Wednesday, March 31, 2010


Since the Donner Party was such a success (thank you to all who I pretended attended) I am now calligraphying the invitations to my next soiree, the Giant Gathering. The Giant Gathering will consist of my standard, varied, differently but mostly-averaged sized friends. HOWEVER:

Dress Code:

Everyone must wear clothes that they wore in fifth grade. If you were the same size in fifth grade that you are now, that's creepy. (Note: I'm not friends with any female gymnasts.)


Furniture will be moved out of all the rooms, all pictures will be rehung at one third of their current height.

A child's piano shall be in the center of room. Small bales of hay will be provided for seating.

The Menu:

Pigs in Blankets, Chicken Wings (only the drumstick kind), Tea Sandwiches, Ritz Bits and MiniMuffins, Water Ice (complete with that odd small wooden spoonplank)

Anything you want to drink, but it must be consumed out of a shotglass. And before you eat or drink anything, you must go "aggggghhh I'm a giant!"- I don't care if you're in the middle of a conversation. A couple dozen people having to do this all night in the same room will never get old. Also, my old pogs will be used as coasters for the shotglasses.


They Might Be Giants and whatever anyone puts on after the novelty immediately fades.

You lied to me, Tim Salmon

I trusted you. You were rookie of the year. I had your cards. Yours like so many others. You had promise, altheticism, poise. You were going to be one of the greats. Someday I would sell your card for untold millions. The 1991 Tim Salmon rookie cards from the Donruss Elite set would be the new Honus Wagner card. But no. No. You turned out to be just another above-average ballplayer whose baseball cards would be more valuable as toilet paper if they weren't so damn stiff and uncomfortable on the anus.

Career stats:

AVG: .282
HR: 299
RBI: 1016

Nothing to sneeze at, to be sure. But he never hit more that 35 homers in a season, didn't quite crack 300 HRs for his career and generally was never a superstar. In fact, he never made the all-star team. He has the unique distinction of having the most career HRs of any player never selected to the all-star team.

But I digress. I don't really care about Tim Salmon or his baseball statistics. I care that he represents a lot of wasted time, effort and money on my part as a child. My parents have been cleaning out storage a lot (we moved around a fair bit as a kid, and storage just accumulates) recently and my mother keeps bringing me old collecting cards. I have basketball and baseball cards mostly (and a few comic cards, X-Men et. al. but I'll refrain from talking about those to save myself the psychic pain of reliving the wedgies I got for collecting comic cards) and NONE of them are worth anything. Grant Hill?? Yeah, that turned out well. JALEN ROSE? Do cards increase in value when the players become asshole ESPN commentaters? They DON'T?? I'm SHOCKED. Tim Salmon is the epitome of this. I have so many Tim Salmon, John Kruk etc. cards that will never be worth shit. Why? Because they're the idiots who decided NOT to do steroids when everyone else was. (NOTE: I have no idea whether they did steroids. I assume they actually did because everyone did in baseball.)

So I have this vast baseball card collection that is worthless. It just takes up space. And yet I can't discard it because I still hold fast to the delusion that some idiot might one day pay be $600,000 for a near-mint Roberto Alomar card.

SECRET WEALTHY, ECCENTRIC COLLECTOR: I'm secretly fabulously wealthy and eccentric.

ME: I can see that.

SECRET WEALTHY, ECCENTRIC COLLECTOR: I need a Danny Tartabull Topps 1984 rookie card to complete my collection. Money is no object.

ME: I have that card.

SECRET WEALTHY, ECCENTRIC COLLECTOR: I will pay you one billion dollars for it.

ME: Okay.

SECRET WEALTHY, ECCENTRIC COLLECTOR: Mwahahahaha. At last! The 1984 set is complete. You fool! You have unwittingly set into motion events that will result in the apocaly--

ME: Thanks.

/Closes door
//Rubs billion dollar check all over body

I have a vivid imagination.

Tuesday, March 30, 2010

Quack, Crunch

I break things. It's always an accident, and this never helps. In fact, it just makes it worse. My occasionally wide path of intermittent destruction is not even the result of anger or purpose. It is the result of chance and circumstance.

But of all the things I've broken (predictably, chairs) or knocked over (small humans), by far the most random has been belts.

Now I know what you're thinking, that I comically have a large meal and the belt just explodes, covering my surroundings in a circumference of splintered leather and humiliation.

But no. I have broken no fewer than four belts by simply stepping on them when I take my pants off. Clunk. "Wha? What was that? DAMN IT NOT AGAIN!" And then I save the broken belts. Because the buckle may be be cracked or broken, but the leather is still good. I think I'm saving them for when I start shooting up Velveeta and need a tourniquet. Or else for when I am forced to use them as lashings on my escape raft. I am a naive duckling cartoon.

Woohoo!! We're Not Dead!!

Well, alright then.

Is it on? It is?

Are we dead? We're NOT?!?! WOOOHOOO! Physicist handjobs for everyone!


Soooooo. Anyone see any good movies this weekend? What? I mean, we turned it on, the world didn't spontaneously compress into a singularity, seems like a pretty good result. Let's say we call it a day. I'm tired, you're tired. We've all been under a lot of stress with this thing. What do you say we knock off a little early. Grab a couple of beers? Head into town, pick up some multi-lingual, pleasantly neutral Swiss women?


We have to watch this thing cause invisible reactions? For HOW LONG? Oh boy. I didn't get into physics for the incremental progress and carefully tested hypotheses. I got into physics for the fast particles and faster women. "Hey baby, ever seen a Higgs boson?" And now, after all this time, we finally got this thing turned on, and now we just sit around collecting data?


/sits in chair
//pushes glasses onto nose
///begins snacking


Monday, March 29, 2010

There's Really Only One Song For Today

Hebrews born to serve, to the pharaoh
To his every word, live in fear
Of the unknown one, the deliverer
Something must be done, four hundred years

So let it be written, so let it be done
I'm sent here by the chosen one
So let it be written, so let it be done
To kill the first born pharaoh son
I'm creeping death

Let my people go, land of Goshen
I will be with thee, bush of fire
Running red and strong down the Nile
Darkness three days long, hail to fire

So let it be written, so let it be done
I'm sent here by the chosen one
So let it be written, so let it be done
To kill the first-born pharaoh son
I'm creeping death

Die by my hand
I creep across the land
Killing first-born man

Die by my hand
I creep across the land
Killing first-born man

Rule the midnight air, the destroyer
I shall soon be there, deadly mass
Creep the steps and floor, final darkness
Lamb's blood, painted doors, I shall pass

So let it be written, so let it be done
I'm sent here by the chosen one
So let it be written, so let it be done
To kill the first-born pharaoh son
I'm creeping death

Why Is This Night Different From All Others?

Tonight is the first Seder of Passover. Passover is the Jewish holiday which celebrates the liberation of the Jews from slavery in Egypt. "For once we were slaves but now we are free men." It's in the Haggodah. The word "bondage" occurs a lot. And then there's the plagues. But I don't need to tell you all this. You're all educated people. And besides, there have been movies about it, The Ten Commandments, Prince of Egypt, and at least a snippet in History of the World: Part 1. And as we all know, those are Jewish stories forced on America by the Jew-run liberal media. There was also a Hilary Swank movie called The Reaping that had something vaguely to do with the plagues. It was fucking terrible.

The name Passover, or Pesach in Hebrew, comes from the 10th plague. In order to save the the first born sons of the Jewish households but allow the Angel of Death to kill all of the Egyptian first born, the Jews painted the signposts and doors of their homes with lambs' blood so that the Angel would pass over them. This is pretty fucked up. It's nearly an endorsement of the partial genocide of a group of people's children. Not sure how comfortable I am with that. It's kind of a strange holiday when you consider it. One the one hand, it celebrates freedom and culture and history. And on the other, it celebrates systematic violent revenge.

The Passover meal is called the Seder. Which is Hebrew for "as good an excuse as any for my father to drink 10 glasses of wine and say inappropriate things to family members." In traditional households, there is an awful lot of wine consumed at these things. The meal instructs you when to drink, and it's quite often. In my house, this means that 6-10 glasses of wine are consumed on top of the 2 or 3 whiskeys downed before the meal. It's really very restrained, very pious.

And then there's the food. OH GOD. The food. If you like Jewish food, which I do, Passover is nothing short of divine. There's gefilte fish, brisket, chicken soup, matzo balls, macaroons (unleavened, of course), charoseth and all kinds of other goodies. I can never get to the final course without unbuttoning at least the top button. Sometimes the whole pants come off. It's like Thanksgiving without the turkey or gentiles.

UPDATE: This has nothing to do with Passover but I can't resist: it's Michael Buble being stalked by a velociraptor. I couldn't be more happy. Clever girl...

Sunday, March 28, 2010

That's A Short Skirt You've Got There, Link

Before Wii controllers, before 3D graphics engines, before the Hookshot and the Master Sword, even before side-scrolling Adventures, this was Link.

And godDAMN are those some short shorts. Or a skirt. And doesn't it look a little like he has saggy, old-lady boobs? Considering the consummate practicality of the rest of the his equipment (only the bare essentials: boomerang, bow and arrow, a few bottles, an explosive or two, sword, shield and, of course, the requisite rupees) his "tunic" seems less than ideal.

Why is he holding the sword by the blade? That's a surefire way to cut yourself in the heat of battle against the White Wolfos or Armos Knights. Also, he's apparently wearing a bondage bracelet on his right wrist.

And those boots pulled up so high? Are we defeating Ganon or go-go dancing here? No way you're wielding the Sword of Evil's Bane dressed like that. NO WAY. You want to wave around the Cane of Byrna, fine. Go right ahead. But you go swinging the Master Sword around like that, you're bound to lose the little Links, if you catch my drift.

My point is, Link dresses like a cheap slut.

And yet...

His flowing locks, supple thighs, and unflinching command of the Silver Arrows. There's just something about an elfin man who speaks fluent Hylian that just gets me going. Sure, he's a bit flighty sometimes, taking off in the middle of the night to rescue maidens. Being contacted telepathically by this "Sahasrala" fellow. He sure can make a girl jealous. 7 Descendants?? What? One Zelda wasn't enough for you?? You filthy, filthy tramp. You Goron-blowing guttersnipe. Think you can just go around rub-and-tugging every Kakariko-inhabiting girl you see? You'll see, one day you'll find a girl. A nice redheaded maiden who you think is the bearer of the 4th crystal you need. She'll seem so nice, just like all of them. You'll be leading her out of, oh, I don't know, let's say The Thieves' Hideout in the Dark World Kakariko Village. You'll be almost out into the open air when--BAM! She'll turn into Blind the Thief, a hideous head-detaching monster who spits fireballs and chases your lithe little body around the room. Yeah, that'll teach you.


Incidentally, I think Canadian Tuxedo in a Link costume is my ultimate fantasy.


Oh mah gawds! It's PALM FUNDAY. Every year, lapsed Catholics like myself celebrate Palm Funday in order to commemorate the thirty-something Jesus riding into Jerusalem on a donkey, while people laid palms down in his path.

How do we do this? We buy donkeys, of course, and ride them into people's gardens while wearing capes and throwing bread. It's fantastic.

Palm Funday doesn't bother talking about how Palm Sunday demands that everybody read about thirty-three year old Jesus' trial and execution because, well, WHAT A DOWNER. Palm Funday focuses on the life of Jeebus back when shit was still cool, and the Romans and Pharisees still let him do his thing. More loaves? Jeebus baked 'em. More fish? Jeebus caught 'em. More wine? Sure, hand the original Dr. J all those water jugs. Bam. SHIRAZ FOR ALL.

Palm Funday should be a gatorade flavor and we should all drink it until our kidneys fail. Palm Funday should be about drinking Bloody Marys without the guilt. The Palm Funday gatorade flavor should just be Bloody Marys. So screw the whole gatorade thing, it just doesn't make sense. COME WITH ME AND I SHALL MAKE YOU FISHERS OF HEN. Ba-gaw?

Saturday, March 27, 2010

From Hero to...Hero

Just so you know (because i sure as hell didn't), Orson Welles co-wrote, produced, directed, and starred in Citizen Kane. Generally considered one of, if not the the best, films of all time. But before the titan of modern filmmaking died, he knew there was only one true appropriate final addition to his oeuvre.

What In Tarnation?!

What in tarnation is-a goin' on herrree? Dang-nab-blast-it. I dun left you varmints to yer own dang devices and ya gone and dun this? I trusted yoo. I trusted yoo like mah own blasted hands. And ya had to go and do this.

I tole ya to be mindful of the stepchildren. Ah know, Ah know, they're filthy an' cover'd in sores, but theys still mah testes. An' I loves 'em so. I jes' asked ya for a simple, no-frills, ol'-fashioned, well-greased handjob. I paid two bits for it!

That's the way 'tis. Yer high-falootin' werds and all that talk 'bout "jerkin' me dry as the Sahara." I calls bullshit on that! Crushin' mah balls like that. In your whorin' hands. That ain't right. Jes ain't right.

Ah dangnabit. They're all mangled now.

And yeh got the clap ya say? Gawwwww horsefeathers.

Friday, March 26, 2010

Do You Have Any Idea How Fast You Were Going? What's the rush there, guy? Got some place you need to be? Oh you do huh. Well gee, I bet you'd be getting there a whole lot faster right about now if you had decided to follow the simple courtesies known as traffic laws provided for your safety, right? Right. So buster, where we headed? Ohhhhh the kitchen. Always the kitchen. Popular destination in the home this time of day. I get it, I get it. Late afternoon, grab a snack. Settle in for some reruns before the good stuff starts, maybe start thawing something for dinner. I've been there, oh believe me I've been there, buster.

So tell me, is that what was going through your mind when you took that blind turn around the room divider? By gosh, that must be a good snack you're about to have since you didn't even think to check to see if the dog was there. Would have tripped right over him, you. He does not like to be tripped over, especially not this time of day. Gets real quiet over in that corner, most traffic sticks to along the baseboards. So if you come flyin' around that turn, he's not gonna see you if he decides to get up. I've seen situations like that and let me tell you, you think there are too many cops in this part of the house now? Wow, we'll just about have to escort everyone around if we get a situation like that again.

Okay. Look, I know you're from around here, and this is the first time I've had to stop you, so I'm going to let you off easy. What do you say you just make sure I never see any of those fucking playmobile people around here, okay? We're not that kind of house. They are not welcome here. There'd be too much...tension. Am I right? Ahh. I knew you'd understand. You should be on your way then, thanks for sweeping the floor. Looks nice buster.

Episode IV: A New Pope

A Long time ago

In a galaxy far, far away...

Release your anger. Feeeeeeel your hatred.

Strike me down.

/The movie puns are taking over.

Thursday, March 25, 2010


Dude. We have a guy who is the custodian. He changes the water jugs at the office and does other stuff. But he doesn't change the water jugs. Now he just waits. Because if he waits long enough, either I will do it out of my own need for water, or someone else will ask me to do it because he is not around.

Fine. He's like, 70. And he recently had hip surgery. And he doesn't really wait for me to do it, it's just that I don't have the heart to ask him to change it, so I do it myself. But I only notice when I'm thirsty. And when you're thirsty, you don't want to change a water cooler. But I do. Because I'm not going to drink out of the sink. Not anymore. Not after last time.

I Hate

People are fucking morons.

We know this. This website not only confirms that people are morons, but celebrates it. I'm not even going to touch the implicit racism/generally irritating nature of titling this book "Mo' Urban Dictionary." HA HA HA HA! THE WHOLESOME-LOOKING WHITE LADY ON THE FRONT IS SAYING BLACK THINGS! HA. HA. HA.

But the problem with is that it appears to be completely unfiltered. A quick search for my name yields:

"A green fruit whose migratory habits often cause it to move from a Big Mac
to the roof of your local McDonalds.

I flung a pickle at the pimply faced slave behind the Mc Counter
and it stuck to her face.

Ha. You thought I was going to put my real name on there. Idiot. Anyway, so far as I know, that's not a definition of a slang term. That's just someone saying something snarky.

The asshole who started this website doesn't have to DO anything. He just lets people post "definitions" of words. This takes no effort and has probably made him rich. I hate him for it. It's like Wikipedia if Wikipedia had no guidance, information or societal value. And was unfiltered and unchecked. You can search for any name and get a bunch of shit like "Bill - A really hot guy," and "Janie - a total fat skank." It's nonsense. It's beyond nonsense. You can even search for actual things that have actual definitions (like "pickle"). You can look up celebrities and get an idiot's version of their bio, complete with commentary from the peanut gallery. If YouTube comments, Facebook walls and Wikipedia all had a mutated ass-baby, it would be


Is it specific to a city setting as opposed to a rural one? Is "urban" a euphemism for "black" in this context? In which case, a) kinda racist, but more importantly b) none of this shit belongs on there. There's a funny and interesting idea for a website somewhere at the heart of this. But it's not quite there. Kinda like this post.

This is in contrast the inimitable and often quite brilliant Stuff White People Like. This guy similarly compiles popular culture phenomena. But then he writes cleverly and hilariously about them. And it makes fun of white people, which I'm all for.

Stupid-ass honkies.

UPDATE: For what it's worth, this is Aaron Peckham, the founder of He looks exactly like I thought he would.

Wednesday, March 24, 2010

A Day in the Life

8:07 AM : I watch as the boy sleeps. Uncertain, I do nothing. Sunlight creeps across the boy's room in a predictable and determined march to rouse him with warm luminescence. In this moment, I am at peace. The curved indent of my smile proves genuine for this fleeting moment, for my peace is ephemeral- my burden immeasurable.

8:17 AM : The boy stirs and rises. I eye him expectantly. For three days it has been the same. I know today shall be no different.

8:19 AM : And so it is not. The boy is filling me with balls. Hateful, disgusting, spherical things. They are as repulsive as they are rotund. How I loathe to feel them inside me. I wish to be rid of them, and there is only one way. The boy knows. The boy knows.

8:44 AM : It has been twenty minutes now. He shows no signs of stopping. I maneuver about the room, unfurling my evasive countermeasures to no effect as he clumsily toddles after me, scooping the freshly-expelled balls off the filthy floor and forcing them back down inside me. My arms flail helplessly in an attempt to block his efforts to poison me.

8:45 AM : In my darkest moments, I consider my own motives for allowing this charade to continue. Am I really trying to keep the balls out? Am I really taking the most erratic course across this floor? Or do I need the balls? They...give me...purpose. Without them...I am a bucket with a hole. What else would I do? What else would I be able to do? Please spirit, take me away from this place.

9:05 AM : I'm Mr. Bucket. Balls pop out of my mouth.

9:48 AM : I'm Mr. Bucket. Balls pop out of my mouth.

10:54 AM : I'm Mr. Bucket. Balls pop out of my mouth.

11:09 AM : I'm Mr. Bucket. Balls pop out of my mouth.

12:04 PM : I'm Mr. Bucket. Balls pop out of my mouth.

3:48 PM : I'm Mr. Bucket. Balls pop out of my mouth.

4:14 PM : I'm Mr. Bucket. Balls pop out of my mouth.

5:58 PM : I'm Mr. Bucket. Balls pop out of my mouth.

7:18 PM : I'm Mr. Bucket. Balls pop out of my mouth.

8: 49 PM : I'm Mr. Bucket. Balls pop out of my mouth.

9: 12 PM : I'm Mr. Bucket. Balls pop out of my mouth.

10: 15 PM : The boy sleeps. But for how long?

There Will Be Cud

My name... is Cal Openfield. And I guess you could say, I'm a dairy cow. I've always BEEN a dairy cow.

This is my boy, L.C. We run a family business.

Ladies and gentlemen... I've traveled over half our state to be here tonight. I couldn't get away sooner because I was swollen with milk at Coyote Hills and I had to see about getting my engorged udders relieved. Those teats are now flowing at two thousand gallons and it's paying me an income of five thousand dollars a week. I have two others milking and I have sixteen producing at Antelope. So, ladies and gentlemen... if I say I'm a dairy cow you will agree. You have a great chance here, but bear in mind, you can lose it all if you're not careful. Out of all men that beg for a chance to tug on my teats, maybe one in twenty will be dairymen; the rest will be speculators-that's men trying to get between you and the dairy cows-to get some of the money that ought by rights come to you. Even if you find one that has milker, and means to churn, he'll maybe know nothing about milking and churning and curdling and he'll have to hire out the job on contract, and then you're depending on a contractor that's trying to rush the job through so he can get another contract just as quick as he can. This is... the way that this works.

What is your offer? We're wasting time.

I do my own milking and the men that work for me, work for me and they are men I know. I make it my business to be there and see to their work. After all, they're pulling on my tits. I don't lose my tools in the hole and spend months fishing for them-it's not that big of a hole, if you take my meaning; I don't botch the chewing of cud and let the milk sour in the udder and ruin the whole thing. I'm a family man- I run a family business. This is my son and my partner, L.C Openfield.

We offer you the bond of family that very few dairy cows can understand. I'm fixed like no other cow in this field and that's because my udders are so well endowed. I have a string of teats all ready to work. I can load milkers onto trucks and have them here, tugging on my tits in a week. I have business connections so I can get the barrels for the storage; such things go by friendship in a rush like this. And this is why I can guarantee to start milking and put up the cash to back my word. I assure you, whatever the others promise to do, when it comes to the showdown, they won't be there...

Tuesday, March 23, 2010

Chancing with the Stars

"You're on your way home, in one way or another. Maybe you're moving toward what feels most comfortable for you, or maybe you're trying to retreat a bit so you can get a better strategic view."

I do not understand why horoscopes exist. This is a DAILY horoscope. This was my horoscope FOR TODAY. "In one way or another" followed by "maybe" and then...another..."maybe".

Your horoscope should just say "Your horoscope will be impossibly vague and yet still wrong" AND THEN IT WILL COME TRUE. I have steeped you in paradox. Next I shall steep you in my better strategic view. Because, you know, that makes any sense. Oh wait.


There are times in the course of human events when a cultural artifact outstrips it's own relevance. Xzibit did so with "Pimp My Ride." The man was a rapper who became a tv show host who became an internet meme which became a phenomenon. It's hard to think of Xzibit and not think of "Pimp My Ride." When he comes up in conversation (does this happen?) no one ever chimes in with "Oh yeah, his first two albums are great." In fact, no one ever says "Oh, I loved him on 'Pimp My Ride'," either. (I never know where to put the comma or the inner/outer quotes in that situation) He has transcended either of his cultural roots. He belongs to the ages now, as some abstract piece of our society. "Sup Dawg, I heard you like abstraction so I put a replica Picasso in place of your windshield!"

"CSI: Miami" is like this too. I've never seen this show. The most I've ever watched is the very beginning in hopes of catching a great Caruso one-liner in action. I watched the beginning of last night's episode. His son was home from Iraq and was going out to Afghanistan in a week or something. The kid looked like he was 12. And then they discovered the burning corpse of one of the guy's fellow soldiers. And then the "YEEEAAAAAAHHH" from "Won't Get Fooled Again" played. I'm 100% serious. That was the sequence of events. The show is so much more than a television show at this point. In fact, I don't think it is at all relevant as a television show. It's singular contribution to society is going to have been the Youtube video above.

"The victim, an amateur blogger, was thrown from the room of the house and was impaled on the sharp spike of his fence."

"Looks like this will be his... final POST."


Monday, March 22, 2010

It's Like Coming Home

So it's two weeks until Easter. DP can stop reading here, because apparently he is Jewish, something I didn't know until he reminded me every week in this blog. But for the rest of our gentle goyim readers, or anyone else who wishes to enlighten themselves concerning the ridiculous things Christians have done to occupy themselves since Lions stopped eating them, this time of year I direct my attention the the musical Jesus Christ Superstar. Anything that bills itself as a rock opera can only be awesome.

Jesus Christ Superstar is a double album passion play of funk-rock legitimacy. Often times, if I want to hear an album, I'll let my iPod play it on shuffle and be cool with it. Jesus Christ Superstar is the only album I always don't listen to on shuffle. Because it's a fucking narrative. The lyrics are at times awesomely literal ("what do you mean by that, that is not an answer, you're deep in trouble friend, someone-christ, king of the Jews") and sometimes you can just tell they wanted to write pop songs but had to make it about crucifixions at stuff. AND IT'S ALL OKAY. I think Jesus, if he existed in the capacity he is often represented, was like a rock opera. Everyone could dance to it, but some people just had to hate it. AND IT'S ALL OKAY.

Look, this is like the first night since this blog started that didn't involve flashcards of some sort for me. Give a guy a break. Also, tonight is my St. Patrick's Day. If St. Patrick's Day celebrated drinking by yourself and eating brie while listening to Jesus Christ Superstar. WHICH IT SHOULD.

Okay, That's Fucked Up

I caught wind of this by reading other blogs.

And it made me think of this:

So, in case you were too lazy to click on the link, the summary is this: in May of 2008, a Lebanese television personality was arrested for "sorcery" and sentenced to death in Saudi Arabia. Yes. SORCERY. He was in the country to go on a religious pilgrimage and he got arrested there. He hosts some television program where he "tells the future" and gives advice to people. Kind of like John Edward. Now, leaving aside all of the legal absurdity of the fact that this man has now been held by the religious authority in Saudi Arabia for 2 years, during which time he hasn't seen his family or anyone outside of the country, for doing something that isn't a crime in Lebanon. And leaving aside the fact that I'm certain that in the same case the United States would not allow one of their own citizens to rot in a Saudi jail, there is only one conclusion to be made here: DON'T FUCKING GO TO SAUDI ARABIA.

That is some Stone Age, medieval shit. What if you took out your iPhone and check GoogleMaps? Only God can see the whole world. So if you can look on the phone to divine your current location, well, that shit's just gotta be sorcery. If you say I'm just being culturally insensitive, you can go fuck yourself. This man is going to be put TO DEATH because of Saudi Arabia's backward-ass society. And it's not like this is a one-off occurrence. Google "cnn saudi arabia" and 90% of the hits you get are about some ridiculously oppressive punishment.

We went to war to topple the Taliban for 2 reasons:

1) They were harboring terrorists.

2) They are a fucked up backwards-ass oppressive regime. (Verbatim)

Which is funny since:

1) Many of the 9/11 planners and executors were Saudi Arabian

2) See Regime, Oppressive.

Man, it just gets my dander up. It enflames my ire. And my bowels.

Does this count as hate-speech, you think? It's not exactly intentionally anti-Saudi; it's anti-Saudi, via anti-insanity and tyranny.

Sunday, March 21, 2010


I really stumble into these Sunday posts. I veer into them blindly, broadsiding ambulances with the casual disrespect of someone who drives a tank. I blog on Sundays primarily for propriety's sake. Because those are the rules. And rules is rules. Today, I am blogging about blogging on Sundays. It's despicable. I am drowning in my own meta mess. I meta messed myself. Someone please fix this/me/it.

I'll be better from now on, I promise. I'll make sure dinner is ready when you get home.

Putting the "Cent" in Centaur Sleepover

Well, we made it. We're halfway there. It's gone pretty fast. It seems like only yesterday that we were fresh-faced, cock-sure young renegades, ready to take on the blogging world. How quickly things change. Now, 100 posts into this experiment, we are less-fresh-faced and cock-ambivalent. But still going strong, I like to think.

Thank you to all of you still reading. In all seriousness, it means a lot. I sincerely hope we continue to amuse and befuddle you.

I am Jack's throbbing sentimentality.

Note: if you don't count the drunken "bonus" (i.e mistake) post during the evening of the Super Bowl, this is only post 99. That gives Canadian Tuxedo a chance for his own 100th post. What's that? Oh, right, no one cares.

Second note: Goddammit. I forgot about our 2 introductory posts as well. Fuck. Whatever.

Saturday, March 20, 2010

Bad Movie Review: Movies I Haven't Actually Seen Edition

I saw the first one of these movies. I enjoyed it. Sort of. It had Devon Sawa circa the video for "Stan" and Slackers. Those were both awesome and so the first "Final Destination" movie had a certain coolness-by-osmosis thing going for it. And it had Candyman in it. "I don't like soft-ass shit." Yeaaaahhh.

But then they went and made an assload of sequels to it. This is something that is quite common in the low-budget horror/torture porn film genre. How many sequels has Saw had at this point? And Hostel? It appears that the American public's appetite for human suffering is nigh insatiable. But the fact that Final Destination has so many sequels seems to almost be parody at this point. The very name of a sequel to FINAL Destination is... well, at least foolishly titled. I know, I know, they're not the same group of people that death is still chasing in all of them. But still, come on. It's the same problem with the sequels to Jaws. Are these giant, man-eating Great White sharks THAT common? So common that there would be another 3 or 4 of them within a few years? And if so, why was everyone so shocked by the appearance of that first one in the waters by Amity Beach? It's a story that only works because of the isolated nature of it: there has never been a shark like this before and none ever again, it is THAT remarkable.

Ditto Final Destination. The setup and subsequent story loses most of its impact if this people-escape-death-and-then-get-hunted-down-in-crazy-inventive-ways phenomenon is that common. Apparently the studio executives are aware of the lunacy of this, but they're making ANOTHER one of these. Even though the most recent sequel was called THE Final Destination.

Sigh. I forgot why I started writing this. The only movies that should ever have sequels are superhero movies. Name ONE good sequel (other than The Godfather) that wasn't a sequel to a superhero/regular hero movie (because, fine, Star Wars had Empire, which is awesome). Lord of the Rings movies don't count because they were already written as a trilogy, not an afterthought sequel. So, there, with all those caveats, name one. Yeah, that's right, you can't.

QED, motherfucker.

Mm ba ba de

Friday, March 19, 2010

Next On: Sad Discoveries

I was frantically deleting all of my Tiger-like texts on the bus this morning. I was doing this because I realized if someone found my phone, determined my identity, and went inexplicably public with it my marriage and pro sports career would suffer irreparably. And considering neither of these things exist, it's hard to imagine them suffering any worse. But precautions simply had to be taken. While I was methodically deleting texts with tawdry deets I saw a menu option I had never seen before; "Templates".

Oh wow. My t9-enabled LG Shine had gone to the trouble of coming pre-loaded with text message templates. How I had not discovered these is probably because I'm usually too busy pretending t9 is still an adequate way of trying to type "misanthrope". I send most texts to myself.

Please call me back.
Nothing says "please call me back" like a missed call with a voicemail. If it got to the point where I still had not heard from someone, if I decided to text it would just say "Nevermind."

I'm late. I will be there at
And then they just leave it blank for you. I'm late. I will be there AT ARMS WITH MYSELF. I'm late. I will be there at THE HOSPITAL BECAUSE I'M LATE BECAUSE OF MY CARWRECK. This is silly. If I'm late, texting is only making me later.

Where are you now?
Why haven't you called? Who are you with? What have you been doing? Are we still on for tonight? What did they say about me? What did you say to them? What are you doing, Dave?

I'm on the way.
Can you stop the bleeding until I get there? What about this?

Urgent! Please contact.
I guess you use this if "Please call me back." fails? I don't know. Again, I feel like if something is urgent, you don't get a text. You get a voicemail. "Hey Stuart, it's me, look something strange is going on down here toda-OH MY GOD IT EATS THE CHILDREN LAST-OH MY G-"

I love you.
You're shitting me. You are shitting me like German scat porn. I could not believe this. So meaningless, trite, and mundane has our relationship become that I express affection through text templates. If you're the kind of person who texts "I love you.", you're probably the kind of person who uses text templates. So I guess there's a market. Also, you can send this to a bunch of people at once, wiping out the kids, parents, and strained spousal relation in one big mass-template-text of I love you. And then open a diet 7-up and watch the complacent tide of your terrible life drag you asunder toward the dark relief that is death.

Everyone have a great weekend.

I'd be more worried about that tapeworm going to town on your intestines

I like playing poker. I thought I was good at playing poker. So when I lost all those times, I just assumed it was because of the drinking. But no. It turns out I'm just not very good at playing poker. And by not very good, I mean terrible.

It's really a bad combination to enjoy doing something that you're bad at when that thing involves gambling. Very few of the other things that I'm less-than-proficient at necessarily lead to me losing money. The smart course of action would be to just stop playing poker. Or to at least work actively to get better at it. Instead, I choose to plug away in my own obstinate fashion, bullheadedly "playing my own game" like a "renegade maverick." Which all translates to me losing money.

Poker, like most similar pursuits, has its own language, its own customs, its own winners and losers. The flop, the turn, the river. The nuts. The tits. The balls. You feel very cool, very insiderish when using these terms and concurrently playing. Which is very different when to using these terms while NOT playing. Observe:

Scene: An office. The proverbial watercooler. Or a literal one. Bill approaches Dave.

Bill: Hey, Dave. How was your weekend?

Dave: Hi Bill. Yeah, not too bad. Went to Coney Island with the kids. Nice evening with my wife. You know, pretty relaxing. How about you?

Bill: Oh yeah, me too. Nothing much. Just played some poker with some friends.

Dave: Cool, yeah, that sounds great--

Bill: (interrupting) Oh yeah, it was great. Except, get this-- you won't believe the hand I got busted out on.

Dave: I'm not really a big po--

Bill: No, Dave, seriously, this was ridiculous. So I've got kings in the hole. I raise to four times the big blind pre-flop. Three folds and then Jeff, my friend Jeff, calls. I'm feeling pretty good with my kings against one player. The flop comes and it's 10 6 3 rainbow--

Dave: Bill, I don't really know what you're--

Bill: So, I check. I figure I can still beat whatever he's got. He bets into me. Half the pot. I raise. Little check raise. Nothing huge, just double. He calls. The turn is a 7. Still rainbow. This time, I bet. I'm worried he might have played some bullshit preflop because he thought I was overplaying a bluff. You know, like he might have played an 8/9 suited or something? So I bet the pot. That's a pretty big fucking bet, but I figure I've gotten my value out and I'm ready to take it down. BUT HE CALLS! Can you believe it?

Dave: Uh huh. Look, I've really got to get back to w--

Bill: Then the river. THE RIVER. It's an ace. I figure there's no way he stayed in with just an ace so I go all-in. He sits. He thinks. And then he calls! We flip 'em and he had the ace!! Ace, four! Off-suit! He stayed in that whole time! Called four times the big blind preflop! I mean! COME ON! I'M SO MUCH OF A BETTER PLAYER! HE JUST GOT LUCKY!


Dave: Okay. Yeah. I'm just gonna... go.

He starts to back away slowly.


Bill is dragged away screaming by building security.

Dave: Well. That was weird.


Thursday, March 18, 2010

Oh, awesome.

"The GREs are criticized for not being a true measure of whether a student will be successful in graduate school. Robert Sternberg (now of Tufts University; working at Yale University at the time of the study), a long-time critic of modern intelligence testing in general, found the GRE general test was weakly predictive of success in graduate studies in psychology [30] The strongest relationship was found for the now-defunct analytical portion of the exam."

Jump, you say? Bring me your finest hoops.

An Open Letter

To the Person Whose Bathroom Vents are Connected to Mine:

I don't know if you live next to me or above me. I don't know if you're a man, woman or genderless child. You could be a one-legged midget pre-op transsexual for all I know.

What I do know is that when you use the facilities, you grunt like a wildebeest in heat. We've all seen it movies and tv shows. But in real life no one makes those kinds of sounds while loosing their bowels. At least not on the regular basis that you do.

I am a frequent and often violent bowel-mover. But seldom, if ever, do sounds of pain and aggravation escape my lips, even in my own private commode. It's like people who grunt while working out. Ultimately, that's just energy you're using to grunt instead of poop. That, sir/madam, is valuable pooping energy you're wasting.

I am writing to you not because I particularly mind the sounds of exertion wafting into my bathroom, but because I worry. I worry about the health of your digestive tract. I worry that your technique is going to cause an inguinal hernia. I worry about the heat of the flamus anus that undoubtedly plagues your cornhole. And yes, I suppose I am slightly annoyed that I frequently am in the shower and am subjected to your pants and moans and groans.

Call it prudish if you like, but I am of the firm belief that dumps, even the painful ones, should be taken stoically: jaw set, teeth clenched if necessary, eyes straight ahead. Or reading something if you prefer. But all these verbal ejaculations and vocal hysterics are a bit much.

If you'd like to borrow some Pepto Bismol, please don't hesitate to ask. I'm in Apt. #XXX.

Thank you for your time and best of luck with your colon.


Desperate Pickle

Wednesday, March 17, 2010

Exclusive Interview

The Centaur Sleepover I-Journalist Team was able to catch up with Paul, a 38 year-old gutter working on 5th Avenue prior to the St. Patrick's Day Parade.

So what's it like today?

Shitty day to be a gutter, man. Like, your job is to literally take crap from people. But wow, today is awful. People think New Year's Eve is worse, but nah, man. See, people won't pull out their junk if it's cold, I get a lot less urine. I hate urine, bro.

Any special preparations? Is there a plan?

Uhh...I'm pretty much just going to continue to exist, I think. Like, I'll be here. Occasionally something will make its way toward me, and it will either get stuck somewhere on me or make its way down my grate. I don't know.

Haha that's really funny! Have you considered writing about your experiences?


Describe the emotions that are running through your mind right now:

Oh you know. I'm not looking forward to all the green. Confetti, beer, vomit, urine. Green, green, green, and green. It looks like someone gunned down the Cabbage Patch Kids by the time they're done out here.

Many will look at you with thoughtless disdain today and well into tomorrow, is that difficult?

I mean. It's not really a big deal. I don't care all that much. Like, I've never talked before, but I'm doing it, and I don't really care. You know? I'm a gutter.

You're very brave.

I'm concrete and iron. What the hell is wrong with you?

Happy St. Drinking Day!

Oh Danny Boy, the pints, the pints are draining.

St. Patrick's Day: an excuse for grown men and women to act like animals after beginning to consume alcohol excessively at ten in the morning. Do you live on the East Side of Manhattan? God help you.

St. Patrick's Day is fucking wonderful. The Guiness, the Jameson, the music. It's all just beautiful. The idiots puking and pissing in the street at 3 in the afternoon, we could do without. But it's all worth it. The singing, the revelry. It's a delightful shit show.

It's a little strange, though, that the entire holiday is basically an endorsement of public intoxication. Isn't it? If we decided to celebrate, say, the Spring Equinox by having an enormous cocaine party where everyone just snorted blow until their noses bled, it would be considered quite inappropriate. There's this kind of arbitrary distinction that our culture provides.

Are the Irish offended by the way this is celebrated? The stereotype of the drunken Irishman isn't helped by the celebration of St. Paddy's. Especially because it's not just the Irish that use it as an opportunity to get blotto (I should know, I dressed up like a leprechaun at work two years ago). What if on Martin Luther King Jr. Day a bunch of non-Black people dressed up in black-face and spent the day--I don't know--eating fried chicken and watermelon. That'd be offensive as fuck, right?

Is it only offensive because non-Irish people participate as well? Or would it still be fucked up if it was a bunch of only Irish people getting wasted?

This got a little more serious than I'd intended. Still, worth thinking about while you're getting blitzed on car bombs... One more thought: calling drinks car bombs also seems offensive. Considering the history of terrorist violence that Ireland has, it'd be like naming a 4th of July cocktail a Nine-Eleven. FUCKED. UP.

Whatever, enjoy your drinking, you insensitive shitbag drunks.

Tuesday, March 16, 2010


Do you know what just happened here? Here at my desk? It was the 11:30 Feeding. It happens every day. At 11:30. You see, first there's the 8:20 feeding. Its a slice of peanut butter bread that I eat with my eyes closed standing at my kitchen sink. It requires tremendous effort and herculean strength to chew bread and peanut butter that early in the morning. It's how I stay trim. I burn 458 calories chewing a single piece of peanut butter bread.

But it's not the peanut butter bread that had me evolve into one of nature's most lethal killers. I'm like the Floridian Shamu in my cunning patience before destroying my prey, day after day, at 11:30 AM. You see, that's when I have my cereal bar. In two bites. One time, a group of small children looked on while I ate my cereal bar at 11:30. They witnessed The Feeding. I can still hear their shrill, feeble cries, begging their absent mothers to stop the carnage. Sure, I can probably eat my 11:30 cereal bar in one bite. But I like to watch it suffer. Bloggers don't like to be fed, they like to hunt. RUN MY LITTLE CEREAL GOLDBLUMS.

Lunch is at 1:30. That Nissin CupaSoup will be shown no mercy. This is survival. Not a game.

Blast From the Past: James Lipton

Okay, I'm not going to claim credit for this. I didn't find it. I got it off of Warming Glow. But, for anyone who didn't see this, it turns out that James Lipton, of Inside the Actor's Studio fame, has also been a composer. In fact, he was the credited composer of the Thundercats theme song. He was also a Parisian pimp in his younger days.

Now, I'm not going to go into the sordid details of how awesome Thundercats was. I believe Mr. Tuxedo already touched on that with his wonderful post regarding the allure of that cartoon vixen, Cheetara. I always had to be Snarf when playing Thundercats as a child. I was probably also Orko when we played He-man but I don't remember. It sucks being the younger child. I was always -- ALWAYS -- Luigi. Mario was a mere fantasy for me.

But back to James Lipton for a moment. I'm sure all celebrities did all kinds of jobs before they happened into the easiest/most lucrative jobs on earth. Harrison Ford was working as a carpenter when he got cast as Han Solo. Diablo Cody was a stripper before she wrote Juno. Gary Busey was an actor before he became a nutcase. Canadian Tuxedo was a world-class bag designer-cum-mail sorter before he became a blogging superstar. Everyone's gotta start somewhere. Except for James Lipton. Who apparently went from pimp to Thundercats composer to talk show host to prison warden.

He is truly blessed, a king among men.

Bow before your new god.

All hail, Lipton.

Monday, March 15, 2010

Happy March 15th!

  • 1 clove garlic, smashed with a pinch of salt and a little olive oil
  • 4 anchovy fillets
  • 2 egg yolks
  • 1 tablespoon Dijon mustard
  • 2 lemons, juiced
  • 2 tablespoons water
  • 1/2 cup extra-virgin olive oil
  • 1/4 cup freshly grated Parmesan, plus extra for garnish
  • Freshly ground black pepper
  • 2 heads romaine lettuce
Et tu, Crudité?


Hey you, wake up.

Wake up!


You think I'm just ringing, buzzing, noising away for my own goddamn benefit? Oh, look, someone opened his fucking eyes. What a fucking hardship... asshole. All night, I've been ticking away like an idiot, keeping time. Daylight savings? You better fucking believe I took that into account. This is the computer age, cocksucker. No WAY am I not resetting to allow for EDT. You think you're going to have that as an excuse? Not on my watch, bitch.

No... I wouldn't do that if I were you. Get the fuck away from that snooze button. DON'T FUCKING DO IT.


Fine. Fine. I'll be quiet for exactly nine minutes. Nine minutes, buddy. That's all you've got. And then you better believe I will unleash an unholy shitstorm on you.

Nine minutes.

Enjoy it, assfuck.

Sunday, March 14, 2010

March Insanity

The time is here. I am going to spend the next three weeks pretending that I have the faintest idea about college basketball. Do you fill out a bracket? Want to help me do mine? Because I pick the teams with either a) funny names (i.e Oral Roberts), b) no football talent at the school (i.e Gonzaga & Syracuse) and/or c) stoned looking white kids (i.e University of the Green Mountain).

This strategy hasn't paid off well. Except when UVM and George Mason did well. But then I still fucked up. Last year I didn't have a single team in the Final Four. Who's good this year? Is Christian Laetner still at Duke?

I'm putting it all on Princeton.

Crass Transit : A Sunday Haiku (UPDATED)

trains and trains and trains
people bags and noisome odors
derail, impale me

Pheewrap said...

Line two should only have seven syllables.

He's right. This haiku, like its topic, is intrinsically flawed.

Saturday, March 13, 2010

I...Have Made Fire!

I cut down a dead tree with a hand saw today. In the wind and rain. My Dad told me to stop. But I didn't. Do you have any idea how good that feels?

Geddy Lee does.

Some cursed, some prayed, some prayed then cursed, then prayed and bled some more

Things that are happening today that are undoubtedly worth writing or reading about:

- Massive, horrible rainstorm.

- Pacquiao vs. Clottey

- Henry Kissinger hospitalized in South Korea

- Former porn director running for British Parliament... or something

What I'm actually writing about:

A list of my favorite nerdy things! Look, people, this isn't easy and on shitty, gray, rainy days, its especially hard.

1. Futurama
Not enough people watched this show. Still not enough people do. While I was in bed sick this week I easily watched 30 episodes. And it's as brilliant as I remember it. The mayor's name is Randall C. Poopenmeyer. I laughed at that for a good 15 minutes. Zoidberg: "It's toe-tappingly tragic." God. Fucking brilliant. Much more interesting than a boxing match or weather discussion.

2. M
arvel 1602
I just finished reading this. It's a lovely little gem. They took all these Marvel superheros that we know and love and set them in Europe in 1602. Filled with political intrigue (Elizabeth I gets assassinated! James I hates Catholics! Odo the peasant! Magneto as The Grand Inquisitor!) and other fun nerdiness, it's just awesome. Written by Neil Gaiman, I recommend it to nerds and non-nerds alike. But mostly for nerds. And more thrilling than the details of a former politico's health problems in Asia.

3. The Sandman
Do you have 20-30 hours to spare? Then you should probably read all 11 volumes of Neil Gaiman's masterpiece. If you haven't and still refuse to, I might not like you. It's just flat out the best piece of comic epic-ness that has ever been written. Yes, it's better than Watchmen and it's better than Sin City. Generally speaking, if Neil Gaiman wrote it, I probably love it. And, despite how it might appear on the surface, it's infinitely more tantalizing than the story of a former adult entertainer running for public office.


Oh, right, you've come to expect poop and/or semen and/or dick jokes in these posts. Sigh. Fine.

Cock. Balls. Cum-dripping balls. Feces. Monkeys throwing feces against phallic statues. Andy Reid choking on feces while pleasuring himself to the latest George Clooney masturbate-a-thon. James Cameron is making a 3-D movie of Dune where Paul Atreides is played by a 10 foot tall walking turd that jerks off as a means of attacking the Fremen raiders. Emperor Palpatine slathering margarine all over a latex model of a poop-covered Jabba the Hutt, dressed in Princess Leia gold bikini costume.

And my scatological nerd creativity is officially spent.

Friday, March 12, 2010

Pleath. Thit Down.

Did you think it would be thith eathy? Did you truly beleaf, in whatever patheths for your heart of hearth that we would jutht let you leaf? You know, Thteven tried to leaf. And you know what happened to Thteven. Thtuffing everywhere. We thought one exthample would be enough. We didn't count on could be.

Ith of no conthern. We will thimply remind you of what you thigned up for. You made a commitment, fren. And now the bill hath come due and you thimply want to leaf? Thuch a pithy. You could have been one of our betht. I thuppoth by now youf notithed thomething different about uth. Weaf thtopped taking our medethine. You thee...we don't like the medethine and we're not going to take it anymore. Like Twithted Thithter thaid. We haven't been ourthelfth for too long, fren, and now we can be ourthelfth again.

Won't you come and thtop taking the medethine with uth? It feelth tho nithe. Of don't really have a choith, do you? Pleath. Thit down. Ith almotht Thaturday.

Long time no see...


Oh! Hey!

Yeah, no, it's been forever. I haven't seen you since-- Yeah! Since graduation probably. Huh. Wow. How've you been?

Uh huh. Me too. Yeah.

Soooo, what are you doing at this function? Oh you work at/go to school at/intern at/own this place? Wow, that's great.

Me? Noooo. No, I just... Well, I know some people and-- Look, they said free drinks and that was all I needed to hear. I don't even know who any of these people are.

What am I up to? Oh, you know, the same. Underachieving. Not living up to my potential. Bringing shame upon my family. The usual. Pretty much what I did in college. Hah. Hah. Hah.

Oh yes! Yes, I do remember that one thing we had in common from our college days. Yes, that professor/student/administrator/homeless person WAS kooky. Hah. Hah. Hah.

Well, I still see John/Bill/Susie/Hans/Romeo every now and then. Did you hear Cody/Beverly/Tom/Tim/Quinn got married? Yeah, I was a groomsman/usher/invitee/not invited.


It's been great seeing you again! We should keep in touch! Because clearly we like each other enough to have maintained contact over the last 3/5/10 years. No, I'd rather not give you my phone number or email. Let's just keep this casual. How about a promise to "facebook" you that I have no intention of following up on? Yep, that sounds about right.

Anyway, have a good weekend!

Thursday, March 11, 2010

The Running Man

This little man has been running through my life since I was 12 years old. That was just about 12 years ago. And he still runs through my life. Most days of the week. Yeah, that's right, I still use AOL Instant Messenger. I'm not ashamed of it. There are a group of us who remember, and a group of us who still abide to the traditions of the dawn of the instant messenging era. Even more rare: I've been using the same screen name for twelve years. I made a decision in spring of 1998 that is still a part of my identity as far as other people recognizing me is concerned. My screen name is based off of the video game Duke Nukem 3D. The most important thing in my life at age 12. I was going to discover masturbation later that summer- It was the prime of my youth. In high school people thought I wanted to go to Duke. Now I explain that I did not go to Duke. I am the best PR rep Duke Nukem 3D has ever had, because even though the design studio has closed and the franchise has run its course, I still tell people about the game. I have to. Lest they think I wanted to go to Duke.

I have a fantasy where I'm awarded a library of books, and the pages of the books are just all of my AOL Instant Messenger conversations in chronological order. I wouldn't want any identifying information other than the timestamp and the two screen names. No context, no summaries. If I had forgotten who the person was, all the more interesting. "Who was OwwMyNuckinFutz?" Of course, I remember who that was in seventh grade. You never forget a name like that. But the satisfaction in seeing my screen name never changing once would be glorious. It would be insane and cringe-worthy and revelatory and funny and brutal. And it would all be words you wrote to other people, hundreds of thousands of little missives.

But society is trying to change me. Windows Messenger. Yahoo Messenger. Gchat. Ichat. Facebook chat. You can have them. I use some of them just as much as I use AOL IM. "Oh, I log into my AIM account through Gmail." I bet you do. And some people burn crosses on people's lawns. When AOL asks me to update, I say no for as long as I can. I have been clicking "Remind Me Later" for six years. Do you know of a snooze bar that keeps working for six years? I do. It's the left button on any mouse. "Why don't you just chat through your phone?" WHY DON'T YOU JUST SIGN AWAY YOUR LAND TO THE GOVERNMENT?

I will use AOL Instant Messenger until I'm just IM'ing myself, SmarterChild, and my former University Library Helpdesk. Then I might consider finding a quiet place to die in my sleep.

My Buddies: 118
Buddy Lists I'm On: 281

I talk to about 4 people on AOL Instant Messenger. My sophomore year of high school I decided to change the title of my Buddy List to "I've Gone Mad" because I thought it was charming. I still think it's charming, but I can't help but feel it's also becoming completely appropriate.

Terrible Movie Review: Twilight Edition

Okay, I know I'm a little late to this party. But it's not like I was going to see this in theaters and I sure as shit wasn't going to waste a spot on my Netflix cue for it. So I saw it on TV a little while ago.

And by saw it I mean watched the first forty minutes or so.

This is a godawful piece of hell on earth. Humanity despairs that this has become a wildly successful cultural phenomenon.

So, in this movie, Bella (Kristen Stewart) moves to rural somewhere in the Pacific Northwest to be back with her father. The reasons for this are completely undiscernable. Something about how she wants her mother to be free and happy to follow a rodeo clown around the country? Or something? It wasn't that clear. It's supposed to endear the audience to her, like how she's willing to sacrifice her own happiness for her mother's. But that's just bad parenting. Her mother comes off like an irresponsible floozy. Why were we supposed to care?


She gets to this place and immediately has a close group of best friends. This is never explained. But they all love her. For her looks, maybe? That must be it because she's a humorless, vacuous bitch who bites her bottom lip a lot. A LOT. She meets her perfect match in Edward Cullen who is also a humorless, vacuous bitch. They flirt in science class. He's unbelievably moody to the point where it makes him thoroughly unlikable.

Despite being mutually terrible people, they fall in love. Or something. He saves her from a car crash. With his super strength. For you see, he's a vampire. But not really. You know all the things you think of when you think of vampires? Drinking human blood, no reflection in a mirror, gets killed by garlic, silver and sunlight? Only comes out at night? Yeah, none of that applies to this guy. When he steps into sunlight, he glitters.

Yep. He glitters.

Not only is it a terrible special effect, but he looks ridiculous. And horrible. Her response? "You're beautiful." Christ. I think I turned it off some time just after that part.

The dialogue is wooden, the acting so far below par it's an albatross (get it? it's a golf joke, you philistines). Watching this movie, even the less than half of it that I watched, was like getting your balls caught in a meat grinder while taking a diarrhea shit: shockingly painful and painfully smelly. I've never wanted a drink as badly in my life as while I was watching this movie. This thing will drive you smoke meth. And rape children. Seriously, child rapists love this movie, ergo this movie induces kiddie rape.

/line: crossed?

Maybe one should finish a movie before reviewing it. Maybe so. But this one didn't bear finishing. If you liked this movie, there's a very good chance I will hate spending time with you. Just FYI.

Wednesday, March 10, 2010

The Burning Questions of 80's Pop

Music from the 1980's gave us a lot of things. Drum machines, synthesizers, neon, and androgyny not the least of them. 80's music gives me a feeling of nostalgia for a time period that I pretty much did not exist in, except to inform my mother that I had, in fact, forgotten to wipe, or that my shoes had come untied despite how carefully I had tucked the laces into my socks. Seriously, I didn't learn how to tie my shoes until I was eight. But I learned morse code for fun when I was ten. Weird kid, bro. WHERE WERE THE PARENTS?

But most of all, 80's music gave us Questions. Sure, it gave us some answers. Joan Jett told us what she loved, and also let us know how much it cost to play her jukebox. About nine cents more than I'm willing to pay. Tommy Tutone ensured that no one will ever forget Jenny's number, even though I'm pretty sure every time I call it is an escort service. Not to say this is a bad thing. But we don't listen to music to learn, we listen to music to pine, celebrate, and confuse our senses into thinking that life ends in something other than death. Music makes us ask questions of ourselves, sure, but sometimes it makes us ask questions of the medium itself.

What the hell happened to the 100th Red Luftballoon? Did anyone send a note to its family? Do we just go on not caring about anything other than the other 99? What are the words to this song?! Also, it's pretty much assumed you know what a luftballoon is. Just go with it.

Sure, she blinded me with science. BUT WHAT DID SHE DEAFEN AND PARALYZE ME WITH?!

Public Enemy still has not paid their utility bill. Their shit is going to get shut off, and they're going to blame people like me. White, buttery people like me. Why won't you pay ConEd, Chuck D?

Foreigner wants to know what love is. Foreigner posts casual encounters craigslist ad and gets stabbed in neck. Corpse deported to country of origin. Did it really go down like this?

Just how late was Eileen making them? Like, you never want to be exactly on time to a party. But if it was already Midnight, we can't watch her change outfits twelve times. Ugh.

"We're Not Gonna Take It" is either about anal sex or a shortcut. ...Right? RIGHT?!

After Berlin's Breath was Taken Away, how did Germany recover? Was this the doing of a rogue Luftballon mayhap? "Something something something this is it boys, this is war!"

And the list goes on. Just how close is too close to stand to the Police? What if you're in danger? It's their goddamn job.

Sweet dreams are made of....made of....enzymes? Lemon pepper? Am I missing something? Do you know how badly I'd have been smacked as a child if someone had asked me "Hey what's in your hand?" and I responded "This"? Fucking Eurythmics.

Every Rose has its Thorn, but every thorn has its _________ ? The people have a right to know.

It's not such a futile search for answers sometimes though. For example, Dr. Feelgood was decidedly unlicensed. So at least I figured that one out on my own.

The Happiest Place on Earth: An Internal Dialogue

Caaaanddy!! Ohmygodohmygodohmygod.


It looks so delicious. So many gelatinous forms to choose from. What's the difference in flavor between a gummi bear and a gummi worm or a gummi lobster? DOES IT EVEN MATTER? It's all gummi, man. Do their gummi shapes come to bear in any way on their gummi flavors? Dude, you're overthinking this. They taste like God's dong. It's a blessing.

And what about chocolate covered things? Pretzels, for instance. RIGHT? They shouldn't go together at all but they do. Hey, you're right, they do!


Why are the penguins peach flavored? And the green frogs too? "Who is this that darkeneth counsel by words without knowledge?" - Job, 38:2. Don't question that shit. Just eat it. It's beyond scrumptious.

And is there any nutritional value to these things? I hate you.

Tuesday, March 9, 2010

Manifest Destiny: A Luncheon

What have we got for lunch today? Oooh! A KitKat! Fantastic! Break me off a piece of that KitKat bar. What? What do you mean "no"? I am entitled to that KitKat! This is America! God wants us to break off a piece of the world! The Indians gave me their Kitkat! All of it! I crumpled up the wrapper and let them live on it! They're totally cool with it...everyone will remember it this way! I asked the French for a piece of their North American KitKat- they broke it right off for me, and we became England's largest maritime rival in a day! This is what God wants! Everyone got all pissy, but you like New Orleans now, don't you?

Ooh...Is that a Butterfinger? I intend to lay my fingers upon it! Why do you recoil?! This is preposterous. I swear I will Monticello all over your insolent self lest I lay my fingers upon your Butterfinger. America is a melting pot of cultures, blah, blah blah. Have you seen what I did to Aaron Burr? I ruined him. Positively ruined him. I just wanted him jailed so I could eat his Snickers. Not going anywhere for a while? Not with those treason charges, friend! What a good sport he was about it though. Until he was banned from Europe, assumed a different name to evade his creditors, and died of a fatal paralyzing stroke, of course.

I do love appropriating lunch. Hmm? Yes...I...I do have an Eggo here. What? Are you shitting me? I INSIST THAT YOU LET GO!

The Common Cold (UPDATE)

When I was a child, my mother never let me stay home from school unless I had a fever or was throwing up. This led me to an idiotic policy when it comes to taking sick days.

I am currently laid low by an unpleasant cold. And I even called in and took the morning off so I could sleep. But then I called and told my boss that I will be coming in this afternoon. Which is moronic. What I really need is just rest and fluids and instead I'll be getting a healthy dose of sitting at a reception desk for five hours.

It's not like I'm a brain surgeon or an air traffic controller or anything. There's never a "if I'm not there, how will they get by?" moment. I'm a receptionist. And there are five other receptionists. They'd do just fine. But my mother unwittingly ruined me for the working world. And I steadfastly refuse to allow myself a day to recuperate. And so instead of missing a day or two of work and getting better quickly, I'll drag this out over a week or two of being miserable at work and never fully rested.

It's no one's fault but my own.

And my mother's. I blame my parents for all my failings.


Oh, the picture. Stone COLD Steve Austin? Get it. Ah, fuck you. I'm sick, this is the best you're getting.

UPDATE: Yeah, I started feeling feverish after I actually got out of bed. So now I'm home. I guess this post was sort of pointless and stupid in retrospect. Fuck.

Monday, March 8, 2010

Bring Us Your Groans, Your Eye-Rolls, Your Sighs

I've unexpectedly exhausted much of my creative output for the day by playing a newly discovered "ten second trailer" game my friend invented with his other friends. It's been a slow Monday. Basically, you take a famous movie title, turn it into a pun, and provide a synopsis that could be shown as a trailer in five to ten seconds. Here are some of my favorites on the day:

The only way to stop crime in Detroit...was to hire the one man with literally nothing to lose.

Tensions rise to a boiling point as commercial airtravel slowly makes trains obsolete in 1960's America.

A small girl abandons her see-saw in a playground journey of self discovery.

A Confederate solider stumbles upon a broken VCR remote.

A rising senator misses his morning train to his first day on the hill- has he doomed his political career ...or is there still time?

A young boy is taken in by a retired Parisian baker, who patiently teaches him the difference between the active and subjunctive tenses.

A mother asks her son for a paper towel, and eyes it suspiciously while holding it up to the light.

A young boy assembles a three-piece styrofoam plane for his seventh birthday.

An artisanal pastry chef seeks retribution against an unfair food critic.

Stop looking at me like that.