Geez! Tiffany! Oh my god! I can't believe I ran into you here. I mean, I know you liked estate sales, because we used to- well I just didn't expect to see you here! Any good finds today? No? Yeah no, you're right I have a feeling the family cleaned out all the good stuff before it went to auction too. But I mean- who wouldn't do the same right? Oh. Tiffany I'm so sorry about your mom. Yeah, I had heard from Quincy, but I just didn't know if you'd want to hear from me or not, so....what? No way! No I was not hiding behind this 20th century water torture cell! Avoi-AVOIDING?! That's ridiculous, Tiff! Oh, but wow, you look great. No, I don't think so. I don't see it. Really? Twelve pounds? Well...I don't see it. I know. I know. You try to lose a little weight and the first place you lose it is the horn. Remember that time you got stuck in the turnstile and we had to call the transit police from one of the little emergency phones? Uh. No, you're right, that was a weird thing to bring up. I'm sorry. Look, you really look dynamite though, I'm glad to see you. Me? I'm fine you know, just kind of doing my thing. What? Well yeah, I'm seeing someone a little bit but it's not too seri-oh. Oh Tiffany. C'mon, you can't cry here. I'm sure you're seeing people. Wha-? Well then it's only a matter of time, a great girl like you. I see that. I know, I didn't think you needed the heart-shape hoofjob, but if it makes you more confident than who am I to say anything, they look great. So plush, so anatomically incorrect. No, you're right, actual heart shapes would have been creepy. So Tiff, there's a humidity-warped baby grand over there that I just have to check out...I'm gonna just-
There are classic nightmares that apparently exist for people. Your teeth are falling out, the teacher calls on you in class and you're naked etc.
At some point, some of these nightmares become wonderful fantasies. In college, I dreamed about being able to go to class naked. I one time walked all the way across the quad on my way to French class at 9:30 in the morning before I realized I wasn't wearing pants. And it took so much effort to turn back around and go put on pants. Being in a big lecture hall naked would be so liberating. "What's that? John C Calhoun's initial association with the populist movement coupled with his love of slavery and states rights led him to eventually become an anti-Federalist and a leading secessionist? Oh. That's cool. I'M NOT WEARING ANY CLOTHES."
/helicopters genitals
Another recurring nightmare when I was a kid was that I would be the one who would have to make an important shot in an important basketball game and I couldn't do it. I wasn't (still am not) good at basketball but somehow in these dreams, it all came down to me. And I missed. Always. And people would boo me and sometimes the hardwood floors would curl up like ensnaring fingers and grab and torture me after I missed. Now, I have the same dream only I make the free throw, the crowd goes wild and President Taft gives me a giant check for a billion dollars. And I don't even like basketball.
When I saw Jurassic Park in theaters, I think I was 8 years old. It was awesome but scared the shit out of me. For months I would have these nightmares where I'd be running from velociraptors ("clever girl") and they would chase me to the edge of a cliff and I would have to either jump or get mauled ("the point is... you are alive when they start to eat you"). I invariably would jump and then wake up screaming as I "fell" into my bed. Now? Now I wish I had a raptor to ride on. In my dreams, I'm riding velociraptors and shooting down terrorists in WWII era, Red-Baron-style bi-planes. Basically, my nightmares have turned into the best dreams combining Jurassic Park, Indiana Jones and the Last Crusade, and, if I'm lucky, Star Wars... I'm usually holding a lightsaber or hanging out with Yoda. Not "prequels-era-jumping-around-fighting-with-a-tiny-lightsaber-Yoda," but "awesome-smelly-puppet-awkward-old-shuffling-Dagobah-Yoda."
cagey - showing self-interest and shrewdness in dealing with others; "a cagey lawyer"; "too clever to be sound"
Cajuns (pronounced /ˈkeɪdʒən/; French: les Cadiens or les Acadiens, [le.(z‿a)kadjɛ̃]) are an ethnic group mainly living in Louisiana, consisting of the descendants of Acadian exiles (French-speaking settlers from Acadia or Nova Scotia, in the maritime provinces of what is now Canada). Today, the Cajuns make up a significant portion of south Louisiana's population, and have exerted an enormous impact on the state's culture.[1]
Once in a generation, there comes a performer of such immense skill and charisma that he redefines the very nature of acting. Cagney. Brando. Hepburn. Pacino. Streep. These men and women changed the way we perceive acting. The creation and inhabiting of a character by a separate entity. James Lipton could put it better. But the point is that they change the landscape. They exist as paragons of the craft. Ladies and gentlemen, I give you: Nicolas Cage. It has become apparent through his body of work that he is, quite simply, the finest actor of our time. "Put the bunny back in the box." Said with such conviction, embodying the fierce determination of Cameron Poe to return to the daughter he left behind during his incarceration. Cage endows the modern-day Jean Valjean with a pathos that we see throughout Cage's career. The same depth of passion burns in his eyes as he races against the clock to save his young brother from the ill will of vicious criminals in Gone in 60 Seconds. Or when he's having rooftop sex with his girlfriend in The Rock.
But Cage really lets his skills shine in his two most recent releases, Bad Lieutenant: Port of Call New Orleans and Kick-Ass. I won't spoil anything about either of these movies if you haven't seen them. But just go see them. Please. Watching Cage in Kick-Ass isn't like a watching a movie. It's like watching a revolution, an upheaval of the mind and soul. His cadence of speech as Big Daddy is nothing short of a miracle. There's nothing even remotely jokey about this. I think the guy is a genius and I would put him in every single movie if I could. He's not that well-respected because he chooses to do movies like National Treasure and Bangkok Dangerous. But he won an Oscar for Leaving Las Vegas and he's had some amazing performances in a lot of movies. Honestly, you have to respect him for just saying fuck it and doing movies that he thinks are fun instead of acting in things that other people will deem artistically worthy. Nothing against these movies, but I'd infinitely rather act in The Rock or Con Air or National Treasure than Precious or Boys Don't Cry.
Kick-Ass happens to kind of be both. It's definitely a big, fun, silly movie. But it's also is a smart, funny, oddly satirical take on the superhero genre. It's worth seeing if you don't mind a little girl committing mass murder and swearing a lot. And the movie is ultra-violent generally. But if you didn't expect that going to see a movie called "Kick-Ass," well... you need to pay more attention. When I saw Brokeback Mountain in the theater there were mostly old people in the theater. (I saw it in the middle of the day on a weekday on the Upper East Side) Clearly, many of these people were unaware of what they were getting into. When Heath Ledger spits on his hand and gets ready to just go to town on Jake Gyllenhall's cornhole, this old dude in my row was like "Oh my..." and got up and left. People, you need to be smarter consumers. When I went to see Up I didn't think it was a biopic about the guy who invented Viagra. And when you go to see Kick-Ass, which you should, just be aware that it is very violent and that you're about to watch the defining performance of the decade.
Nic Cage, if you're reading this, call me. I've got just the part for you...
Taste: Strawberry Pop-Tarts are dry and wonderful, although the corners are always lacking in fruit filling. Optimum enjoyment relies on a cold glass of milk or orange juice to wash down the paste the edges make in your mouth. Strawberry Toaster Strudel is flaky and delicious, yet requires the strategically efficient spread of labor-intensive sweet topping pack. Abstinence tastes like hours of lonely and equally sinful cockpunching. EDGE: Toaster Strudel
Preparation: Pop-Tarts are good to go at any time. They are wrapped in packs of two by NASA elves and can be toasted, baked, or neither. You can leave them on your dashboard in the summer and eat them warm after swim practice. Trust me. Toaster Strudels are stored frozen, and require a toaster while the icing requires a microwave. Abstinence is a state of perpetually preparing for your inevitable first embarrassing sexual experience. EDGE: Pop-Tart
Mascot: Toaster Strudel has the Pilsbury Dough Boy. Pop-Tarts have devastating toaster fires. Abstinence has the bewildered tears of guilty repression. EDGE: Pop-Tart
It looks like Pop-Tarts take the cagematch by winning two of three categories. The only three categories that matter in breakfast pastry. Or beliefs about premarital intercourse. Interchangeable.
For a long time, it was my favorite Stephen King Book. It was subsequently replaced by, in no particular order, The Shining, Lisey's Story, Duma Key and The Dead Zone. But it remains in the top five.
In case you're not familiar, the premise is that in an alternate history/future of the USA the national sport is an annual event called The Long Walk. 100 people just walk and walk and walk until there's only one left. The catch is that if you slow down below 4 mph, you get 3 warnings and then you're shot. I guess I could have just linked to the Wikipedia page. Fine. But don't read it if you haven't already read the book. It kind of spoils it for you.
Have you ever walked at 4 mph? It's not THAT fast. But it's fast enough that if you had to do it for more than a few hours, you'd get really tired. I wouldn't make it past the first day of The Long Walk.
Seriously, give it a try. Get a on a treadmill, set it for four miles per hour and see how it goes. Obviously you'll be bored. But boredom wouldn't be a factor in the real deal since the threat of death would be imminent. We have a "walking station" at my office (it's a treadmill attached to a desk with a phone and computer and it only goes up to 2 mph) and I've been on it for three hours and I'm fucking tired. I'm not kidding. Like, I'm not out of breath or about to collapse or anything but I've already taken 2 ten minute bathroom breaks and I'm going half the speed of a long walker. No sleep. No stopping to poop. No quick breaks for Subway sandwiches. You just have to keep walking. It kind of sounds like hell.
No.
Not quite like hell.
In hell, you're on The Long Walk and you're wearing headphones that play this nonstop:
And there's nothing to eat other than Subway.
And Jimmy Buffett is there urging you on. With a whip. While he's standing on the half-track that's escorting you.
And you can get erections. But no orgasm. EVER. Not that it would matter because you're walking constantly and therefore can't have sex.
And Christopher Walken is there but he's not allowed to talk or make amusing facial expressions. He's Walken, but reincarnated as your accountant.
What kind of bread would you like? We took a bunch of normal rolls and injected them with air for you. Wasn't that kind of us, what flavor of seasoned CloudBread would you like? Oh Italian Herb? It's like a greener version of Tuscan Blend. Toasted? But of course. Let's make a show of putting this handcrafted Artisan FluffCloud into our oven just for you. Do you feel special yet? No? You will.
It's time to build your sandwich. What kind of meat would you like? Oh, turkey/ham/roast beef? Wonderful! We've cut normal slices of all these things in half for you. Watch as I lay them like barely-touching puzzle pieces to jauntily cover two thirds of one open face of your AirLoaf. Cheese? Yes, we have odd triangle-shaped slices to provide the illusion of sandwich coverage, because we will carefully place the slices over the parts where there is no meat.
Oh, tomatoes? Sure, we have some yellowish half tomato slices right here. Lettuce? Why YES! LET US. All the lettuce you could ever want! We'll make this sandwich look like a pale green Easter basket we'll give you so much lettuce. All the lettuce you never needed, pre-shredded and applied with maximum fluff. We model our lettuce application after our bread making. WHAT AN IMPRESSIVELY LIGHT SANDWICH. It could almost float away. If it weren't weighed down by the crippling depression it feels about being inadequate.
I tried to order a chicken cutlet sandwich once. And I noticed that they have little precut individual packs of precut chicken ready to go for each sandwich. Disgusting. Not because I'm above pre-made anything, but because I imagine them weighing each little piece of chicken to ensure that your 5-Dollar Footlong weighs no more than 3.2 oz. I will go to Subway when the sandwiches look anything like the pictures above.
Man I can't wait to be old. As long as you're not poor, being old is awesome. If you're poor, it sucks, because then you have to back to work as a greeter at Walmart. But if you're not poor, it's awesome. People take care of everything for you and expect nothing of you. And you probably don't give a shit about anything. You've been through it all so nothing fazes you. My grandpa was awesome. He was so quiet, but warm and loving and NOTHING got to him. Sure, he got pissed off occasionally and things would bother him in a small way. But in terms of the big things, I never once saw him freak out. Something big would go wrong, he'd kind of shrug it off. He would have been a ridiculous baseball pitcher. Dude would have NEVER gotten into a slump. Had a bad day? Shake it off.
Old people are cool like that. They can get really ornery about little shit (why is it so LOUD in this restaurant?... my feet are cold... etc. etc.) but the big things never bothered them. I never saw any of my old relatives struggle with big decisions. The big things, the right/wrong questions were always so clear to them. I guess the Great Depression and WWII'll do that to you. And it's for better and for worse I guess. My grandfather never once questioned whether it was right to drop the atomic bomb... twice. Their generation were the deciders. We're more like the wafflers. They gave us Lenny Bruce. We gave the world Dane Cook. Shit, even our parents' generation got some residual awesomeness. They gave us Led Zeppelin. We got Fall Out Boy.
I can't wait till I'm old. I'm gonna be a great, semi-grouchy, self-amused octo-genarian. Assuming I make it that long.
There is no fucking way you would eat this if it wasn't fried and called "calamari."
Would you?
No.
But breading and frying makes pretty much everything taste better. If I every opened a restaurant, everything in it would be fried. Even the drinks. And the silverware. You would eat out of fried, edible bowls. We would fry the glasses so that after you drank your fried wine you could eat the fried glass.
Hey, there's free stuff on Craigslist! Every day! Sometimes it's useful, sometimes it's this!
Victoria secret bag (Berks)
Date: 2010-04-25, 7:04AM EDT I must remember to wake up and post my free stuff ad. Reply to: sale-vbcue-1709040141@craigslist.org [Errors when replying to ads?]
1 bag, black, from victorias secret. Is this a shopping bag? Is this a tote bag? Does it say "Victoria's Secret" on it? Is it full of blood diamonds? I demand the pertinent details to my potential free procurements! I will leave in it a box in front of 9/11 Kendall drive Never Forget.
send me an email and I will give you the complete address. Pettysburg.
I am also leaving few law books that cover statue of limitations and federal agencies as well as cases against them What? What?!
elizabeth like e.e. cummings
Location: Berks it's NOT ok to contact this poster with services or other commercial interests PostingID: 1709040141
It's really not worth writing about. People have written and mocked the Segway enough to last a lifetime. It's a goofy-ass piece of means of conveyance. But as someone who doesn't know how to drive a car (going to rectify that soon) or ride a bike, I'm very interested in alternate modes of travel. And then I saw this article. And it got me thinking of my favorite kinds of travel (fictional and real). And since this is how these things work, I'm putting it in a numbered list: 1. Blimp/Zeppelin
Even the Led varieties. Blimps are the coolest. "We're turning around. They're taking us back to Germany." You're goddamn right they are Indy. Even blimp crashes are cool. You can't think about a plane crash without feeling terrible. The victims. It's just horrible. But somehow I don't think about that at all when I see pictures of the Hindenberg disaster. That's weird, right? The equipment somehow trumps the lives. It's kind of the same for the Titanic. Which leads me to...
2. Majestic Ocean Liner These are awesome. It's one thing to go on a cruise. They circle around the Caribbean a little, you make a stop every day, it's all well and good. But back in the day, this was the ONLY way to get across the ocean. It was like a giant, floating hotel that would keep thousands and thousands of people sustained for weeks while it just chugged along the open ocean. If you were in luxury classes, it was the shit. Steerage? Not so much. But whatever, fuck those unwashed peons. They used to christen these babies by breaking a big bottle of champagne on them. It's sheer flaunting of luxury. Decadent. Delicious.
3. Falcor This should require no explanation. Who doesn't want their very own flying dragon/dog thing? He's fucking adorable. I love you Falcor.
4. F-Zero Hovercraft
Incidentally, also my favorite video game music. "Big Blue" from the SNES version of F-Zero. This totally distorted my image of hovercraft as a child. I thought that hovercraft were awesome futuristic racing vessels. And maybe, just maybe, they all gathered on secret tracks to race one another. This was an awesome thought. Then I found out that in real life, hovercraft are relatively boring. They're the slightly more modern version of the Staten Island ferry. Lame. Super lame.
5. YoshiThis picture is fucking stupid. He's a dinosaur that you ride on. But here, he's riding a motorcycle. Terrible. Also, did anyone else notice that Yoshi used to have a saddle but now apparently it's like a decorative spot or a shell or something? What's the deal? Why the change? Were they worried about the S&M implications of Yoshi as the sub to Mario's dom? Anyway, I think it'd be awesome to have a Yoshi. He's a totally dispensable companion-cum-chariot. And he eats anything that gets in your way. And occasionally poops extra lives. I like anything that poops extra lives.
My co-worker was complaining about how her granddaughter didn't win her school invention fair. Everyone made a poster and designed some BS invention that is practical or something. She invented an elongated cat litter scooper so people with bad backs could scoop without bending over. And whoa, I don't believe it, she lost. Adding a handle to somethignt hat already exists is not the pinnacle of ingenuity. Guys! I am flipping these pancakes FROM 50 INCHES AWAY!
I made something equally shitty in grade school. It was a velcro pocket for two AA batteries you could attach to your portable cassette player. It was unnecessary and flimsy and ugly and stupid. Two AA batteries can fit anywhere. And I mean anywhere. I had the audacity to call it the "Battery Booster". Which ended up being embarrassing because people thought I had devised a way to extend the life of batteries, which I clearly had not. I was 11 fucking years old. Velcro was science.
If given the chance now, I would create a flying messenger flask that sounds like a TIE fighter dubbed over the bassline from Cake's cover of "I Will Survive". It would just break a window and clatter across the floor, and you would know your buddy just sent you booze. it would be awesome. You'd be sitting, writing in your diary about how your friends don't love you, and then off in the distance you hear the distinct roar of twin ion engines soaring through space, while the funky self-affirmative ballad creeps up on your morose tableau. A grin slides across your face because you know what's next. Window shatter. Single Malt. And you know you're sending that shit back to your friend out the window when the next payday rolls around. It would be awesome. And it sounds totally doable. I mean, if we can train pigeons to do it, why can't we train flasks?
Raquel: No. Not really. Most of my energy is sapped from foraging for food and escaping from predators.
Sandy: Oh. Okay.
Alan: (whispers in Sandy's ear)
Raquel: OH FOR GOD'S SAKE JUST TALK OUTLOUD. Mommy's had a long day or subsistence living and finding food for you and she just wants a little peace and quiet. God, what I wouldn't give for a nice hot bath and a tall glass of Chardonnay.
Sandy: What's Chardonnay?
Raquel: I don't even know. I saw it on Sex and the City.
Red Cross Technician: Just, go slowly, and try to tell me all of the details you can remember.
Ted: Well, I remember, it was dark, and we were all packed together. When I came to, we were jammed up against one another. It was awful, it was like we were stacked in rows and covered in...*weeps*
Red Cross Technician: I'm sorry, you have to go on. Covered in...?
Ted: Butter! Okay?! The sick fucks covered us in butter. Or something I don't know. It was like butter but only the kind of butter you use if you want to die. AND I HOPE THEY DO.
Red Cross Technician: Calm down, I know you're upset. What happened next?
Ted: Everything got bright, all at once, and there was this hum. We felt like we were moving, like we were being spun slowly around. It was nauseating...oh god...and that HUM.
Red Cross Technician: ...........
Ted: At first our spirits rose a little, we could see each other, and that was good. My brother was only a few over from me. But then...it started getting warm...then hot. Then it was sweltering. I don't know what it was, but the hotter it got, the more room there was to move around. We thought it was a good thing until....
Red Cross Technician: Until?
Ted: I ALREADY TOLD YOU! WHAT IS WRONG WITH YOU PEOPLE? WHY ARE YOU DOING THIS TO ME?!
Red Cross Technician: Sir......Ted. You've been through a tremendous shock...but we need to understand what happened here today. People will want to know about this.
Ted: I don't care. I don't care what they want, I just want things to go back to the way they were...
Red Cross Technician: Ted...please.
Ted: Everyone started exploding. Okay? Happy? Fucking one by one. "POP"! "POP"! No screams or anything, not after they popped, man. You have no idea. I freaked out. I just laid there screaming, and everyone was exploding. I was surrounded by the exploded husks of friends I had been living with for months....years.
Red Cross Technician: I....Jesus. I....I'm so sorry. What...how did you survive?
Ted: I don't know. I was the only one who didn't explode. I was crying the whole time. I was so confused. I kept waiting for it to happen, but it never did. I just wish I had exploded like the rest of them..
Red Cross Technician: Ted, you can't mean that-
Ted: FUCK YOU! FUCK YOU! I KNOW I WANTED TO DIE! YOU KNOW WHY? THEY STARTED EATING THE DEAD ONES. EATING THEM. IN FRONT OF ME. I WISH I WAS DEAD, I WISH I WAS POPPED AND DEAD AND EATEN LIKE MY FAMILY! MY WHOLE FUCKING FAMILY!
Red Cross Technician: *vomits*
Ted: They didn't want me...they just...they just threw me away.....They just threw me away......
Four score and seven years ago you borrowed seventy-five cents from me. And you never paid it back. Think I forgot? Lincoln never forgets. I'm fuckin' Lincoln. And you better believe I hold a grudge. You may have won the most NASCAR championships of all time or you may be freefallin' all over the place. It doesn't matter to Petty Lincoln. What are your minor gripes? Bring me your poor, tired, miniscule complaints, yearning to breathe free. You know what I hate? When someone steps on my foot in the theater. Just say excuse me and I'll move! I know I'm tall and have long, knobby legs. But that doesn't mean I can't make a little space. I have a lot of little gripes about theaters. Lots of little issues. I can hardly stand being in the orchestra anymore. I swear, from now on, I'm sitting in a private box.
When I was ten, a kid next door named William Todd stole two bits from me. I was plannin' on using that money to buy a new Latin primer. To educate myself. And he stole it. So 15 years later... I stole his wife. Mary Todd Lincoln. You thought the "Todd" was just her maiden name? You thought wrong. I had her first husband killed. Because he stole two bits from me when we were children. When I say "I've had men killed for less," I usually mean it. I am REALLY petty.
Say, why don't we take the kids to the petty zoo? The animals there all bite you if you stroke them the wrong way. And they have a special exhibit of the famed Hypocritapotamus.
No?
Well, how about a trip to the Petty Museum? The sculpture gardens are beautiful. But the security guards will take you task for smallest infractions. I nearly got thrown out for calling a post-modern mural "art-deco." But I showed them. I left anthrax on all the toilet seats in the whole museum.
/confuses petty with vindictive, writes whole post about it
I'm referring, of course, to L. Rob Hubbard Exhibition Day, one of the commemorative holidays of Scientology. I wait for it every year. I trim the stockings, I hang pictures of Mr. Hubbard around my house, I anticipate the vanquishing of Lord Xenu.
Oh L. Ron. You handsome bastard.
How could we NOT exhibit you?
You so closely resemble a child-molesting Danny Bonaduce. Look at that face. God, that's creepy.
But still, I hang your picture on my wall.
And then I smoke a joint. A big-ass joint.
Happy Four-Twenty everyone.
It's also Hitler's birthday and Don Mattingly's too.
Also, mine, but since every year I live just gets me one year closer to looking like Mr. Hubbard there, I'd rather not make a big deal out of it.
I don't know Loretta, what do you think? I mean I like it, but maybe I'll like it more once I'm used to it. I can't imagine we'd like it less, right? Haha no, of course not. Haha that's right, we only feel that way about our marriage. What? Nothing. No, I agree I think it does emphasize the symmetry of the room. Also, I think it serves its function fairly discretely. You know, as far as beacons that alert a higher intelligence that transcends our conceptual grasp of time and space go. It could have been a little blacker, true. Maybe a little monolither. I think it's nice, though. It's like a big black space clock. No, I don't think it's too big and black for your white box, Loretta. And don't forget, this is our white box. This is where we're going to get impossibly old together, and eat meals in different rooms at different ages simultaneously. That was what he had planned for our retirement, and damn it, we're finally doing it. Do you think there are enough places to sit in here? I don't know...
In the not-so-distant future, the tectonic plates have begun to shift erratically on the Earth's molten mantle. Manhattan Island, stacked tall and heavy with high rise office buildings and luxury condominiums, is sinking into the Earth.
Only one man can get you out alive. And that man is me.
These are the things I imagine when I come out of the subway in Midtown. The action hero version of myself takes no shit. He has balls of steel and a cock of the wok. He'll kick, lick and stick it to ya.
Do you need the President rescued from a dangerous isolated environment? Action-hero Me is the guy you need to call. I spend so much time imagining what I would do if Manhattan started sinking into the Atlantic that I would undoubtedly be fantastic at dealing with the actual scenario. One time, after tripping on shrooms, I had this dream where New York was flooded up to like the 20th story of buildings. And there were tornados and lightning and it was fucking crazy. It was like the Day After 2010 in Dante's Peak. Craziness. And of course, in my dream, I was badass, rowing people around in floating taxis, slamming windows shut just in time to keep out water and tornados. I may or may not have had Spiderman-esque powers as well. Look, I was dreaming AND on shrooms. What do you want from me?
The real shame?
The real life me is much more similar to Kyle's cousin Kyle:
You're Travis Pastrana. I can't believe it. You're, like, my favorite motocross rider. I've been to, like, all of your races (shows?). Well, every one within 150 miles of Chippewa Falls. I have soooo many posters of you. Might I just say you're even more dashing in person? And your abs are so washboard-like it's ridiculous. Do you mind? Just a touch? Oh, you DO mind? Fair enough. I'll just ogle from afar. If only I had my laundry with me. Ha ha. Just kidding. But really, those are some killer abs. Just a quick touch? A little stroke? No? Okay then. How 'bout a picture then? REALLY? Ohmygodohmygod thank you. THANKYOUTHANKYOUTHANKYOU.
Hey!
Excuse me. Sir, would you mind taking a picture of us? THANK YOU.
Cheeeeeeeeeessseeee.
It was an honor to meet you Mr. Pastrana. Oh man, I can't wait to tell everyone and show them this picture.
/later that week...
DUDE: Ahem. Check THIS picture out?
OTHER DUDE: Cool yellow shirt man.
DUDE: Awesome right?? I can't believe I met Travis Pastrana!
OTHER DUDE: Who the fuck is Travis Pastrana?
DUDE: Travis Pastrana?!??! He's only the greatest motocross rider ever!
What are they? Bacon-wrapped somethings. Whatever they are, they're delicious.
But they aren't a meal.
Hors d'oeuvres leave you hungry. It doesn't matter how much you eat, you still feel like you haven't eaten shit. I could eat shrimp cocktail, crackers, hummus and brie cheese until they came out of my pores and seeped from my hair follicles and I still would want to eat a pepperoni pizza afterward.
I need something substantial. If you ate nothing but amuse-bouches and hors d'oeuvres for the rest of your life, you would die of obesity related things and yet never be fully satiated again.
A single hot dog at a ball game feels like a meal. 50 pigs in blankets feels like a snack. That makes no sense but its true. The trick has to be combining the mini-snack things with real meals.
Next up: Pizza topped with pigs in blankets. A single slice and I'd be done. And diabetic.
"The point of Robocop, of course, it is a Christ story. It is about a guy who gets crucified in the first 50 minutes, and then is resurrected in the next 50 minutes, and then is like the supercop of the world, but is also a Jesus figure as he walks over water at the end. Walking over water was in the steel factory in Pittsburgh, and there was water there, and I put something just underneath the water so he could walk over the water and say that wonderful line, “I am not arresting you anymore.” Meaning, I’m going to shoot you. And that is of course the American Jesus."
I was at the theater last night and Jesse Jane was there too.
We saw her in the lobby on our way into the theater. I'm not ashamed that I recognized her; she's a pretty big star in the adult entertainment industry.
But seeing a porn star in any setting other than a porn movie is weird. I think she was with her mother at a Broadway musical. But it was bizarre. It's like seeing a baby in a bar or a midget on a baseball team. It just feels out of place. Many, many, many people have seen this person having graphic sex with multiple people. I'm not a prude, far from it. In fact, I applaud porn stars. But seeing them around, doing anything other than fucking is a strange thing. That's true to some degree with all celebrities, that when you see them doing normal every-day tasks it seems quite alien. (Short side story: My aunt lives near Jerry Seinfeld. They vote in the same place. So when my aunt went to vote in 2008, Seinfeld was also there. He goes up to the table and the octogenarian checking IDs etc. asks him "Name?" He responds, "Seinfeld, Jerry." She looks up and asks again "What?" "Sein-feld." She didn't recognize him at all and he had to keep repeating his name louder and louder. Embarrassing for everyone, no doubt.)
Anyway, I though about asking Jesse Jane for her autograph but then I realized I have no idea what the etiquette in these scenarios is. First of all, what do you ask them to sign? It's not like I carry around copies of her movies... usually. If you're at a baseball game, you bring a baseball for a player to sign. If you're at the theater, you get an actor to sign your program, maybe. Do you ask a porn star to sign a double-ended dildo? A strap-on? Your favorite bottle of lube? WHAT IS THE PROTOCOL?
And then there's the general awkwardness of it. What do you say? "Ummm, excuse Ms. Jane? Can I have your autograph? You're my favorite pornstar. I've watched you having sex a lot. I know what your genitals look like." Okay, obviously you wouldn't say that. But even just asking for the autograph in the first place implies that a) you know who she is and therefore b) you've seen her fucking. And that's a weird situation to be in with a stranger in the lobby of a theater.
So I didn't do anything. I went into the theater and forgot I'd even seen her.
Wow. This was a totally inconsequential event. This is what Facebook status updates and Twitter are for. Why did I write a whole post about this? I was just trying one up CT's hockey fame/fandom story. And I'm a fan of porn. Goddamn it. This is going downhill in a hurry. I'll just stop.
This is what I saw at the theater:
/slinks away with various embarrassments //kind of liked the show the more he thinks about it
I have. I see him on the TeeVee, when he gets in fights with Doug Weight like he does in this picture. We can all watch Darroll Powe if we like now, because he plays in the NHL, for the Philadelphia Flyers. But this time four years ago, only nine people could watch him fall asleep in Friday French class. I was one of those lucky few. I had french class with a professional athlete who I now cheer as a member of my favorite team. It's an interesting feeling, and I pity the people who sit next to me during games, because I shout about how I had French class with Darroll Powe. "Really?" "Yeah!" But then I don't have much else to say.
But soon I intend to ramp it up a bit, and pretend like Powerhaus and I were really good friends. If he scores, "OOH UNE MARQUE POUR DARROLL! C'EST BIEN! You know, Darroll and I always said 'C'est Bien' in class together...also, that's a lovely cardigan."
Or if he commits a turnover, "QUEL DOMMAGE! You know, Darroll was always fumbling his pens away in class, funny to see some things never change. Another lemon square?"
The truth is, we had class five days a week for three and a half months together and he slept for maybe 25% of it, and didn't talk unless called on for the rest of it. Why would he? He was going to make $532,000 in 2009-2010, and it wasn't going to be because of French. He gets paid because he hugs Doug Weight so well. Honestly though, his final presentation was literally a picture posterboard of famous French-Canadian hockey players. I was riveted. It was easily a C effort. BON TRAVAIL DARROLL! Win again tonight, my burly Canadian ice dancer. Win for Madame Beaumont's class. Win for me.
The deadline for submitting your income tax return?
We all complain about taxes. But really, they're pretty essential. When I see these asshole Tea Party people and the like protesting paying taxes it makes me want to slap someone. I say "slap" because I'm meek and weak and slapping is just about the best I could do.
My father does this all the time. The complaining, not the slapping. Well... not anymore...
...
He's always complaining about how the government is taking his money. "I work January through June for the government and then blah blah blah blah." Oh, really Dad? Do you drive on the roads? And fly in safe airplanes? And drink potable water? And express your freedom of speech? And count on policemen to keep scary minorities away from you? Of course you do. Taxes pay for all of those things. Schools for your kids? Yep. Well, not for me of course because I went to private school, but... you know... for all the unwashed, huddled masses.
I look at paying taxes like I'm making a charitable donation. Like the government is a needy African child. And President Obama is like Sally Struthers telling me that for just 6 cents a day, I can provide food and potable water for that child. It helps. In fact, it helps generally if you look at government like a special-ed, in-need or at-risk student. It just needs a little help, that's all. Your tax dollars are helping the little guy get through a tough spot. And look on the bright side, if it saddles us with crippling debt, it'll be our children's problem. Just like global warming or the Cleveland Browns.
Also, I didn't win the Powerball last night, in case you were curious.
They'd play everyone's best moments on the TVs, and it would be like Life Karaoke. Because in Heaven all your friends are dead and also in Heaven. And you don't get sad that your friends all died because you died too and you're all hanging out, doing Life Karaoke. We'd all take turns being each other in front of a past life green-screen. "GUYS LOOK! I'M DOING BILLY'S INSIDE THE PARK T-BALL HOME RUN AGAIN!"
The virginity-shedding blooper reel is for when everyone gets really drunk. Also, infinite drink specials, and you can just keep drinking but never black out or get hungover. And you periodically forget what drinks taste like, so when you get one you're getting it for what seems like the first time in forever. And in Heaven, maybe that is the case...CASE OF BEER.
But Heaven as a bar would have to close for one hour out of every hundred. So you could learn to appreciate it. And the other one hour would be spent watching sad things on Earth. Like Tyler Perry movies. AND THEN BACK TO HEAVEN! IT'S JALAPENO POPPERS SERVED BY JENNIFER CONNELLY NIGHT!
Also, Walken wiping down the bar. Constantly. The man never stops wiping the bar and telling fascinating stories.
It's been called an Idiot Tax. The chances of winning are approximately 1 in 175 million. Those odds are statistically insignificant. "It's only a dollar, though!" Yes, I hear you scream it. But you might as well light that dollar on fire or wipe your tushy with it and flush it down the toilet.
I bought 5 NY Powerball tickets and 2 Mega Millions tickets this morning on my way to work. I see that sign that says "The Jackpot is now..." and if the number is high enough, you bet your fucking ass I buy a ticket. Or 7.
Now, I'm a pretty smart guy. I'm well aware that I have basically no chance of winning the lottery. And that I'm throwing away seven dollars and that to make up for that I'll probably have to skip lunch today. But still, I play the lottery. When it gets up high enough that the lump cash payment, after taxes, is such that I can lavishly improve my lifestyle AND ensure that I never have to work again, I buy a ticket.
And the money I spend on the ticket is like the price of a movie ticket. For 16 or 18 dollars you can spend almost three hours watching Avatar in 3D. I absolutely get at least 1/16th or 1/18th of the amount of joy from buying a lottery ticket and subsequently fantasizing about how I would spend the money.
What's that? You want to know how I would spend the money? Well, I'm so glad you asked.
Let's assume, for ease of numbers that I win 100 million dollars after taxes. That's a fuck load of money. It's pretty simple what I would do.
1. Buy a ridiculous apartment Like, a 10 million dollar, open-plan, converted loft, full size pool table, maybe a swimming pool on the roof deck. Just all out awesome. Wall-to-wall kick assery. Then I'd probably put aside another 1 million or so just so that all apartment maintenance fees or associated costs would be taken care of for the rest of my life. Did I mention it would have a pool table in it? Because it would.
2. Do nothing Fucking nothing. I would sit on my ass. I would go to the movies. I would play video games. I would eat delicious food. I would masturbate. And have sex. And watch television. And sleep. And take long baths. And masturbate in the pool. And then in the bath. All the money would be in a high yield savings account or something and I would just sit. I would do fucking nothing. And it would be goddamn beautiful.
The Panopticon is a type of prison building designed by English philosopher and social theorist Jeremy Bentham in 1785. The concept of the design is to allow an observer to observe (-opticon) all (pan-) prisoners without the incarcerated being able to tell whether they are being watched, thereby conveying what one architect has called the "sentiment of an invisible omniscience."[1]
I live my blogging life in a Panopticon of Guilt. Posting so late at night, no longer being able to post while at work, attempting and failing to manage time in order to post while doing a laundry list of other things, including laundry. You think I like these things? I assure you, I don't. I don't know how people are able to play Second Life. "Maybe you should spend less time doing things that aren't blogging..." MAYBE YOU'RE RIGHT, DAD.
I've been corrected on my pronunciation of Latin words many times before. I've probably even been the asshole correcting other people. But really, the language died out a long time before the invention of recording devices.
We assume that the language itself is important, right? Anytime we have to write anything of significance, it ends up in Latin. My diploma says "Universitatis Yalensis" on it. As if either of those words were around in Roman times. But sure, just slap an "is" on the end of it and make it all Latin-soundy. Why the fuck not. We print the titles to movies in Roman numerals. It's on all our monuments. But I don't think anyone really cares how it's pronounced.
I like to amuse myself by pretending that Latin was originally pronounced in an accent that was like a hybrid of Scottish and Portuguese. Like they all spoke like Sean Connery in Highlander. "I am Juan Sánchez Villa-lobos Ramírez, Chief metallurgist to King Charles V of Spain. And I'm at your service." -- "I'm not Spanish, I'm Egyptian."
(Side note, if I may, and of course I may because this is my blog post you controlling bastards: it really makes no fucking sense that they cast Sean Connery in this role. He's an immortal from... well, not from Scotland anyway, who speaks just like Sean Connery always does. It only serves to confuse the point in the movie. Because he's a Scottish Highlander playing an Egyptian-Spaniard directly opposite Christopher Lambert who is a Frenchman playing a supposedly Scottish Highlander... Jesus. Where was I? Where am I now? Sorry, I blacked out there for a second.)
Oh, right, Latin. Try it. Go ahead, I'll wait. Try saying your favorite Latin phrases in Sean Connery's accent but with a Hispanic cadence and flair. It's really fun. I'd be doing it outloud myself but I figured at least one of us should look sane.
Incidentally, my penis' name is Juan Sánchez Villa-lobos Ramírez.
It's spring. School is almost over, and the Flyers are going to the playoffs. Since adolescence, this has been my reaction when the weather turns warm. I'm no longer in school, the weather isn't all that warm, and sometimes the Flyers aren't going to the playoffs. But this year they are, because there wasn't a lockout and it's not 2007. Oh god, 2007 sucked.
Anyway, the Flyers have galvanized several springs for me. Moments I'll never forget, at least for now:
Damn you Scott Stevens, I HAD JUST STARTED TO BELIEVE. I was 14 and I was down the shore on a Friday night. Pheewrap was at this game. We watched it on VHS taped off television over and over again, watching the Flyers give up a 3-1 series lead. An unheard of thing. Until you remember that you're a hockey fan, and a Flyers fan, and apparently the team was unbeatable six years before you were born.
It was a Thursday. I was allowed to stay up and watch this. I had a spelling test and gym class the next day. All I remember is going to bed excited, and now all I remember is that we used to hand Pittsburgh crushing playoff defeats, and not the other way around.
You don't get called "The Dominator" no reason. The first time they scored on him in this series, Pheewrap chokeslammed me into a bed. At an even-then combined 400 pounds, the wooden bed frame was toast. Dad was pissed. Dad is not a particularly big hockey fan.
Still haven't seen anything like it. I miss Desjardins. Also, this wasn't in the playoffs. But that's so clearly not the point.
I was standing in a bar my senior year of college. It was pub night. Beer and wings were free all night for seniors. I stood there and watched this game surrounded by free beer and wings. About three people screamed when this happened, I was probably the reddest-faced. Everything about following the Flyers from now on will be an attempt to get back to how I felt at this moment.
And yesterday, they did this. Playoffs. Sweet, sweet playoffs. Sweet, sweet, rosy-cheeked Claude Giroux playoffs.
Okay, no, that's not what I'm going to write about. I could tell you were worried again. Like I was going to write a whole post from the point of view of an elephant applying for a job. I considered it. It has promise. Lots of good puns. "Well, I'm proficient at all Microsoft Office applications and I've got a GREAT memory." But somehow I just wasn't feeling it today.
No, I wanted to write about The Internship. I don't know how we got to this point in our society. I really don't. I HATE the idea of an Internship.
It goes like this: You pay to go to school. You learn. That is your full-time thing. When you have to fill out any official forms, you put "Student" as your occupation. Either you go to public school and have paid through your taxes beforehand or you go to private school and pay an exorbitant amount of money after the fact to have your children be in classes without the distraction of minorities in the classroom. But this is the way things go.
Then you graduate from college. You are told you are the future. You are told you are the bright, shining center of the universe. So you go out into the world to make your fortune. However, if you want to work in an industry that anyone at all wants to work in, you can't go straight to having a job. No. First, you need to have an internship. And unless you get one of the sought-after internships in finance, this will be an unpaid position.
This unpaid position would be fine if you were merely observing, learning, being taught things. This is not the case. Instead, you will be shut in a small room, filing things and sorting different colored paper clips. It makes your resume look impressive that you interned at, say, The National Resource Defense Council. But deep down, you will know that all you did was get people coffee and try not fuck anything up.
Here's why this is a problem. Can you think of ANY other scenario in which you would do shitty work for free? Shit, a friend asks you to help him move, you're going to expect him to buy you a six pack or a pizza or something. But no. Internships instead take the people who are most passionate, most dedicated, most interested in the work and make them do menial labor for free. How do I know they're the most dedicated etc.? BECAUSE THEY'RE WORKING FOR FREE. Who the fuck else would agree to work for free other than someone who REALLY loved the work? And if you have a person like that, don't you think you should pay them something commensurate with their passion and ability?
Some go even further. Take the Williamstown Theater Festival in Williamstown, MA. They take a bunch of Acting and Directing and Design and Stage Management "Apprentices" and "Interns" every summer. But not only do they not pay you, YOU have to pay THEM. You pay them a bunch of money for room and board and for the privilege of working 18 hour days for them. I think that's pretty fucked up, but what do I know? I'm just the asshole who's actually considering do it...
I feel like all I've done today is hang around. Think this tree is comfortable? You bet your fuckin' ass it's comfortable.
Are my arms tired? Nope. Not in the slightest. Just been hangin' around all day. I slept in. Then I moved slowly up the trunk. Then I inched along this limbs . It took me like 3 hours. You see this cozy spot? I spotted it and just knew that was wear I was gonna spend the rest of the day. Mossy? You know it. Sheltered? Like a Mormon teenager.
Sometimes you just need a lazy day, y'know? Maybe you drank a little too much the night before, or maybe just went to bed a little too late. Or maybe you were up all night because the goddamn jaguar who lives one tree down from you is having a fight with his mate and she won't shut the fuck and keeps snarling and roaring all goddamn night. Maybe that's what happened.
So yeah. Maybe I'll go forage a little later. Or try to mate a little. Or maybe not. Whatever. It might just be a lazy fuckin' day.
I really do. But it's ultimately inferior to football simply because there are so many fucking games. CC Sabathia just pitched 7 & 2/3 innings of no-hit baseball. And everyone on the benches and in the game looks like they just met with their accountants. Baseball players all seem fairly unexcited to be playing the game. And it makes sense. If you had to play 162 games over 6 months, playing almost every day, you would have to condition yourself to not get too reactive over things happening in the game. If you let the losses get to you, even a little bit, you would go out of your fucking mind. And fast. Likewise, if you celebrated the wins and the little victories along the way you would quickly lose perspective. Why would you be happy about a hit or pissed off about a strikeout? You're going to come up to bat over SIX HUNDRED TIMES this year. What's one at-bat?
Can you imagine baseball players getting psyched up like football players before a game? Wouldn't it be a little ridiculous to see them doing this:
Because, after all, the results of individual games don't really matter. In football, Ray Lewis whips his team into a murderous frenzy (something he knows a lot about) before every game because every game ACTUALLY MATTERS. But a baseball game in mid-April is just about the least-consequential event imaginable.
Also, why do the managers wear the same uniforms as the players? Do we think that in a pinch, Don Zimmer is going to hop up and play the field?Yeah, I didn't think so.
Or Andy Reid wearing the same uniform as his players?
I was completely hungover this morning. The birthday glory faded and left me with a tarnished and throbbing skull while the sky had turned grey and the unseasonable warmth had left my world. It felt like someone had been sitting on my head all night, but they had done it with their clothes on and they were a fat, fat man. It was Andy Reid. It felt like Andy Reid.
While I tried to get my head to adjust to the pressure of the thinner atmosphere that standing up required it to exist in, the rest of the morning happened around me without my noticing. Apparently I dressed and groomed myself. I have no memory of this, although I do remember making my lunch. Anything that sucks so much while you feel like such shit has to be remembered. That's the definition of trauma. I have PTSD from making a ham sandwich while hungover. I am deceptively fragile.
This was fine though, because after waiting in the block-long line for the bus, I got on and discovered an empty seat. A hard plastic blue oasis for my bleary self. "Come, sit, recover..." it beckoned to me. A sole empty seat, with no elderly or children or disabled in sight. Just several people choosing not to sit. "Very well, today, I shall sit. For serendipity hath offered me a throne!" So I sat down. And after I sat down, the lady across from me goes "Oh that seat was wet!" Thank you. Thank you ma'am. I felt the mystery fluid seep into my butt. Do with that sentence what you will. I actually started to get up...but then I just surrendered.
And I've been surrendering ever since. I am Soggybottom. I've committed myself to an ideal. An uncomfortable, terrible, damp-butted ideal. SWEAR TO ME. By the way, one looks ridiculous when one attempts to dry one's ass with a bathroom hand-dryer. Trust me.
I used to spend a lot time talking about hypothetical questions regarding fictional characters. These were always nerdy. Things like: a fight between Darth Vader and Optimus Prime? Who wins? or Would you rather be a survivor of the zombie apocalypse or the Robot Wars? (incidentally, I saw this last night and it was really fucking good. You should go if you can) Or deciding who in the office you think would be best used in the event of such a zombie apocalypse? Remember, Canadian Tuxedo? Remember? Those were the good times. The pantry times. The tuna-eating, bag-making, NPR-listening times.
Anyway, these are interesting questions to me. I still think they make for good conversation fodder. So, if on a gray and wet Friday morning you're starved for some conversation, here are some things you might consider nerdily arguing about.
1. Wolverine vs. Poison Ivy Does his healing factor work faster than her poisonous toxins? I don't doubt he'd win in a straight-up brawl, but if her poison is faster acting, it's going to be a race to the finish for both of them. The speed of his healing factor is up for debate depending on the source, I think. In the cartoon, in season 1, it took him days to heal up in Alaska after an attack from Sabertooth. In the movies, his wounds heal in front of your eyes. He gets shot in the head and his head pushes the bullet back out and he's back up kicking ass again in mere seconds. And Poison Ivy... was played by Uma Thurman. I know nothing about her.
2. How large of an animal could you kill with no weapons? This conversation usually comes out of some discussion of vegetarianism. I used to say things like "I'll eat it if I could kill it," to excuse my carnivorous ways. The idea was, I guess, that I would want to kill, say, a puppy, so I wouldn't want to eat one either. But imagine you are in a room, the size of half of a basketball court, naked, with no weapons. And it was a fight to the death between you and another member of the animal kingdom. What is the largest/most ferocius animal you think you could take? Like, I feel pretty comfortable taking my chances with a house cat. But a dog? Even just a medium-sized domesticated dog? I'd be toast, man. A golden retriever would bite my balls, then my jugular and it would just be over. A bird? Maybe I could take a bird if it would stop flying long enough for me to get it. Animals are just so much better equipped that us. We have no claws, no good teeth, no prehensile anything. All I've got is an unattractive amount of body hair and very sensitive external genitals. I'm a predator's dream. Natural selection has me fucked.
3. Zombie Apocalypse vs. Robot War vs. Vampire Infection Some say the world will end in fire, Some say in ice. From what I've tasted of desire I hold with those who favor fire. But if it had to perish twice, I think I know enough of hate To say that for destruction ice Is also great And would suffice. ...Or we could go with a massive undead invasion. -Zombie Robert Frost
Let's get one thing straight, I'm not going to survive any of these possible destructive cataclysms. I'm going to be first in line when the world starts to burn (see above, I'm not exactly the most fit for survival). But I think that each of these possible post-apocalyptic scenarios has their own unique challenges and opportunities. For example, Robot Wars definitely are the most difficult. They would be giant metal adversaries, incapable of mercy. Klaatu barada nikto etc. I wouldn't begin to know how to kill one. Zombies, vampires et. al. have well-documented means of being destroyed. On the other hand, I wouldn't think twice about trying to blow up a giant robot. But if the zombie coming for you was the reanimated corpse of a person who had once been your brother? Or mother? Or wife? Could you pull the trigger? COULD YOU?
4. If you could only pick one super-power, what would it be? Imagine if these were the questions on college essays. How much more fun would the whole process be. I judge friends solely on how they answer this question. There are so many amazing options to choose from. Toggle-able Invisibility, Super-strength, Super-speed, Flight, Telekenesis, Telepathy, Teleportation, Super-healing, Hyper-agility etc. etc. It would take me far too long to type out a response to this for myself. On the one hand, I'm a meek and fearful little man, so I would probably like some kind of invulnerability power. On the other hand, I imagine that wingless, machineless flight is the most amazing thing one can feel, next to fucking in mid-flight. And telepathy would be great too. The problem is that mostly I can only imagine using my powers to accumulate vast wealth or to propogate sexual deviancy. Which would only lead to me becoming a super-villain and I don't think I've got the stomach for that. Best keep things the way they are then, I s'pose. And how do you weigh all the factors. Like is it worth it to look like Nightcrawler to have teleportation powers? (I never understood that, by the way. In the comics they're always saying how hideous he is. But I think he looks awesome. And sexy, in a kind of kinky, blue, animal, beastiality... oh god, I've said too much.)
5. If you could only eat one food and watch one movie for the rest of time, what would they be? I mean, simultaneously. Like eating popcorn and watching Anchorman. Mine's easy: eating rock shrimp tempura with Ponzu sauce and watching Ghostbusters. Or Airplane!. Ah shit, I don't know. Doing any ONE thing forever would eventually turn into hell anyway.
Well would you look at that, I'm boring even myself now.
Have a good weekend. I'll be pretending I care about The Masters.
It started with a dream. One post per day, every single day for one hundred days. Canadian Tuxedo and Desperate Pickle were the first. They were men of vision. But their time came to an end. These things happen. All things must come to an end. And so the torch was passed to Poop Snacks and Whofleck. And when their hundred days are up, they too will pass the torch. The rules remain the same. Some things always stay the same. The rules are simple, and they are constant:
We both post something, anything, every single day. For one hundred days. Those are the rules. The topics are... varied.
If you'd like to contact us about something, why don't you go ahead and email us at centaursleepover@gmail.com
Geez! Tiffany! Oh my god! I can't believe I ran into you here. I mean, I know you liked estate sales, because we used to- well I just didn't expect to see you here! Any good finds today? No? Yeah no, you're right I have a feeling the family cleaned out all the good stuff before it went to auction too. But I mean- who wouldn't do the same right? Oh. Tiffany I'm so sorry about your mom. Yeah, I had heard from Quincy, but I just didn't know if you'd want to hear from me or not, so....what? No way! No I was not hiding behind this 20th century water torture cell! Avoi-AVOIDING?! That's ridiculous, Tiff! Oh, but wow, you look great. No, I don't think so. I don't see it. Really? Twelve pounds? Well...I don't see it. I know. I know. You try to lose a little weight and the first place you lose it is the horn. Remember that time you got stuck in the turnstile and we had to call the transit police from one of the little emergency phones? Uh. No, you're right, that was a weird thing to bring up. I'm sorry. Look, you really look dynamite though, I'm glad to see you. Me? I'm fine you know, just kind of doing my thing. What? Well yeah, I'm seeing someone a little bit but it's not too seri-oh. Oh Tiffany. C'mon, you can't cry here. I'm sure you're seeing people. Wha-? Well then it's only a matter of time, a great girl like you. I see that. I know, I didn't think you needed the heart-shape hoofjob, but if it makes you more confident than who am I to say anything, they look great. So plush, so anatomically incorrect. No, you're right, actual heart shapes would have been creepy. So Tiff, there's a humidity-warped baby grand over there that I just have to check out...I'm gonna just-
