Monday, May 31, 2010

Way to Kill a Man #37

My coworker Ted, or Theor, as he prefers to be called days like today when he wears his Norweigan viking tie, bought a label-maker for the office using the office credit card under the pretense that the office was drastically uncharted. To Ted, standard desk boundaries no longer sufficed. Claims had to be made.

--I have to know, unequivocally, to whom this stapler declares its allegience, he said, pointing it like a gun. I played Tom Petty from my computer, because fun things happen when I play Tom Petty.

The first thing you should know about my office is that laughing can cause a lot of wasted time. Of the eight people in the office, zero attempted a response. This is common for most interactions, but it can lead to errant behavior.

His first order of business was to print off 31 labels with the word "Everyone's" typed in bold and underlined. He adhered one to my overhead cabbinet and placed the rest inside. After such a successful test run, he turned to me.

Affectionately, -Poopy Poopy Poopy my dear boy, whattaya got goin on today? he said.

I chose the word "Emails" as my response.

He pursed his lips and made kissing noises as though enticing his apparently feline muse closer. Then he typed out a long one, hit print, and adhered the strip to his forehead. I was nervous of what interaction might come, but I looked anyway. It read: Theor.

Thankfully, Theor already moved on to find his next subject. He scanned the room with a dirty grin, his tongue flitting back and forth behind his teeth not un-sexually, pleading his muse to put out just a little bit more.

It turns out that Theor's muse puts out like a thirteen year old model UN girl with rabies.

Within eight minutes Theor had covered his entire face and neck (lips and orifices included) with labels. They often had nothing to do with him, or his face/neck. They said things like "Bottled", and "Talon". No one thought to stop him. Frankly, everyone, including me, ignored the guy as he typed and printed and typed and printed for forty minutes and even for the five minutes after he passed out and died from asphyxiation.

The second thing you should know about my office is that Tom Petty has been known to cause erratic behavior to all within.

I Promise I Will Stop...

Just not anytime sooooon!

Sunday, May 30, 2010

The Gozer Abides

Last night I dreamt that Gozer took the form of Saron...
...needless to say I'm a little shaken up.

Have A Seat

To keep the predators coming, I think they should let one guy a year win sex with a kid.

Saturday, May 29, 2010

This Is My Job

Little Girl: Guess what!
Me: What?
Little Girl: I ca-I can swiiiiim (breath) all the way from the laaaaadder (breath) all the way to the-the waaaaall (breath) without even drowning!
Me: god.

/doesn't realize that drowning is fatal
//had to be saved earlier that afternoon
///indifferent parents

The Sluice John-B

One of my first jobs was a blood donor. It was the summer of '99, and I didn't make much money. But in those days all us kids had our second incomes, what with all the pregnant women we had to take care of. It was known affectionately as moonlighting, and I chose as my moonlight vocation the scrub boy at a quaint family-owned slaughtering house just outside Newport. I saw my fair share of kill floors-- the magical place filled with the wandering spirits of unrepentant cows. But what is a kill floor, you ask? It's not as scary as it sounds. I will defer to Mr McClure....

"It's not really a floor. It's more of a steel grating that allows material to sluice through so it can be collected and exported."

That's right, Troy. Except in this case, it is a floor. It's a floor with chains of hooks hanging down from the ceiling and buckets of entrails lying around. The floor was stained with....cotton candy, and the hooks were rusted with....cotton candy juice. In the freezers directly adjacent to the kill floor were huge carcasses hanging from hooks. But you are right about one thing, Troy: collection and exportation is the name of the game.

You may not realize this, but the cow is the 21st century whale, and the faceless, all-american meat producer is the infamous (that is, more than famous) generic Aleutian chief. Buckets, and I' talkin barrels of cow guts were lined up around the facility. And this aint your grandma's guts neither -- we're talking windpipes, rectum, whole organ systems, mostly the circulatory variety, although the vestibular system made an appearance now and again (don't ask how). And where does this offallular cornucopia finish it's terrible journey from grass-fed monotony to spikes and chainsaws?

Friday, May 28, 2010

Furry Fan Fiction: Part Two

The gold moon shoned on Lunacrecia's gold eye and her blue eye too. Then her crescent moon birthmark on her back shined. As the moon shined over me my stomach grumbled and I felt the change coming hard. I closed my eyes and felt the fur growing out of my skin and my clothes tearing off. My teeth grew out and I roared like a lion.
We were both transforming together!
In a couple minutes I was roaring so loud that the glass windows shook. My muscles got huge and when the change stopped I howled softly and opened my dark eyes. Lunacrecia was no longer a little cat-girl, she was a cat-lady! She was almost my height in her new body when I was a man but now I was much taller and had to look down into her eyes. They were the same but, even prettier. Her fur was softer when I caressed her naked shoulder and she looked more like a human lady too. She purred but my body didn't shiver even though my brain did. As a Werebear I am too tough to shiver.
"We changed together!" she said.
"Yea." I said. "You look so different but your voice is the same!"
"It's cool, I know but I'm the same Lunacrecia as always." she said. That comforted me and I pulled her into a Werebear hug. My muscles earthquaked with new powers. I had to be careful not to crush here in my true body. When your a Werebear you've got to remember these things, it can be dangerous.
"Should we kiss?" I said. I was so excited when she leaned up on her back paws to touch noses. Then our cold wet noses touched and we smooched a long time. Then we shared tongues and I felt her fangs for the first time and her sandpaper tongue too. It was electricity!
We danced and kissed under the cloudless moon for a while and than I told her to follow me. As a Werebear I was very charming and cunning and knew just what to do when a beautiful cat-lady falls in love with you. She followed me into my bedroom where she would finally be my gal-pal forever.
"Ha-ha! My little kitty bed looks so silly because I'm transformed now!" she said. Boy, was she right and we laughed a lot. After that I sat her on the bed next to me and she put a hand on my furry and big chest. It made my hairs on my chest stand up and I was worried, she wouldn't like it but she did.
"Now that we love each other you know what comes next?" I said.
"Yes." she said. I nodded and leaned in to kiss her more and she took it.
We spent a long night wearing out our knees. It was perfect and just like a movie. Their was even lovely music playing in my head the hole time! After all that we laid next to each other and listened to each other growling lowly and talked too. About everything we talked, even my dumb boring life! But then Lunacrecia dropped a bombsshell on us both.
"Robert." she said.
"Yes Lunacrecia, my darling." I said.
"You have to know something." she said. She nipped my ear gently and I liked it but used the force of my Werebear strength to bring her face back to mine. I stared into her two-color eyes and used my will to make her continue.
"I'm too strong for you to change your mind. Now you've got to tell me, missy." I said. And she knew she had no choice.
"Robert, I uh I uh I-" she said.
"SPEAK!" I said. It was the roar of a thousand bears.
"You have to know this now that we're together forever. You were my first and only love and you saved my life two years ago and we just made our love true. I can feel it with my telepathy by the moonlight, so I know that this secret is true even though I just realized it a second ago. I'm pragnant..."

Pill-Popping Pre-Schoolers

Yes, Pill-Popping Pre-Schoolers. They're everywhere. Taking 6 hr nap-times, so doped up that their slimy Gerber baby doodoo butter is spraying out like hog death all over the letter parade. You should hear their slang these days.

Strollers = baby hooker addicts
Mama = drug pusher
Dadda = pimp dadda
Cookie = Xanax
Balloon= nitrous tank & balloon combo
Diaper = badunk
Kitty = crack, rock, salt, rock salt, meth, baby cat

And it's not just a few bad apples. In 2009 alone there were over 26 hundred dozen million cases of babies exhibiting this behavior.

There's no question that these babies are in danger, and it's our failure as adults that we haven't the heart to stop them. That's the tragedy. These aides and teachers and parents just stand idly as they shout and scream and kick and fling their disgustingly amorphous poop until they hand over the prescriptions and a hammer with which to grind them. And who can blame them? I can't. They're just so cute when they're tranquilized.

Thursday, May 27, 2010

Furry Fan Fiction Fun: Part One

It was late out. The day had grown late and my hunger to transform was late too.
After a hard day of working and holding back my hunger I knew it was almost time to reveal my true form and stretch out for an night of animal pleasures. It was almost time for the moon to get out from under the clouds and let me be what I really am. When I pulled into the driveway in my car I could almost taste how good it would feel to be myself once again, and that's when I saw Lunacrecia. Lunacrecia was one of the only poeple who knew my secret love-lust, but of course she wasn't really a person! I found Lunacrecia in a dumpster two years back when she was just a stray kitten and I was still uncomfortable about sharing my Werebear form with others. We were fast friends and she lived with me now but only as friends, even thought I knew I loved her.
"Hey Lunacrecia!" I said.
"Hey Robert!" she said. Her whiskers flickered up as she grinned up at me. "How was work?" she said.
"It was okay I guess. I really hate my boss he is such a jerk and he doesn't respect me, even when I tell him about brilliant ways to save the company thousands and thousands of dollars a year just by doing some simple recalculations on our networking systems. He's lucky I don't change into Werebear form and show him who's the real boss!" I said.
Lunacrecia laughed. "Ha-ha! You're right, no normal human could handle your true form." she said. And she was right.
I nodded and laughed too and we went inside our modest home.
After dinner, Lunacrecia was sitting on my lap and cleaning her paws while I was nervously reading the newspaper. She always called them "funny papers" and it always made me laugh hard. She looked beautiful in the light of the kitchen. I had changed the bulbs to the special energy saving kind not too long ago, and boy was I glad I did. She was gorgeous. I wanted nothing more then to tell her how I felt but I was too scared.
"Gorgeous." I said by accident. But it was too late.
"Hmmm?" she said. Her purring stopped and for a second I realized how her warm body made my lap feel like growing out of these man's clothes. Her eyes were so honest and perfect. One was gold, like the moon, and one was blue, like the ocean. Also she had an crescent moon birthmark on her back that made me love her even more.
"I uh I uh I uh-" I said. But I couldn't stop mumbling. She leaned up, her slinky body running up my chest, strong and thick even as a man, and licked my cheek.
"Out with it mister! You don't need to be shy we've been living together, and friends ever since you saved me from being a stray kitten two years ago and you can tell me everything!" she said. And that's when I knew I had to tell her right now or I might never have the guts, even in Werebear form.
"I love you, Lunacrecia. Your just so beautiful and perfect and I love everything about you. You don't even judge me or fear me when I'm a Werebear. I was just too chicken to say so earlier." I said. The confession lifted some of the weight off me, but now there was another weight there. And it wasn't just Lunacrecia on my chest!
What will she say now? What if she doesn't love me!
But than later she said she loved me too and has known about my feelings for some time which I should have known because her moon-powers give her telepathy too. She licked my nose a lot since we now both loved each other equally and could be honest lovers. I knew right then and their that we would consummate our love that night and finally be truly together. Lunacrecia was my forever gal-pal.
"It's almost time for the moon to rise and for me to transform." I said.
"I know." she said. "But here's something you didn't know and I kept a secret until I was truly in love with my one true sweetheart. I have a transformation as well."
And then the moon peeked through the cloudy night and I will never forget what happened next...

CTRL+V for Vendetta

PgUp will always hold a place in my heart, for reasons that don't need to be stated explicitly here but could have been in lieu of this wordy explanation I'm now writing about why is won't, dammit, it won't. (damn, should have used parenthesis -- can't pick my battles) . okay, its the simpsons. But my favorite keyboard command is, you guessed it, CTRL +V. The PASTE. The old lick and stick. There's not really a lot more to say about it. So I'll just demonstrate:

I hate birds.

Wednesday, May 26, 2010

"You Never Forget The First Time You Do It For Money."

But would I if I could?
Ha-ha! Why would I? How could I! Oh, and what creaks would form in the aftermath of forgetting! My personality might literally sever. And what would that do to the fabric of reality, not just for me but everyone around me!? Marty McFly, eat your slowly vanishing heart out. Not to mention the fact that we've completely overlooked the scientific improbability of this question ever being verified. "That's not how memory works," as a friend would say.
The truth is I remember it with a weird fondness. There seems to be an ever-dwindling well of shame from which fiery moments like these can be doused, so this one in particular retains some heated shimmer.
Also, I earned some much needed cash! $$$VALIDATION-VALIDATION$$$!
And what sweetens memory more than some pretty green, am I right?
No visible scarring. No significant loss or gain. No regrets.
What the fuck am I talking about.
I'll do it for you for free if you're the first one to guess correctly.

It's Hard Out Here for a Gimp

Okay, you're right. I was out of line.




Can I finish? I was GOING to say, you don't know what it feels like to trip and fall for no discernible reason.


Don't give me that, you absolutely do NOT know what it feels like.
Artist's Representation of
my center of gravity

Nu-uh. I'm not being a baby. My knee seriously hurts. It's all skinned and stuff.


Can we stop this?


Stop repeating everything I'm saying.


You're gonna regret this. Arrrghghh! /repeated stabbing in the chestal area.

/bloody grgls

Fool! I am much lower on your torso than you expected. Your derivative was pathetically skewed! GWAHAHARRAAHA.

/plea to sense of honor:, da' I mean Simba

You really thought you were so lanky?!

Tuesday, May 25, 2010

Baaad Influence

Did you have fun during your sleepover?
Oh, great. That's just great. I don't want you hanging out with that giraffe-boy anymore.
Why? Well, first of all, because I said so. I'm your mother, and you should know by now to do as I say. Just look at the way he dresses! Spots!? And that tongue! Did he dye it black to look cool? You think that's cool? He looks like a creep.
And a hoodlum.
Have you been smoking grass?
You know what I mean;

Well, you better not have. No lamb of mine is stupid enough to take drugs and spend their time getting into trouble with street-rats. And you're not sleeping over at his mother's apartment ever again, as far as I'm concerned, so just forget about that. Your father will hear about this, too, and you better get your act together before he does.

Son. Listen to your mother.

An Open Letter to My Center of Mass, or Gravity

Oh Hey Center of Gravity,

I appreciate you reminding me of how terrible you are. My knees are killing me, thanks for asking. I forgot how terrible you were and toppled over when I tried to sprint after that striker in yesterdays game. You wouldn't know that, cause your just a mean location of all the mass in my body, with no consciousness whatsoever! So why am I writing to you?

Well, there's a great reason for that, which is I'm refusing to admit that I'm physically awkward, especially when I fall down repeatedly trying to catch up to someone much faster than me and already has quite a lead due to my inept sense of myself in space. Have you heard of this?

It's important. Don't ask why, just learn it. I may be the brains of this operation, but you sir need to learn your boundaries. Got it? Well how bout this one?

   \mathbf{R} = \frac{M_0 \mathbf{R}_0 + m_3 \mathbf{r}_3}{M_0 + m_3} = \frac{ (m_1 + m_2) \left( \frac{m_1 \mathbf{r}_1 + m_2  \mathbf{r}_2}{m_1 + m_2} \right) + m_3 \mathbf{r}_3}{M_0 + m_3} = \frac{m_1 \mathbf{r}_1 + m_2 \mathbf{r}_2 + m_3 \mathbf{r}_3}{m_1 +  m_2 + m_3}.
SUCK IT! I win.

Monday, May 24, 2010

I'm Usually Not So Perturbed

There was a shrieking woman on the street today outside my office window, seven floors down. My office is in the floral district of north-east Chelsea, where shrubbery and pseudo-palm trees line the streets in the spring like today. She shrieked among the plant-life in regular intervals much like an animal, an owl maybe, but hoarse and panicked. She went on for maybe twenty seconds before I looked out my window and identified her by her shoulders rising and falling. The continued with energetic shrieks of desperation. It was the reaction of someone who had lost something very important. She had straight black hair and wore a green dress and continued her barks, aimed them at a guy wearing work gloves who stood against the walls shrugging in a way that justified him moving down the block away from the hysterics. I would wager they did not know each other. She paused once as he walked away, but began again while walking at a normal pace down 28th street, then stopping again behind a few large plants in the deeper into the lushest block in Manhattan. People passed holding their exposed ear closed with a finger to the shrieking, the shrieking echoing between the buildings and into windows. Calls of emergency fade quickly in this city by the taciturn and opportunistic. Eventually the man with the work gloves came back to her and pointed the woman back to seventh ave, back onto the avenue and he found a way to stop her with his pointing words, his gloved hand on her shoulder. He walked her in her green dress behind the taller potted trees and down into the subway/

Long Days And Pleasant Nights, Espree

The Espree is blue demon, summoned to this realm in the late seventies by my grandfather; he is now known as the last of the bicycle warlocks. Although never intended for mere amusement (designed, in fact, to crush enemy road warriors), she has adapted well to her new role:

My street slave.

Espree was beloved by my mother during her youth. The two of them were thick as thieves! But age and a growing disinterest in conquering local sidewalks was nearly the death knell for Espree. Decades imprisoned in "The Barn." Pedals untouched, parts uncleaned, powers untapped. But I heard her low hums some years ago. I understood what potential lay beneath those dinosaur-patterned rags. A pact was made in the glow of her soft blue love.
"Be my hand, steady my path, and I will show you places your flesh has only dreamed of."
So anyway, I cleaned up the bike and got a friend to fix the cables. Since then, we've put many miles under her wheels; Philadelphia to Scranton, Abaddon to Pandemonium. Pretzel rides like nobody's fucking business. But the passing of Poop Snacks' Red Baron is a sobering reminder of the mortality of steel. Forged in the fires of Mt. Fuji or not, each bike owes a debt. Each bike owes a death. I believe that in celebration of the life of Red Baron, Espree and I will take a midnight ride to the local 7-11. I will smoke cigarettes and drink blue sugar slush and lean against my blue bike and think of my fellow blogger. I may even pour some drink out into the parking lot.
You know, for our dead homie. Holla.
And when we find the bastards responsible?
/implied rape
//implied torture
///more implied rape

Sunday, May 23, 2010

Rest In Peace, Red Baron

Though he could rarely be heard complaining, and not because he was an inanimate object, Red Baron (1995-2010) never achieved the life he truly deserved. He was found bewheeled on the corner of Henry and Pineapple streets at 1:00pm Sunday morning. He was between fifteen and eighteen years old.

A family man, Red Baron was brought into the Snack family for his predilection for taking children, namely his owner, Poop Snacks, from location to location around the lush suburbs of springtime New Jersey. His cushiony seat, 21 speeds and trim, blood red physique was the talk of the town. He flew off jumps. He toured shallow creeks, and water filtration plants. He waited for hours and hours outside the schoolyard for his little scamp of an owner to rush out at precisely 3:05.

But not all was right for the Red Baron. Though he loved and was likewise the same reciprocated, fate would force his family across the ocean, to jolly England, a bigoted land where red bicycles are still second class citizens. It is not certain whether RB refused his invitation, or was never officially invited. What is known is the Snacks family left him in a holding cell with all the other unnecessary sediment they accumulated over the years. As they closed the shelter door, according to Crab, the youngest member of the Snacks family, RB could be heard "whimpering, in that way bicycles whimper." When pressed for clarification, Crab Snacks stared knowingly into my eyes and sniffed his fingers.

The pendulum swung, and soon the Snacks family returned, finding their beloved snack infested with hairless raccoon babies. RB spent a full three days in rehab, but evidently struggled to recover.

"It reminded me of that species of monkey that masturbates to a point of starvation," said Crab, gesticulating predictably and for a very long time. We the press responded by backing away slowly.

Some might consider RB's death an anti-climax, though that may be the case for most deaths not involving Steven Seagal. His bewheeling and subsequent kidnapping has not been reported to the police, due to cynicism.


/have awesome dream
//accidentally awaken
///try falling back into awesome dream


Saturday, May 22, 2010


Over-Under on number of humans Lizzie eats before even realizing George's flickering corpse on the cement: 14

Any takers?

/Full Circle

I work at a swim club during the summers as a lifeguard. It's an incredible job.
(I will expand upon this in future posts)
Now is the time of year when the staff repairs the wounds of winter neglect and gets the club back to operational status. The experience is mostly filthy and tedious, but every once and again there are surprises. For example, if you remember anything from this post a couple days ago, then the image of the bunny rabbit shouldn't be difficult to recall.
Well, I've got bad news for you.

Behold what we discovered earlier this afternoon:
A drowned bunny resting in the corner of the shallow end.
"Was it the same bunny?" you might be speculating in horror.
"It can't be. It just can't be."
My brain tells me the odds are slim, especially considering that we chased down five baby rabbits that day and only successfully captured the one. But in the darkness of my heart, I acknowledge how frightened we must have made that little guy and wonder...
I ruminated on the subject while giving my boss a tour of the pump house, letting my imagination weave a series of events that culminated with postmortem bloat.

-Act I-
A bunny is enjoying a sunny morning with his siblings.
-Act 2-
The bunny's mother reminds him to watch his step, lest he wander into danger.
-Act 3-
Something startles the bunny and he flees in haste!
-Act 4-
His young instincts fail him, and the bunny tumbles into the pool. There is a moment of infinite terror as he realizes he is both aquatically-challenged and not designed for this shit. Also, the water is way too low to facilitate escape.
-Act 5-
Stillness. The sound of gently lapping water. Curtains, if you will.

The first victim of what will undoubtedly be known as The Summer of Blood at our club.
But don't feel bad.
"In heaven, everything is fine."

Friday, May 21, 2010

Hey, Bob.

I've had a rough day.
Could you take care of this one for me?

"Knock yourself out."

Skills Library

....Clever girl

Thursday, May 20, 2010

Hoppy Easter

This is a baby bunny.
Hip-hop, he is so funny!
We caught him just this morning,
and my nose is so runny.
He nipped my open palm first,
but I'd forgive him the worst!
His cute face so full of love;
I think my fever just burst.
Is this what my love was for?
A bunny's bite, life's last chore?
Will I see my friend again?
Quoth the poet, "Nevermore."

Sound familiar, Mr. Carver?

You devil. You son of a motherless goat. It's been your plan all along, hasn't it? Well, the snow is yellow, Carver; the jig is up. You're not going to get away with it this time. Yahtzee.

Sparking an international incident by sinking a South Korean military vessel in the maritime territories disputed by their mortal enemies to the north... You think that's going to bring back mommy, wolfie, little Sarah??! Well it won't. Your stealth submarine may have outfoxed the international community, the UN Security Council, and the rest of lethargic, taciturn pro-westerners, but god help me I'll make you pay.

You think I'm playing? You think I don't have the...GUTS!

/blood gurgles and laughter

You knew it all along. You knew the two countries have been at war, technically speaking, since the early 1950s. You knew, you knew and you kept it secret, slipped it in your jacket pocket like a hooker's business card and walked out of my life. But you never thought I, Poop Snacks, would sniff out your Ivy League stink. Who has the global media conglomerate, now? Such a pity you couldn't make it to Monte Carlo by sunrise.

/looks to the blackened east

...such a pity.

Wednesday, May 19, 2010

You fools.

You damned fools.
For 770 years I have lain dormant. I have observed you from my distant orbit, planning the obliteration of my malformed twin. I will abort you from this universe, and there is nothing you can do to stop me.

For aeons, your beloved Luna has played the spy for me. She has lulled you into a dream of comfort and forlorn hope.
"Love me." she moaned, "Come and love me. Nothing to fear. Love me."
And like orphaned children you obeyed.
Her sweet song will undo your infantile attempt at civilization, its melodies the very notes of Earth's demise. But I have been a patient destroyer.

Oh, yes.

Three-thousand seven-hundred and fifty-three horrors await you when our paths finally cross. And as my abyssal maw opens you will suffer every possible nightmare in exquisite clarity. My laughter will rend your minds in twain; but just before your feeble consciousness' are sucked into the oblivion of my hate, an orgasm of my enduring scorn will bloom before you. You will all die a trillion deaths in that perfect moment...
A pity I can only end you once.

See you soon.

Athens, Rome, London, New York....Wellington

Make no mistake. New Zealand is the world's next superpower.

How do I know?

These men to your right are only eight years old.

Just look at 'em. Take a long, hard look. Go on, I'll wait.

Need more time? I know, it''s glorious

These ManBoys are ready to kill. They are well conditioned, eat 13 eggs, with steak, and salad bar (dressing...their choice) every morning. From this groin-grabbable crouching position, they are capable of springing thirty-fifty feet in the air, sky-gliding up to ninety miles! with up to eighty mph headwinds. That wasn't an exclamation point, it's a factorial. You do the math...the terrifying math.

There can only be one end, and it would look something like when Wolvie fought Batman seven hundred and fifty years into the future. Let me draw you a picture. We're gonna be batman. I know a lot of you kids are excited about that, and you're right, its a pretty sweet way to die. But that's only an artist's representation of what will occur. Oh wait, you might comment, consider this: we have anti-aircraft guns, missile defense systems, the Christian Right; we shouldn't fear these Kiwi-mouthed clodtroppers! (that was a real exclamation point). You're an idiot. You're an idiot and you should have stopped reading this three sentences in. That makes you worse than an idiot. You can't shoot down an flying, unarmed human with no concept of human decency or of the calamities they're sure to bring to civilization. You can only send out their closest match, which in Earth's case is Seth MacFarlane. Check the Geneva convention minutes-- I'm sure it's mentioned somewhere in there.

It's tragic that we can't find someone to do the dirty work. Shawne Merriman's too old, LT's too old and going to jail (though I'd like to see how those bars hold up to an LT sack), and most of the Wu-Tang clan has disbanded and/or is sitting on literary panels. We've got no heroes left. Even Canada will put up a legitimate fight with their 21st century James Bond. Sadly, no one in their right mind would bet on Seth MacFarlane to single-handedly beat the All Blacks.

Still, it's a fight to the death you can raise your family on.

Tuesday, May 18, 2010


My name is Michael Leighton.

Scientists Hate You, Gary Brolsma

/sarcastic clapping

Well done, scientists. You took yet another "stride" toward discovering the basic nature of existence. Well done. You must be so pleased that the decades meticulously controlling experiments and fancy talkin' is finally paying off.

Let me be frank. This does not please me. I don't want to know where we came from.

I hate science. It's fascinating, but it's ruining my appreciation for everything. I can't even enjoy Han's glorious recounting of the M.F.'s Kessel run without wondering why he keeps mistaking a Parsec for a unit of time. I mean, Han knows his shit, and it was a long time ago and things change.

I digress.

Take Sigur Ros: sonorous vocals, heart-wrenching crescendos -- breathtaking. If you're not familiar, their lofty and angelic vocals carry lyrics sung in the fictional language of Vonlenska, which conveys nothing more than whatever you feel in the melody. There's poetry there I'm sure, but nothing anyone can decipher into words.

It's common in life to get a sense of wonder from things unexplained. (I'd quote Mark Twain here if only I could spend more time on this. But hey, quantity over quality, right? Worked for Woody Allen, so why not our generation's libidinous red-headed Jew??).

Without fully knowing, we are free to simply experience, to let emotions surge free from analysis. It's a different sensation. It's a sensation I am without far too often in my daily life. It's what you feel when you see what this guy is feeling as he sing along to lyrics he doesn't understand, that means only what it means to him. And look how happy he is! Scientists are against everything about you, Gary Brolsma. They want to prove there are ghosts, ones that neither Harold Ramis nor his fancy positron colliders have any hope of stopping. They want to find cures for all kinds of diseases. They want to translate numa numa iei and force you to think about it when you sing. I say no!, Dance on, young stallion!

Monday, May 17, 2010

I Blame You, Nick Johnson

I don't need cable. No, it's fine. I'm going to order pizza and not watch TV, but rather sit in my apartment and listen to the air conditioner motors humming outside of other people's apartment windows. I'm going to reload status updates of the Yankee game. I'm going to read passages of the Li[tt]l[e] Wayne Biography to Liz, cause he's not what he seems and she doesn't believe me. It's ghost written, but she doesn't know and is not likely to ask. I am going to close and open my computer several times until I am satisfied that everyone is done corresponding with me for the night. I'm going to examine and adjust the shadow cast on my wall that resembles Alfred Hitchcock face to face with an erect penis, but I don't know what could be funnier so I am likely to end up leaving it as is after a few tries.

I'm sorry. It's not your fault you're nothing more than a sweet OBP with weak wrists. I should really just get cable.

No Known Natural Predators

Hey everyone! I'm new here in Pennsylvania but - oh my, it's been sooo long since I've done one of these...
Anyway, my name is Halyomorpha Halys, but you can call me the Brown Marmorated Stink Bug; or Stinky for short.


I just moved here from Asia, and boy are my wings tired! Ha-ha! Seriously, though, I took the first poorly supervised shipping vessel I could find and made myself comfortable. Thanks international commerce! Some people say I 'invaded' but they are just totally jealous of how popular I've become. Haters gonna hate!

So, um, I like to hang out and lay my eggs under Cirsium Arvense. Some people call it Canada Thistle, but I just call it home. I like the way it grows everywhere and really hides my spawn from genocidal natives. They are such a pain, right!? I like to show them who's boss by getting sucked into their vacuums and spraying my unique scent everywhere. They think it's gross but I think it's totally sexy. ;)

Well, I've gotta go reproduce and cause necrosis in some delicious looking local flora, but let me know if you're not doing anything later. All you have to do is look up at your ceiling...
I'll be there. Watching you sleep. <3

Sunday, May 16, 2010

A Long Day's Journey Into Gout

In most societies, the elderly are held with great respect, admiration and love. They're keepers of great life secrets, can quote from obscure authors, and harbor deep and mysterious odors. They offer advice when no one has it, and cook when no one asks them to.

Then there's the other side of them, symbolized by the photo on the left. Now I'm aware that gout is not just an affliction of the withered and old. This photo is of my own brother, on his eleventh birthday. I could have chosen any number of photos to illustrate the horripilation I get when I see a member of the Golden Community; but I chose this one, because he's unemployed and I thought he could use some sympathy.

Now I understand that they can't hear well, and even when they do hear they're likely to forget what you just said. And who can blame them. Can you imagine how trivial everyday conversation must sound to the aged? OMG, why is everyone getting married?! Jobs are really, really hard to get these days, Why don't people feel bad eating ugly animals? Bitch, Bitch Bitch.

But I've tried getting them to talk about the subtler brush strokes of life, and you know what they do? They smile at you. That's it. A vacant and appreciative smile. They're so thrilled that someone is talking and [fading in and out of] listening to them, someone younger, healthier, and isn't a shell of their former friend staring at the ground as he hunch-hobbles from table to table at the Monday bridge tournament. That or they're suspicious of why you're even there in the first place.

It's a sad sight, and I'm almost positive it's partially all my fault. And you should too. Start getting a little guilty. Call your grandmothers and grandfathers. Get them used to talking casually on non-holidays. Then, when they start to sense you don't have an ulterior motive, get those precious secrets! They know more than they're letting on, and god knows we need to harvest their precious memories before its too late!

Inspired By True Events

"Wow!" Whofleck thought in his secret heart,
"They really do take themselves seriously..."
"I hope I don't disappoint them."

Saturday, May 15, 2010

Little League, Little Brains

There's nothing like a beautiful Saturday afternoon in May to let you relive the great childhood construct of little league. Where children cry over strikes and balls, grown men get drunk under the sun, and everyone hesitantly pats each other on their child-sized behinds, sometimes throwing one of the quieter kids into Pavlovian hysterics (yes, it can happen to boys too). Yes, this is where I spend my Saturdays: being entertained by kids with no hope of free agency and very high voices.

We all know how sad it is watching a 10 year old try throw a ball. Sure there are the few outliers, bulkier, vaguely Hispanic; but for the most part, they're only out there because they saw all their friends raise their hands when some first-year Buck Showalter unwittingly asks "Who wants to pitch?" and leaves the decisions to elementary mob rule. And now with only 9 warm-up pitches, totally 45 for the week due to an overcrowded mound, he's got three different adults yelling about various parts of his body, of which he has absolutely no awareness in the first place (they still piss themselves through kindergarten for cryin' out loud!).

But somehow these keeds remain out there, encouraging one another, desperately trying to make the whole thing a little more fun. And it's truly beautiful. The coach almost never takes out the pitcher in a strategic moment in the game, leaving him to single handedly mercy-rule his own team (they really do have pathetic curve balls). Nearly every grounder results in an infield hit, usually a double if the kid tries to throw to first, accidentally pegging the drooling helmet-kid at second base in the side of the head. And to each and every adult, it really doesn't feel like the game we used to play when we were kids, which we forgot involved zero adults, when it was just me, Manny, Yeah-Yeah, James Earl Jones' ghost haunting the left-center field bleachers, and the rest of the gang. Those were better times. Unfortunately, most of those guys have since had children and can't seem to figure out why their kids aren't having as much fun as they had when they played.

Unstable Swains

Just finished downloading the first three seasons of Mad Men.
Excuses for not watching until now:

I'm jaded
I would forget to watch new episodes
I'm too busy mining for jade
Jade was just getting to the good part
All of my friends love it and if I didn't love it they would oust me or ridicule me or bury me alive and then I would never get to watch the series finale of Mad Men

< Because this guy intimidates me

Friday, May 14, 2010

"...For A Case Of Tastykakes!"

I won't waste words explaining the Flyers' historic comeback playoff series win earlier tonight.
I can't craft an intricate list of embedded videos exploring this team's most moving moments.*
I refuse to delve into any hockey-related topic beyond a single word:

These delicious deserts have been proud sponsors of our home team for decades. Flyers' victory and prepackaged sweets are synonymous, so much so that amongst my friends, 'goals' are now referred to as 'Tastykakes.' In fact, it has become tradition to consume a Tastykake product with every Flyer goal. This is not strange; this is synesthesia.

I literally taste every goal.
I get to savor every goal.

Tonight, courtesy of the Philadelphia Flyers, I was lucky enough to enjoy four butterscotch Krimpets. And these same sponge cakes spelled doom for the Boston B(ruin)s...a cream-filled specter that I hope haunts them for a long, long time.
For now I will restock the the pantry. I will prepare for a conference final in which, with the help of the Broad Street Bullies, many treats will die. But their sacrifice, as always, will rightly serve to advance my team and fatten my hopes.
A fair trade.
Symbiosis at its finest.

*Canadian Tuxedo already did.

origins, pt. 1

Don't tell're wondering what kind of degenerate keyboard-jockey socializes enough with the creators of this blog to be NEXT IN LINE for the proverbial passing of the baton. Well, you may want to read an excerpt from my semi-official biography written by my long-time biographer, Canadian Tuxedo, who started this blog 100 days ago as nothing more than an elaborate introduction to my reign as the author of slightly less than 40% of this blog for the next 100 days. It's a good place to start, but my biograbulter made a few mistakes, and I'd like to take a moment to rectify and verify the bio before moving forward with the following 98 days.

"Poop Snacks was born in the wilds of Botswana to traveling gypsies named Kang and Kodos Snacks. Naming their son "Poop" was just the most recent of their many mistakes."

The name Poop Snacks actually refers to a popular joke from my childhood. It was 1949, I was walking down the local avenue, as was the style at the time, when I happened upon a group of mid to late teenagers, playing a game indigenous to my land called Skliibop-- an elegant hybrid of such popular American activities as Competitive Stretching, Parcheesi, and binge drinking. Needless to say, I sauntered past with hopes of making a friend or two (after all, not everyone was allowed to play Skliibop), when I caught the eye of the older boys folded into a perfect elevated side split. "Hey, Poop Snack" he yelled, to the uproar of his friends. He crossed his arms and smiled a dirty teenager smile of victory and it took all my wisdom and continence not to run up and kick that over-exposed groin of his. I strolled past as the name was chanted into history.

It wasn't until later that evening, as I tore into a family-size freezer bag full of monkey-doodie-nuggets (Teriyaki-style, OBVIOUSLY), that I got the joke. Distraught, my brilliant, sympathetic father, a local scientist and monkey farmer, advised me that the nutrients and nuanced flavors of monkey-doodie are not fully appreciated in our culture, neither by doctors nor food-bloggers, and may not be in our lifetime. "But", he said, wagging his finger, "this should not deter us. We are ahead of the bell-curve!" At this I chuckled. "YOU THINK THIS IS FUNNY!?" he'd inquire, tenderly raising his fist to embrace me. I explained how a bell curve looks like a pile of doodie, and we both had a laugh. My father was a smart man.

I figured the children would let me be and my birth name would return, but as of this date, mostly due to my habit of accidentally introducing myself as Poop Snacks, Christophe Summary Winchester McCleaod remains in obscurity.

"This will be his first foray into the world of the internet." (Incorrect).

Everything else shall be read as fact.

Thursday, May 13, 2010

My Destiny Lies In The Stars

A torch has been passed.
My two new masters worked in secret for one hundred days to keep the fire alive, but has this relay been in haste?
So much pressure/fear/anxiety/shame?
"Can he even feel shame yet?" Of course. Did I mention anxiety-anxiety? Yes? Great.

I'll move on shortly, I just need to make sure I've got a steady grip on this thing. My hand is cupped ever so tenderly at its base, against the wind. Their creation will not die in my arms. Your ten-tens sacrifice will not be in vain!
Here I am!
Let the warmth lick your face!

So I have this dog. He's a Great dog. But he licks his butt hole.
No, not his privates. Just the butt hole. Vigorously. With gusto.
Like he's digging for gold with his mouth and his butt hole is a rich vein.
Got it yet? Got the image? Okay, now very quickly, move my dog you've imagined from anywhere else to my bed.
And all this butt hole-licking actually makes a mess. Because it makes him drool, diving tongue-first into butt hole. Who wouldn't drool? Ha-ha! They're just so salivating! The butt holes of dogs, I mean!
Yes, of course it smells. It smells exactly like what you think it smells like.
Sincerely, what could be so compelling about his butt hole? Is it irritated? Does it remind him of delicious meals he's eaten recently? Is my dog transforming into some weird, canine-ouroboros?
I'll leave the topic open. Feasts for the mind like these should be savored.
We have Plenty. Of. Time.
This is as formal as my introductions come.

S-U-C-C-E-E-S, That's the way you spell success!

How I was recruited for this blog:

(NOTE: portions of this conversation has been censored by concerned parties and have been replaced by "//" or wookie noises, depending on the tone of the censored, as per a drunken/fictional verbal agreement.)

So this is it, eh? A lot cleaner than I thought it'd be. Shinier too. Did you choose that font?


I'm sorry, I didn't realize, I'm so under-dressed.




Are we in Canada, though?


No no, it's not like that. But the place is cute. Boutique even.


Sure, I'd love a glass. long have you two been here?


Oh, no I didn't mean to imply- --


That's not what I sa- --.


Listen, I'm sorry. It's totally normal. Just two dudes, writing a blog, lots of giggling. No biggie. But you have to admit, a cummerbund, at three in the afternoon, with no formal event in the vicinity...


Well, we can agree to disagree.


It means we can move on to the next subject amicably.



Hmmph Hmmph Hmmmph

Damn. Well, I still disagree.


Is this really why I'm here?




No I mean I know it's popular, but I haven't really had time... I work two jobs.


Well that's very flattering, but--


Let me finish. I'm flattered, but I've got a lot on my plate at the moment.


Can I complain about the mundane parts of my day, like about the hot water in my apartment?


Well, there's a Star Wars reference for everything, right? Let me see.... how about, "I might as well not even have running water. It's like living on Dagobah!"


Alright, sheesh, I'll work on it.


Ahh my arms!!!


It's an honor.

Wednesday, May 12, 2010


Let's not look at this as an end. But rather, as a new beginning.

Our 100 days has passed. But another 100 days must begin. Such is the way of the world. For the next 100 days, Whofleck and Poop Snacks will be your blogging guides. Your surfing sherpas. Your daily denizens. Anyway, they will be posting every day for the next hundred. Be nice to them. We'll be around to post every now and then, too. Just in case you miss us. Which you won't.

This was a silly little experiment that we took very seriously (sort of) and we really appreciate you reading it. Especially those of you that read every day. We know that's a commitment. We hope we made you laugh or smile more often than not. We hope you'll stick with it. We certainly will. We're looking forward to the output from these two luminaries of the literary world.

By way of introduction, here are some informal biographies for our new fearless leaders.

Poop Snacks was born in the wilds of Botswana to traveling gypsies named Kang and Kodos Snacks. Naming their son "Poop" was just the most recent of their many mistakes. As a young man, Poop Snacks worked the salt mines of Mongolia until his young Mongolian bride was consumed by a Sarlaac pit monster and found a new definition of pain and suffering as she was slowly digested over a thousand years. Despondent, Mr. Snacks left the Steppes and made his way to the Caribbean islands where he found work as a Scuba diving instructor and part-time gigolo. Frequently, his clientele overlapped. For the last 47 years, he has worked at various times as an AIG underwriter and analyst, a Lehman Brothers asset-backed securities trader, a GM engineer, and a Major League Baseball player. He may be responsible for the downfall of society as we know it. He also may or may not be, in actuality, LeBron James. He is 92 years old and currently resides in Wichita, Kansas. This will be his first foray into the world of the internet.

Whofleck was born in the shadow of a bar called Buckets, and was raised by two dogs, a frightened cat, and three sisters. Also, parents. He fills his days finding ways to fill his days, and has a penchant for smoking and thinking in the barn at the edge of his father's property. He owns ridiculous clothing, and can grow an outrageous beard faster and more handsomerly than anyone this blog knows. He's a living tutorial on slawdogs and masking pain with apathy, two things this blog holds dear to its heart but will never master as he has. He is 23 and barely relates to his peer group. He is much more capable in water than on land, and has pretty, wide-set eyes ideal for evading alarmingly frequent predators. His diet consists mostly of cigarettes and whatever you've just offered him. He is a certified First-Responder and writes short fiction and poetry for pleasure. If you wind him up, he'll run for days.

Farewell, for now. And remember, keep watching the skis... skies

Pictured (from left): Steve Abrahamson, Lou Slifkind, Desperate Pickle, Abbie Johnson, a midget in a costume, an extra, Canadian Tuxedo, Carrie Fisher, Whofleck, Poop Snacks, Chewbacca.

It Was Earth All Along.
2/1/10 - 5/12/10 - ?

Tuesday, May 11, 2010

You Liked Us? You Really Liked Us?

Ohmygosh. There are just so many people to thank. To be honest, I wasn't sure we'd make it. It was touch and go for a minute there. There were some laughs. There were some tears. A few jeers even. But fewer jeers than you'd think. I have to thank my agent, Avi Goldmansteinberg. You're such a mensch. Of course, Canadian Tuxedo, I wouldn't be up here without you. Your firm, tall, masculine frame provided such a stable support for my lilting, feminine frame. Your random toy posts helped save our loyal readership from too much of my "Dear God, are you there? It's me Margaret" angsty whining. And though we've had our differences, our mutual love of Star Wars, Stephen King, Bad Religion and backslashes has carried us through.

/wipes tear away while avoiding Randall Flagg in a landspeeder listening to Pessimistic Lines

One more day. One day more.

Well, Here We Are.

Would you do it again? Yeah, suppose I would. Over? Aww, I dunno man. I get tired of the question. We'll just have to see what happens. Right? LIke everything else in life. You know, I didn't know if we'd make it. I didn't have an opinion one way or another, to be honest, I just thought I'd see what happened. And well, I guess all the happening we planned for ourselves has happened. I mean, sure, we touched on some important topics. Race. Gender. Creed. Philosophy. Stuffed animals with personality disorders. Pretty much the only things that matter. I have to admit, I'm tired. It's been a lot of meaningless days, a lot of meaningless posts. But I don't think that means we just have to pack up and go home. Besides, this is a blog. And I'm homeless. Well...I guess I'll see y'all tomorrow.

Monday, May 10, 2010


Today I discovered the majesty of the BoltBus. Like its name suggests, the BoltBus traverses our terrestrial thoroughfares like a lancet of yellow fire thrown by Zeus himself. And by that I mean it takes I-95. By far, the best part of taking the BoltBus at 6AM from Philadelphia to New York was the air of smug satisfaction on each of the riders' faces, including (especially?) my own. If you ever need to find the BoltBus stop in your city, just look for the group of people on a street corner smirking off into the distance with their arms folded across their chests. Those knowing, vacant expressions glibly convey that "my ticket was 8-dollars- and I fucking love the yield management model". BoltBus even has its own caste system, where if you bought your tickets earlier and cheaper, you board first and with more seating options. People can walk up and buy tickets, but they are the BoltProletariat. Watch them pay with cash to fight over our seatly scraps! Or, in buying the more expensive Bolt walk-up ticket, are they the BoltBourgeosie? I could have stayed awake long enough to figure this out, but I slept for 100 minutes curled up against a window while a pleasant-smelling woman in her late thirties used the free wireless to do work. The mythical $1 fare has become my Moby Dick, however. I must have it.

The Great White North

I was in Canada this weekend. I'd never been before. Conclusion: it's exactly like America only colder and more passive aggressive.

My trip started out well when immediately after the plane landed, a severe thunderstorm hit Toronto. FUN FACT! If there's a thunderstorm at or near an airport, you can't get off the plane because the lightning strikes in the big open area like that would kill you! And the ground-crew can't go out to direct the plane in either. So we waited on the tarmac for 2 or 3 hours. I was actually totally fine with it. I had my copy of The Stand and I am pretty chatty with strangers when the right circumstances present themselves. I was cracking jokes about being Snake Plissken and about being on an episode of Lost. I was met with blank stares. My initial thought was that maybe they didn't have those things in Canada. But then I realized that no, they did indeed know what Lost and Escape from New York were. They just didn't want to talk to me. But unlike New Yorkers, they were too polite to make it apparent to me. In New York, the conversation might go down something like this:

Me: Hey, willya look at us? Stuck here on AN ISLAND... In a PLANE... with a bunch of STRANG--

Other person: SHUT THE FUCK UP!

In Canada, though, I kept chatting away, they kept responding in a non-committal fashion until I kind of bored myself into ending the conversation. There's this Canadian passive-aggressiveness that comes off as nice but isn't really. I dunno. Also, it snowed up there on Saturday night. IT WAS MAY 8TH. MAY 8TH. The eighth day of the fifth month of the year. And it snowed. Did I mention I'm moving to San Diego in September? Because I am. And I didn't realize how much of an improvement that's going to be weather-wise until this weekend.

I went to a mall. All the stores were the same. The ad campaigns were pretty much the same.

And they love hockey up there.

Eh? Oot and aboot.

/makes generic & stereotypical comment about Canadians
////really had a wonderful time

Sunday, May 9, 2010

A Message from Canadian Tuxedo

via text:

"My brother's laptop won't connect. Post anything if you get this - even if it is only this message. I love you. I... always have."

Happy Mother's Day

Yeah, I know, yesterday's post would have been more apropos for today (see Mothers, Jewish). But I'm writing these in advance since I'm in Canada this weekend and I don't think moose have learned how to use the Internet yet. So I'll be celebrating Mother's Day at the Hockey Hall of Fame. Or at this place, which is basically my idea of heaven. If my mother read this, I'd say "sorry I'm not going to be there to celebrate." But she doesn't. And in balance, all things considered, that's probably a good thing.

So go ahead everyone, enjoy celebrating a holiday that Hallmark invented to sell more greeting cards... Okay, turns out that's not actually true. That's another one of those things I've been saying for years that I probably got from The Simpsons.

Happy Mother's Day everyone. Go thank your mother for (in no particular order):

a. not aborting you

b. going through the pain of birthing you

c. putting up with your shit

Saturday, May 8, 2010

Thankless Tasks

5.) Giving directions to someone who's clearly in a hurry.

4.) Holding the door for a man (if you're a man).

3.) Driving your family anywhere.*

2.) Cleaning when no one is around and sees you cleaning.

1.) Saying "You're Welcome".

*painfully awful inspiration for tonight's post.

A Borhani Bedroom Moment, brought to you by Manischewitz

David: Let's just see here. I'll just send my friend Mony a quick g-g-g-g-GChat. Well hello Mony! Nice to see you again. Internetically-speaking. *snort* No, I'm just a bit under the weather. Just a little, you know, a little phlegmy. I got shmutz all over my nose and pillow and I'm completely shvitzed from the fever. Maybe I'll just see what my J-Date responses are looking like.


Well helllooooooo Shoshannah. I'd say that skirt's hardly kosher, if you know what I mean.

/door opens without a knock

Mother: DAAVID! What are you doing?

David: Motheeeerrrrr. I told you to knock before coming in my room. I'm writing my blog and chatting to Mony.

Mother: Ooooh, how IS Mony? Tell his mother I say hello. You know, you could learn something from him. He makes Mony money.

David: I know, Mother. We've been through this.

Mother: I'm just saying, if you made a little more cash, maybe you could meet a nice girl. I told you, the girls down at the beauty parlor, you know, Sadie and Bess and Rebecca? Well, they told me that Francine's daughter Sarah is in town to her residency. HER RESIDENCY. She's a doctor, you know? And apparently, quite the looker...

David: I'm a doctor too, Mother!

Mother: Oh, a PhD. Bubkiss. That and a dollar fifty'll get you a cup of coffee.

David: Mother! I'm a leading biochemist.

Mother: Yes, yes. Very nice David. But I wanted a REAL doctor, someone who can take care of me when I'm old.

David: I'm perfectly capable of taking care of...

Mother: You can't even take care of yourself! You haven't got pants on! It's almost 2:30 in the afternoon. What? You can't just sit here all day in your underpants playing with your ding-dong.

David: MOTHER!

Mother: Fine. Fine. I know when I'm not wanted. I guess I'll just go sit in the living room and wait to die.


Mother: Do you even care? About your poor old mother?

David: Uuugggghhhh. Yes mother. Of course I do. I'm sorry.

Mother: Good. Then put some pants on. You've got a date with Mitzy Schoenbaum's daughter Delilah at 6:30. I made you reservations at Minksy's.


David: Oy vey.

Friday, May 7, 2010

A Retrospective

"I mean, yeah, it's easy to look back and say you would have done things differently. Do I do that? Well, I try not to, but yeah, I do. It's not like I was my idea. I didn't make me. I didn't market me shabbily. People said I was going to fail, and then everyone thought it was a big deal when I failed. Like, do you know what it's like to be born with people telling you that you're a terrible idea? I think I'm lucky I lasted as long as I did, to be honest. Sure, they had ads showing people enjoying my soda-coffee taste, but those people were paid to look like they were having a good time. And I think everyone knew it. I certainly did. It's rough, sitting around on the set of those commercials while the actors talk about how foul you are. Like, I'm right here, you're holding me in your hand, and that's how you're going to talk about me? And we're supposed to do a kissing scene later? That's showbiz, I guess. I'm kind of glad I never took off, really. I'm just kind of a novelty act now, like Barry Bonds and the Pope. No one really believes in me, they're just glad I was a big deal once- but they're all glad to be back in their comfort zones. In a way, so am I, I just get to hang out with Mountain Dew Code Red all week. But there's no way I'm going to hang out with Crystal Pepsi. Shit's gross, man."

Would you go to the Dark Side?

Let's pretend for a minute that the prequels never happened.

In fact, let's pretend that for more than a minute. I wish they never had happened. For proof of why, go watch this guy review Episodes 1 & 2.

But, in the case that you were Luke Skywalker, would you have gone to the Dark Side of the force. Let's break this down into pros and cons of going down the Hershey highway of the force:

Pro: Red lightsaber.

It looks cooler. A lesser Jedi than Ben Kenobi would be shitting his robes right now. Jedi and Sith garb and accessories are like lingerie: when in doubt, always go with red or black. The light blue shit that Obi-Wan rocks is lame. Lamer? Luke's kelly-green number at the end of "Return of the Jedi." "I see you have constructed a new lightsaber... and it's a fruity color of green. YOU'RE NO SON OF MINE! I WANT YOU OUT OF MY HOUSE!" ... Sorry, that was my father talking.

Con: Hideous facial disfigurement.

Luke: handsome. Han Solo: dashing. Leia: quite pretty. Chewbacca: a hirsute Adonis. Palpatine and Vader (under mask): severely disfigured. What good is a red lightsaber when you want to puke every time you look in the mirror?

Pro: Looser moral boundaries/killing underlings with reckless abandon.

Okay, you COULD do this as a Jedi as well, but you only WOULD do it if you'd gone to the Dark Side. And the way that officer's lip quivers makes me want to choke him. Choke him like you choke a chicken.

Con: Feared, not loved.

Is this a con? I don't know. Machiavelli disagrees.

And don't let his disproportionately small head and bulbous arms fool you, the guy knew his shit.

In conclusion:... Wait, what was I talking about again? Star Wars, lightsabers, nerdness... whatever. I probably wouldn't go to the dark side. It'd be more fun but I'm kind of a prude. And Luke and Leia only do it missionary. Incest Missionary, a novella by Edgar Allen Poe.

Thursday, May 6, 2010

Grape Expectations

: So, baby u like the birgers and stuff, I kno Ronal', I hook u up

SaylrpOOn: LOL you know him? Awesome! I'd love to hang out sometime!

GrimASSman69: Yeh I like ur pics n I'm thinkin about u in the ballpit

SaylrpOOn: Oh yeah? Hope no one finds out ;) we've been chatting...I'm not allowed to IM!

GrimASSman69: Aww baby don't tell nobody, ur my little pet ur like my Dragonballpit

SaylrpOOn: Ohh G-Daddy you make me feel good when you say that...

GrimASSman69: Baby I no how 2 make u feel so good

SaylrpOOn: OMG! *toats blushing!!!!*

GrimASSman69: What u say babe, I cum over show u how to ride the GrimDawg?

SaylrpOOn: parents aren't home for a while.....

~~~~~~~~~~~~~1 HOUR LATER~~~~~~~~~~~~

Grimace: Hey baby u home?

Sailor Moon: Hey! I'm in the kitchen! I made cookies, hope that's okay! Come on in!

Grimace: Girl u know I like them crunchymunches, but not like that green neighba C-Monster! He one crazy neighba!

Sailor Moon: Hahaha just a minute!

Chris Hansen, Dateline NBC : Oh hello. Chris Hansen, Dateline NBC. Have a seat.

Grimace: WHAT THE McFUCK?!

Admiral Ackbar: IT'S A TRAP!

Grimace: Oh man, I got the wrong address dawg I'm hurr for a dentist but I don't see none sorry for botherin' ur day n all

Chris Hansen, Dateline NBC : I said I think you should take a seat. That girl you've been chatting with is 13. So that seat is your only friend in this room right now.





Chris Hansen, Dateline NBC : ..............

Grimace: Shit Chris b cool dawg, I'm sorry I didn't know nothin bout no girl, I only came to tutor her bout nutritional factionals Ronal' knows her dawg not me but I don't even know bout a girl what girl? Nutritionals.

Chris Hansen, Dateline NBC: Look, "GrimASSman69" I have copies of everything you wrote to her, so let's see what's in the bag. It better be colorful food pyramid charts. But I bet you a McRib Sandwich that there aren't any. I think you're trying to serve me a McFib Sandwich.

Grimace: Shit dawg ain't nothin' n my bag just some Happy Meal Toys and-

Chris Hansen, Dateline NBC : Let's take a look in that bag. You stay there!

/opens bag


Chris Hansen, Dateline NBC : I see a whole lot of purple, but no food pyramids.




- fin -