flip. It just caught on fire for a little bit. No big deal.

Now this was a snowstorm. "Snow Day," featuring a stoned Mark Webber, and bizarre performances by an aging, but still sexy, Pam Grier and an aging but still sexy Chevy Chase. It's a terrible movie. "Entourage" fans will recognize one of the first major appearances by Emmanuelle Chriqui, aka Sloane. Brah. Dude, she's hot, brah. E like totally needs to get over her, brah. Can't be tied down by one chick, brah. Vinny Chase, brah.

This got rambling in a hurry.

Sorry, must be all the snow.

Tuesday, February 9, 2010

Something That Blew My Mind

So I was on a wikipedia excursion recently, where I start by reading about something I'm interested in and then end up jumping around via hyperlinks to articles and articles about more and more extraneous topics until I always end up at the enormous list of paraphilias. No matter what I begin searching for, I invariably end up confronted with the cold truth of my life as a Peodeiktophile.

But anyway, en route to my shameful personal revelation I was reading about Hitchcock and his films, and I ended up reading Grace Kelly's page. Without saying anything else, most people probably know Grace Kelly was a talented and beautiful actress. Many will probably know that she was the Princess of Monaco by marriage. One could logically assume that she could have had her pick of men from around the world, and perhaps she did just that.

But that's not what blew my mind. No, not that she was really only in 11 movies her whole career, which I think is a pretty small number for her iconic status. Unless you're River Phoenix, there's no excuse for that.

What blew my mind is that


IN 1956.

You could pay me 2 million dollars to do almost anything. I have no concept of how much or little money that is, when people say "a million" I am like a child and I think its all of anything I would ever need. 2 million? You might as well say double gazillionfinity. I will stuff a sick toddler in a suitcase and throw it in front of an Amtrak train for $2,000,000.

"Oh, will you marry me, beloved and gorgeous American woman? Am I already fabulously wealthy and the ruler of a European country? Have I not been courting you this whole time, and came to your country to ask you to quit making films and to come live with me? That will run you two million of your beloved and gorgeous American dollars."

And she paid it. I must know more about this Prince Rainier. I must own a part of him.

Hello there little child? Would you like some ice cream?

This was on the front page of the New York Times' website today:

Jailed in Haiti Plead for Help From U.S.

Being a concerned citizen (read: I relish in the plight of others) I read this article. You might expect some tragic tale of miscarried justice leading to the unfair imprisonment of innocent Americans. That's where you'd be wrong:

PORT-AU-PRINCE, Haiti — The 10 American Baptists detained in Port-au-Prince on child trafficking charges are pleading for the United States government to do more on their behalf and for the news media to focus on them less.
Now, my attention span waned after a few paragraphs but here's the gist: these Baptist pseudo-missionaries tried to take these Haitian "orphans" across the border to the Dominican Republic after the earthquake. Unfortunately, these "orphans" had "parents" who weren't pleased when their "children" were "abducted."

Why is it always some religious people who this shit happens to? And how fucking creepily paternalistic is it to just take people's children? Jesus. I don't even know if this is funny. It's definitely disgusting. I hope if these people are guilty that we leave them to rot in Haitian prison. Creepy-ass Baptists.

Monday, February 8, 2010

Oh dear god

I feel pretty much the same as Tuxedo. Only worse. It's a good thing that I don't have a physically or mentally taxing job. If I was an air traffic controller... hoo boy. That would be a problem.
I should go to the gym but that would almost certainly cause me to projectile vomit. Sitting upright and breathing is a chore at this point.
I'm never drinking again.


Seeing the bonus post from last night is like seeing your mistakes written down and posted on the internet. Maybe because that's exactly what it is. I usually leave the bitching about hangovers to DP, but I can barely delete spam emails right now. The only thing that makes me feel better is the freezing air of outside, so I periodically go to the end of the hall at my office and hang out of the fire exit door. I want to live out there right now. I want to put a cot there and have emails printed and handed to me, so I can dictate my replies and have them sent by the pigeons which shall roost in the shadow of my fire escape cot. And ice water. That would be the ideal existence for me right now.

It feels like my brain is swollen and on fire and on trial for crimes it did commit.

Sunday, February 7, 2010



It's DesperatePickle!

And Canadian Tuxedo!

Desperate Pickle is writing this now. I can't believe the Saints won. It's so fun. I'm so happy!

But mostly I'm just happy we're watching the puppy bowl at this point. I was briefly upset because I was pissed off that we were about to post more than once in a single day. This is a betrayal of the grandest scale.

Okay, I don't care in the slightest. Welcome to alcoholism.

Here's Canadian Tuxedo:

I too am drunk. I was told to move furniture. I was fed whiskey. I have been weaned on the teat of super bowl excess. I blame Desperate Pickle. His needy, briney self hath drawn me in one more time. Fie on thee, cruel fate, but I'm glad the saints won. I liked the google commercial and no one else did. It was sad and awkward. "That's like, six years of google we were watching!" I said. And they were all bastards. Except for Desperate Pickels girlfriend. She agreed with me. Bourbon is good. Freedom is Slavery. War is Peace.


I'm back.

This is Desperate Pickle.

If you're listening to this, you are the resistance.

Did you ever KNOW that you were the less talented half of a pair? That you were the McCartney to a Lennon? That you were a Daltry to a Townshed? That you were a Lesh to a Garcia? I feel that daily to Canadian Tuxedo.

But I exhibit profanity without parallel.

What makes a chili?

10 lbs of ground beef
5 cans of kidney beans
5 cans of black beans
5 cans of diced tomatoes
15 shallots, diced
5 jalapeño peppers, diced
an assload of cheese
2 big pots
Assorted spices

And that's not counting my secret ingredient.*

The secret of chili is keeping it simple and cooking it slowly. Really, really slowly. But for fucking hours. With this much chili, I will probably let it cook for nearly 4 hours. Which means I really need to get this fucker going.

Enjoy the game. If you're not watching it (presumably because you're too secure in your sexuality), then I almost certainly don't like you.

The only Colts fan I know has food poisoning. That must be upsetting. Feel better, Kobi.

Oh, what the hell, for old time's sake:

For the morning-after-chili symptoms, I recommend Pepto Bismol, ginger ale and starchy foods. Bananas sometimes help as well. Also, drinking in moderation. But we know you're not going to do that. What is this Russia?

*It's Slurm.

Craigslist Matchmaker: Miami Super Bowl Edition

Helpful matchmaking comments in lavenderish.

An anti-Super Bowl date - 50 (Broward) Tell me about your Bro ward, brah.'s that time of year again. Taxes? THE HARVEST!? My values just don't align with grown men making large sums of money because people will pay large sums of money to watch them play with a leather ball. My values align with run-on sentences. It's like fake boobs. NOW I UNDERSTAND. Ooops! I'm not suppose to say that. Mother will be sew, sew miffed.

Me? I'm 5'7" and 155 lbs. I run and exercise, but doubt that makes as much difference as the genes that I inherited. I don't even HAVE to work out to stay 5'7". I'm not gay, but I like things clean and I like conversation...and I like closure. Butt closure. You might even see me wearing a pink shirt...but that's because I'm secure enough in my masculinity that I don't give a damn. I'm so secure I typed "I'm not gay" to start my last sentence. I'm a cowboy who hates boots and hats, and would rather spend the day sunning in the nude. I AM SECURE AND SANS HAT OR BOOTS! I'm told that many of my parts are perfect (particularly my turn as Lady MacBeth), but I still seem to take a path that is perpetually uphill. FOR THE CARDIO. NOT THAT I NEED IT!

Why a CL ad for an anti-Super Bowl date? Because I live in America and can. And I have no date tonight.

What do I seek? Intelligence. Humility. Genuineness. Sexy looks are great, but if you don't have the brains to back it up, then it just doesn't work for me. The ratio of sexy looks to backing-up brains must be at least 3 : 1. Besides, all of the hotties without brains are watching the Super Bowl with the men who like hotties without brains. Zombies will starve tonight due to the paucity of brains. Just sayin' Mother will be sew, sew miffed if I don't bring her a prize brained beauty!

Introduce yourself, please. Hello. The name is Lonely, Quite Lonely. You may call me Claire.


Stunning blonde wants to attend Superbowl - 38 (Miami) Diary of a retired cheerleader.


I'm hot, fun, funny, smart, loves sports and having a fantastic time!! I'm loves other things, too!

*If you're looking for sex in exchange for a ticket or want to verbally abuse a woman on CL, call a HOOKER* Because you really only pay them for their time.

  • Location: Miami (bienvenido a Miami)
  • it's NOT ok to contact this poster with services or other commercial interests Unless your commercial interest involves the unlawful transaction of Super Bowl tickets.
Enjoy the Game. At least you're not these people.

Saturday, February 6, 2010

Looking Back, That Was Really Kind of Fucked Up

It's your saucy Saturday Evening post. That where this blog and similarities to The Saturday Evening Post end. Norman Rockwell declined to comment. I got a VCR for my fourteenth birthday. I went halfsies with the parents on an old Panasonic job so I could tape Flyers games while I was at practice or doing homework. This was important, because this was also the year we got cable and I had resolved to watch every single game of the season, although logistically I needed to tape some of them.

So my older brother got me some blank tapes and a Metallica concert VHS. There was very little different between me at 14 in 2000 and a 14 year-old in 1988. But what will always stand out is my sister's gift. It was Wild Things on tape. I had never seen Wild Things, but it had achieved a Holy Grail type of reverence for 14 year olds, as it was technically a full-length feature film, but only 5 minutes of the movie was talked about. But those 5 minutes, the use of slow motion, and the ability to rewind made an adolescent boy feel like God. Or Satan, depending on your upbringing. I still do not know what the plot of Wild Things is.

I never asked why my sister, then 20 years old, got me Wild Things. We had never discussed it, I had never asked for it, I had never been caught leering at it in Blockbuster, and I certainly wasn't about to interrogate her. I maintain that this was the nicest thing my sister ever did for me. She would probably scoff at that, but that just means she didn't know the gravity of her gift, the ushering in of an era only marked by the *snick* sound of a locked bedroom door. I should really send her a thank-you note. Because, you know, that wouldn't be creepy.

Fuck you, Bradley Cooper

This is Bradley Cooper.

Something for our female (or gay male) readers today.

But this is Bradley Cooper. As I woke up with a hangover this morning I wanted to write about why I didn't like The Hangover. But that movie came out a while ago and I didn't know if it was still relevant.

So I asked my friend Damien and his response, via text, was (sic'd): "Haha I haven't actually seen that yet. Although I love anything that spits in Bradley cooper's face"

Look at that smug, handsome bastard. Just glaring at you. As if to say, look at me, I'm handsome and charming and funny and everyone loves my movies. He was also Sack in Wedding Crashers, the greatest movie of all time, so we'll give him a little credit.

Okay, I don't really have a problem with Bradley Cooper. My problem was just with The Hangover. If you drink (or have ever drunk or ever been as drunk) as much as I have, you know that that movie isn't a comedy, it's a tragedy. If I'm as drunk/roofied as the guys in that movie, it's not really fun and hijinks trying to remember what happened. It's like "shit, we just ruined this guy's marriage and most of our own lives."


Eat shit.

The movie takes a series of really disturbing situations, never addresses them as disturbing and then assumes that we'll just laugh at them. In Wedding Crashers, it's stated, almost right from the start, that what these guys do is kind of fucked up and irresponsible. It recognizes that. And the comedy seldom comes from like "HAHAHA WE'RE LYING TO STRANGERS AND USING THEM FOR SEX." In The Hangover, so much of the comedy is derived from "MAN WE WERE SO DRUNK AND I FEEL SO SHITTY NOW." I just don't find that that funny. Having been really hungover, really regretting shit the next day, I don't really want to laugh at other people in that situation.

I sound like an uptight schoolmarm.

Nevermind, it's probably just my hangover talking.

But seriously, I didn't like that movie. And everyone who thinks its the funniest movie they've ever seen needs to see more movies. And drink fewer Jager bombs. It's a movie for bros. It's the cinematic spiritual cousin of Entourage. Douchebags love this shit.

Now THAT is funny.

Fuck you, Bradley Cooper. Get bent.

Friday, February 5, 2010

The Social Awkwardness Turbine

Have you seen these around? They're incredible! Revolving doors are essentially humiliating toll booths for me. I don't pay with money, I pay with red-faced embarrassment as I stutter-step my way through them. I was never taught how to properly use this carousel of miserable shame.

I will, without fail, slightly mess up the timing of entering a revolving door and be forced to stand, waiting for a chance to jump into a glass-walled wedge that allows me to gain access to alternative spaces. The only way to politely hold a revolving door for an older person or woman is to stand dumbly next to it. And I have to make that terrible "you first" gesture. "By all means, have at it! I will occupy the revolving compartment that follows yours!" I am convinced I am going to lop some lady in half with my enthusiastic usage of the revolving door.

Also, no one has ever fallen in love in a revolving door compartment. If you lock eyes with the one destiny has selected for you, you will either go in an endless circle of walking, divided by glass and metal pushbars, or you will forever be on the opposite sides of some building wall looking at each other. The only remedy would be for the person to wait outside until you revolve yourself around. But then you'd be asking for someone to wait for you. And true love waits for no one.

I leave you with a single horrific visual- what if revolving door panels weren't made of glass, but with metal. It would be like spending a second inside a coffin every time you used one. Plus, they're are just a huge fire hazard.

The Kool-Aid Man had the right idea all along.