My fellow bloggers are all out tonight jerking each other off.
I'm cool with that.
What I'm not cool with is watching ABATAP all night.
Why did people kill themselves over this mediocre movie?
Wednesday, June 30, 2010
The Smell of Freedom
Ever since I went to college, my mother has been mailing me
monthly care packages. They're never anything to write back
about: pamphlets on scalpel hygiene, warheads, stacks of brown
bags to encourage me to save money by bringing me lunch to work.
Sometimes she sends underwear. Yesterday I got an exceptional
kind of underwear. When I found out last November that most kinds of underwear feature a fly I was impressed when i found out 2 years
ago that there was a fly in most kinds of underwear. No shoddy
feat if you ask me, mankind.
This pair had a little something extra though. To be brief: Buttons. Two of
them. Right where the buttons on pants or shorts would be. I
called my mother immediately. She claimed she had no idea what I
was talking about, that she had never sent me a care package in
my life. After a brief screaming match that I won, I tried on
the mysterious "boxer shorts". To be honest, they felt pretty
much the same.
However, during a late night defecation ceremony, I realized its
true genius. See, guys like me with particularly tight anuses
run into a poop problem, namely, we stretch out our underpants
bands too quickly. We need to stretch out legs out as far as
possible, and the inconvenience, not to mention social stigma, of
taking one leg out of the pants and leaving the other hanging
from the other leg like a skip-it means both legs stay in, and
stretch out the underpants.
But now...now! we can unbutton our underpants and stretch ourselves to a new apogee of comfort. So thank you, mysterious care package sender.
monthly care packages. They're never anything to write back
about: pamphlets on scalpel hygiene, warheads, stacks of brown
bags to encourage me to save money by bringing me lunch to work.
Sometimes she sends underwear. Yesterday I got an exceptional
kind of underwear. When I found out last November that most kinds of underwear feature a fly I was impressed when i found out 2 years
ago that there was a fly in most kinds of underwear. No shoddy
feat if you ask me, mankind.
This pair had a little something extra though. To be brief: Buttons. Two of
them. Right where the buttons on pants or shorts would be. I
called my mother immediately. She claimed she had no idea what I
was talking about, that she had never sent me a care package in
my life. After a brief screaming match that I won, I tried on
the mysterious "boxer shorts". To be honest, they felt pretty
much the same.
However, during a late night defecation ceremony, I realized its
true genius. See, guys like me with particularly tight anuses
run into a poop problem, namely, we stretch out our underpants
bands too quickly. We need to stretch out legs out as far as
possible, and the inconvenience, not to mention social stigma, of
taking one leg out of the pants and leaving the other hanging
from the other leg like a skip-it means both legs stay in, and
stretch out the underpants.
But now...now! we can unbutton our underpants and stretch ourselves to a new apogee of comfort. So thank you, mysterious care package sender.
Tuesday, June 29, 2010
An Open Letter to Desperate Pickle
Listen you know nothing know it all, you sad excuse for a clown, you shabbily bearded son of a king or an arc builder or a destroyer of sons or however you define your silly ancestors: you stop right this minute. I'm serious. That's...that's plenty outta you.
You can't hold a man to everything he writes, let alone individual things he writes! For instance, when I wrote you that letter and left it under your pillow and tried tickling you awake so I could watch you read it, did I hold your hand betwixt my thighs like I "wrote" I would in that letter? Bad example. You hadn't read it at that specific point in time. If you had though....think about that.
And another thing: is this really the forum to make snide comments about words I write in full view of the world? Couldn't you have politely texted me via cell phone or instant message to let me know your disapproval? Oh no, you had to be all included to show people your keen memory of every word documented in your homoerotic make-believe world...
The point I'm trying to make is that I REFUSE to go back and read anything I wrote on this weblog until the court or some kind of intervention forces me to face some of the awful secrets I've unveiled, which incidentally has cleared most of my conscience and allowed me to become the happier, riskier, slightly more tanned individual that I've always dreamed of being. So stop trying to make it happen.
FYI: I coulda rap-battled that whole thing.
You can't hold a man to everything he writes, let alone individual things he writes! For instance, when I wrote you that letter and left it under your pillow and tried tickling you awake so I could watch you read it, did I hold your hand betwixt my thighs like I "wrote" I would in that letter? Bad example. You hadn't read it at that specific point in time. If you had though....think about that.
And another thing: is this really the forum to make snide comments about words I write in full view of the world? Couldn't you have politely texted me via cell phone or instant message to let me know your disapproval? Oh no, you had to be all included to show people your keen memory of every word documented in your homoerotic make-believe world...
The point I'm trying to make is that I REFUSE to go back and read anything I wrote on this weblog until the court or some kind of intervention forces me to face some of the awful secrets I've unveiled, which incidentally has cleared most of my conscience and allowed me to become the happier, riskier, slightly more tanned individual that I've always dreamed of being. So stop trying to make it happen.
FYI: I coulda rap-battled that whole thing.
Monday, June 28, 2010
The More You Know
You are now realizing that Toy Story 3 is not only a sequel to a series of award-winning kid's movies, but a prequel to the 1993 classic "Philadelphia."
The boy known only as Andy, now older and off to college, has been living in a childhood fantasy realm with his favorite action figure, Woody the cowboy. He emulates Woody during his college years by studying to be a modern day lawman, and in time becomes a promising court lawyer. Eventually he travels to Philly in an effort to further his career.
Andy (Beckett, as we later discover) is also influenced by the cowboy mystique in darker ways after embracing his latent homosexuality. It is the era of public homosexual emergence, and ironically, coincides with the HIV epidemic. Andy's sexual exploration and ignorance unite as he reaches a great arc in the story; an anonymous tryst in a pornographic theater. This is where the film "Philadelphia" picks up the tale of Andy's life and eventual death.
A pant, a rant, and a mant...is
/runs up out of breath//gasps for air
Sorry. Sorry. Sorry.
Sorry I'm late. I got here as soon as I could.
Oh. Oh, I see.
Really? I don't know. It looked like a goal to me. And that one kind of looked like offside. It seems to me like the refereeing in this World Cup has been atrocious. What's that? I'm a bandwagon fan with no basis for comparison? Well... I... it's just that... Fair. Tough but fair
But seriously. This just happened. How does this continue in sports in the modern age? All arguments against replay are fucking idiotic. It helps you get the call right. If you believe that the calls being right are what matters, then you should be in favor of replay, in some form, in all applicable sports. Instead, this appears to have been the scene in FIFA's war room:
FIFA Exec 1: Wow, we blew that call. And the replay clearly shows that we blew that call. It would be really easy to take a look at the replay and reverse the call. Or at least we should make provisions to do that in the future.
FIFA Exec 2: No! Wait! I have a better idea! Let's just make sure that we never show the replay in the stadium again.
Exec 1: I'm listening...
Exec 2: Well, you see, that way we can keep making bad calls but there won't be any outrage over it!
Exec 1: Brilliant!
Exec 2: /blows vuvuzela from rectum
Stupid? Or REALLY FUCKING STUPID? I'll let you be the judge.
There's been all this discussion about banning the stupid horns (who gives a shit?) and not nearly enough discussion of FIFA's ridiculously obstinate stance regarding the use of instant replay. Whether it's baseball or basketball or soccer or curling or competitive ass-gargling, the arguments against using replay always come down to "it's not in the spirit of the game" or "it's just not the way things are done" or some other such asinine nonsense. Oh, it'll slow the game down? Fuck you. People LIKE watching sports. If they went on longer NO ONE WOULD COMPLAIN. In football, people fucking love replay. Time to expand that shit. I want replay in ALL aspects of my life. I want to be able to review past meals, past love-making with Ms. Picklette (the ruling on the field stands: brief and unsatisfying for the lady), teenage masturbation sessions (terrycloth not as soft as it looks in retrospect, moisture needed), past motion sickness (foul on my father for driving drunk while on windy roads) etc.
Okay, I think I'm done.
Oh, and here's a praying mantis.
Sunday, June 27, 2010
My Existence Is A Tipi Of Cards Made Entirely Of Two People
Canadian Tuxedo is on a sort of vacation. Jaybro is visiting him.
All of my friends are dead.
When the duo convenes, there is no need for old Whofleck; cast aside like so many Arch Deluxe wrappers; ignored like some asshole named Trevor. I am a fart on a short subway ride. "Whatever. Let it slide."
At least the feast of crippling loneliness is accompanied by a sad, unwelcome side dish: the realization that this void is the only one left in the hollow, gaping maw that can now barely be identified as my life. And for dessert? The suicidal memory of me introducing the two of them. Yes, they have become them now. Has it been so long since we were us? I am Athos in this dumbass metaphor, except Milady de Winter is my own desire to repeatedly shoot myself in the foot...and then to stick the bloody lump squarely into my own mouth.
A poem:
All of my friends are dead.
When the duo convenes, there is no need for old Whofleck; cast aside like so many Arch Deluxe wrappers; ignored like some asshole named Trevor. I am a fart on a short subway ride. "Whatever. Let it slide."
At least the feast of crippling loneliness is accompanied by a sad, unwelcome side dish: the realization that this void is the only one left in the hollow, gaping maw that can now barely be identified as my life. And for dessert? The suicidal memory of me introducing the two of them. Yes, they have become them now. Has it been so long since we were us? I am Athos in this dumbass metaphor, except Milady de Winter is my own desire to repeatedly shoot myself in the foot...and then to stick the bloody lump squarely into my own mouth.
A poem:
Gone are the days of sweet communion,
Of three in one.
Twisted figures now debate
Your fate; the amputee
Of one from three.
Union, bah!
Free your kin
And lascivious sin.
Godless traitors, jumping
Ships. The End.
Of three in one.
Twisted figures now debate
Your fate; the amputee
Of one from three.
Union, bah!
Free your kin
And lascivious sin.
Godless traitors, jumping
Ships. The End.
Read. The. First. Letter. Of. Every. Line.
You should really spend more time driving
Operation Wild Rubdown is in effect -- more to come.
In the meantime:
In the meantime:
Saturday, June 26, 2010
Did I Just Fart?
Today I walked into the men's bathroom and came upon two young boys.
(Oh yes, I love this story already!)
They had there arms folded beneath their chins on the sink counter, both of them fixated on their reflections in the mirror.
Me: What are you dudes up to?
Them (In unison): Nothing...
Me: Oh. Cause this is pretty weird. Why don't you go play or something?
Boy A: Play what!?
Boy B: YEAH! I hate adult swims!!!
Me: Sorry bro, but that's just how it works. Well, I'll leave you guys to yourselves. Stop being creepy.
-as I'm leaving-
Boy A: Did I just fart?
-giggling-
Me: QUIT IT!
(Oh yes, I love this story already!)
They had there arms folded beneath their chins on the sink counter, both of them fixated on their reflections in the mirror.
Me: What are you dudes up to?
Them (In unison): Nothing...
Me: Oh. Cause this is pretty weird. Why don't you go play or something?
Boy A: Play what!?
Boy B: YEAH! I hate adult swims!!!
Me: Sorry bro, but that's just how it works. Well, I'll leave you guys to yourselves. Stop being creepy.
-as I'm leaving-
Boy A: Did I just fart?
-giggling-
Me: QUIT IT!
Thank you, WTSO
The following is the list of corrections as noted by the T.V.-magazine Rock Bottom.
- The Universities are not hotbeds of anything.
- Mr. Dershowitz did not literally have four eyes.
- Our viewers are not pathetic sexless food tubes.
- Janet Reno is evil.
- Syrofoam is not made from kittens.
- The U.F.O. was a paper plate.
- The word "cheese" is not funny in an of itself.
- The older Flanders boy is Todd, not Rod.
- Lyndon Johnson did not provide the voice of Yosemite Sam.
- If you are reading this you have no life.
- The nerds on the internet are not geeks.
- Peoples' Choice Award is America's greatest honor.
- V8 is not 1/8 gasoline.
- Ted Koppel is a robot.
- Quayle is familiar with common bathroom procedures.
- Bart is bad to the bone.
- The Beatles haven't reunited to enter kick boxing competitions.
- The "Bug" on your TV screen can see into your home.
- Everyone on TV is better than you.
- Godfry Jones' wife is cheating on him.
- Fleiss does floss.
- Women aren't from Venus, and men aren't from Mars.
- Roy Rodgers is not buried inside his horse.
- The other UFO was an upside down salad spinner.
- Audrey Hepburn never weighed 400 pounds.
- The "Cheers" gang is not a real gang.
- Salt water does not "chase the thirsties away".
- Licking an electrical outlet will not turn you into a Mighty Morphin Power Ranger.
- Cats do not eventually turn into dogs.
- Bullets do not bounce off of fat guys.
- Recycling does not deplete the ozone.
- Everything is not 10% fruit juice.
- The flesh eating virus does not hide in ice cream.
Friday, June 25, 2010
Don't Just Stare At It...Eat It.
Things in life that I saw dunked that should never be dunked:
My ex-girlfriend dunking the armpits of her t-shirts in detergent before washing.
Any adult helping any child dunk balls of anything into anything.
Assholes dunking trash with way too much gusto.
Basketball players dunking basketballs; it is not athletic and you belong in a circus.
Cookies. Especially cookies.
I remember in elementary school when the first cool moms started giving their children (my peers) these dunk-happy snacks. Even at such a tender age, I knew that watching kids do stupid "moves" to eat would give me cafeteria rage.
"I'm gonna jump on top of my stool and do a turn and then kick the wall and then dunk!" shouts some sugar-toxic child. Great. Now you get to distract and frighten me for three minutes because just being able to eat isn't enough for you. Instead, every stupid little thing has to be a game. Instead, my own consumption is interrupted so you can practice never impressing girls and getting everyone to feel fleeting pity in your absence. WHY DIDN'T ADULTS WARN US ABOUT HOW DUMB WE WERE!?
/never get cookies
//get tastykakes instead
///win best lunchbox award
////never thank mom
...
ohgodimsosorry.jpg
Hold the baby-mayo
Today I ate a pastrami sandwich so good that I was sure it was made of a royal family's newborn. I looked up the possible royal family babies it could have been, and I settled on HH Prince Sverre Magnus. He's five, which means his flesh would have been far too lean to taste that good. So I assumed it had to be Princess Eleanor. So much eel leg baby fat.
Thursday, June 24, 2010
Look...But Don't Touch!
Today I saw a fat infant.
His arms looked like the Michelin Man's arms.
At best: a distraction.
At worst: a legitimate reason for genetic fertility-intervention.
I couldn't blame the kid;
But I couldn't keep from picturing that video of the foreign child with obese eels for legs.
...his arms were a series of separated, meaty tubes.
Am I hungry for London broil?
Quietly....
-Slap me. I said SLAP me. Call me a duck breast. I'm a perfectly cooked duck breast.
-You're all pink.
-You can eat poultry rare, I read it. It's not like the fifties. Feel that layer of fat? I'm a lazy duck breast, aren't I?
-No, I mean you're really pink.
-Pair me. I go well -- HEY! watch it.
-Well put down the tea.
-I'm busy pairing myself.
-What the hell...
-Mango Salad. Tennis. I go great after a game of tennis.
-I think you should see a doctor. It's all bubbly and raised.
-You should really take me off the heat.
-How did this happen?
-I am the hunted. You: the hunter.
/slips on mouth noise, drools
-Oh God.
-You're all pink.
-You can eat poultry rare, I read it. It's not like the fifties. Feel that layer of fat? I'm a lazy duck breast, aren't I?
-No, I mean you're really pink.
-Pair me. I go well -- HEY! watch it.
-Well put down the tea.
-I'm busy pairing myself.
-What the hell...
-Mango Salad. Tennis. I go great after a game of tennis.
-I think you should see a doctor. It's all bubbly and raised.
-You should really take me off the heat.
-How did this happen?
-I am the hunted. You: the hunter.
/slips on mouth noise, drools
-Oh God.
Wednesday, June 23, 2010
Spend it on an orgy kids!
I'm goinna start over, because I know you weren't listening. So there we were. Where were we? Well, we were in Poughkeepsie, where we all lived. Most of us lived there that is: Terry, Jerry, Cooper, Knox, Esther the Harlot, and of course Fibler. Fibler's the one who used to fix things. Poughkeepsie wasn't like it is today. We only had one gas station for the entire village, and before that, we didn't have any! The whole dang place ran on onion oil, which was about as abundant as the cats in Knoxie's backyard cat farm. Those cats sure did whine a lot. I was of the school of thought that cats weren't meant to live in pens, or even wear socks, but that Knoxie made sure each one of those little pesks had two fresh pairs every sixth moon, which was a lot in those days. Me and Esther used to trade socks periodically to keep from getting the footrot. Show me a cat outta Knoxie's cat farm that suffered from footrot I used to say and I'll show you a free meal! Those were the kinds of jokes we used to tell back then. Of course when Fibler got pinched he blamed it on me, citing all the jokes about eating the cats. I came at him with my switch and they pinned me down for damn near two hours till my mouth stopped its foamin'. Does that answer your question dear?
That all you got, Missy?
Cobblestone Clash
I get bored at work. This is my routine:
1. Establish dominance.
2. Watch kids break the rules.
3. Explain their error and warn against recidivism.
4. Repeat step 2.
5. Lapse into whistling/humming/singing Elvis songs.
Today, this boredom gave birth to a new musical idea. My old high school friends and I used to make up funny songs ("raps") or bits, record them, and distribute the results through our classes. We are planning on having another "recording sesh" soon, so I was in the mood for some silly writing. My joke-baby today was of a street fight set outside an opera house in 1864 between a working class gent and a local senator. I've got a few favorites I would like to try on our available critics.
Aver(age)y Chum: I will break you like a stick!
Senator Skumm: Not before I legislate your dick...with a roundhouse kick!
Avery Chum: Ow! You got me in the ball, but I refuse to fall-
Senator Skumm: Then you shall die!
1. Establish dominance.
2. Watch kids break the rules.
3. Explain their error and warn against recidivism.
4. Repeat step 2.
5. Lapse into whistling/humming/singing Elvis songs.
Today, this boredom gave birth to a new musical idea. My old high school friends and I used to make up funny songs ("raps") or bits, record them, and distribute the results through our classes. We are planning on having another "recording sesh" soon, so I was in the mood for some silly writing. My joke-baby today was of a street fight set outside an opera house in 1864 between a working class gent and a local senator. I've got a few favorites I would like to try on our available critics.
Aver(age)y Chum: I will break you like a stick!
Senator Skumm: Not before I legislate your dick...with a roundhouse kick!
Avery Chum: Ow! You got me in the ball, but I refuse to fall-
Senator Skumm: Then you shall die!
It's an 1864 street fight...slavery is still right, and we're cool with that!
It's a nineteenth century street fight...I establish my height with a top hat!
It's a nineteenth century street fight...I establish my height with a top hat!
Since then ideas have thinned out. I'll take any clever rhyming battle-rap style lines I can get. If you really want to, check out the tube channel for the buddy we record with. Be warned, lots of it has aged poorly.
Tuesday, June 22, 2010
Dad's(') Home!
"I don't get it. It's like a blog?"
"No. It is a blog. Where am I losing you?"
"So they just post something, anything, every day?"
"Yes, you witch."
"...I definitely don't get it. How is that different or interesting?"
"There isn't any intention of being different or interesting. It's a challenge, a feat, a daily struggle. This is some of the Sleeping Centaurs' greatest work: simple, elegant, unrecognized. Look, I really don't have time to discu-"
"So it's a journal, except you can post random stuff. I still don't see anything cool about that. Certainly nothing challenging. Do they write about battling basilisks?"
"It's NOT a journal. And of course it's challenging; I mean, not like my morning workout challenging but...see the varied topics? The strange deliveries? The humor!? Most of their focus in posting is an attempt to get laughs. Most of this is accomplished by cleverly weaving parody and reference and hyperbole. Most of it is obviously over your tiny, stupid head. Seriously, I'm late. I have to return some video tapes. Here's my card, just call me if you want to get together later. I know a nice restaurant...not everybody can get reservations, but I happen to know some peop-"
"Hm. Nice card. You should check out mine. Just got it from the shop down the abbey."
"Oh. Oh yes. It's. It's great. Do you like Huey Lewis & The News?"
"No. It is a blog. Where am I losing you?"
"So they just post something, anything, every day?"
"Yes, you witch."
"...I definitely don't get it. How is that different or interesting?"
"There isn't any intention of being different or interesting. It's a challenge, a feat, a daily struggle. This is some of the Sleeping Centaurs' greatest work: simple, elegant, unrecognized. Look, I really don't have time to discu-"
"So it's a journal, except you can post random stuff. I still don't see anything cool about that. Certainly nothing challenging. Do they write about battling basilisks?"
"It's NOT a journal. And of course it's challenging; I mean, not like my morning workout challenging but...see the varied topics? The strange deliveries? The humor!? Most of their focus in posting is an attempt to get laughs. Most of this is accomplished by cleverly weaving parody and reference and hyperbole. Most of it is obviously over your tiny, stupid head. Seriously, I'm late. I have to return some video tapes. Here's my card, just call me if you want to get together later. I know a nice restaurant...not everybody can get reservations, but I happen to know some peop-"
"Hm. Nice card. You should check out mine. Just got it from the shop down the abbey."
"Oh. Oh yes. It's. It's great. Do you like Huey Lewis & The News?"
One plug and that's all
Anyone living in the NYC Metropolitan area (or anyone willing to journey far journeys in the name of dried-meat-related festivities), must come to my beef jerky company's LAUNCH PARTY on Wednesday, June 30th to celebrate the jerky revolution we're about to unleash on the hungry masses. Raffles, live music, DJ's, gift-prizes, and of course, there WILL be fresh-cooked SlantShack Jerky as far as the eye can see...plus cheap, sweet, copious alcohol!
SlantShack Jerky Launch Party
Starring SlantShack Jerky, and Featuring Special Guest Performances by ???!
Brooklyn Fireproof East
119 Ingraham Street, Brooklyn, NY (Take the L to Morgan, walk one block. It's warm out. You can do it!)
Wednesday, June 30, 8pm - late
21+ ONLY (sorry kids...)
RSVP
Be there. Hipsters are forbidden by popular demand.
SlantShack Jerky Launch Party
Starring SlantShack Jerky, and Featuring Special Guest Performances by ???!
Brooklyn Fireproof East
119 Ingraham Street, Brooklyn, NY (Take the L to Morgan, walk one block. It's warm out. You can do it!)
Wednesday, June 30, 8pm - late
21+ ONLY (sorry kids...)
RSVP
Be there. Hipsters are forbidden by popular demand.
My Existence Is a House of Cards Made Up Entirely of Jokers
CT: /checks checking account online
//has panicked moment
///dials 1-800 help line for Epoch.com
A: Good afternoon, this is Adam, how may I help you?
CT: Uh, hi Adam, this is Canadian Tuxedo, and I just was looking over my statement, and there is a $34.95 charge to Epoch.com...and I honestly have no idea what that could be.
A: Well I can help you find out, can I have the first and last four digits of your check card?
CT & A: /confirm CT's identity and info
A: Well, it looks like that's a monthly charge for XXXblackbook.com
CT: What?
A: It looks like you've been signed up for some time.
CT: What?
A: Since June 2008. Would you like to cancel that?
CT: What? Yes. How did that happen?
A: ........
CT: I have no idea how that happened.
A: *Sighs* Okay, it's been canceled, you'll get an email confirmation shortly.
CT: I won't get charged again?
A: No, it's been canceled.
CT: Uh, thanks.
/hangs up
//has panicked moment
///dials 1-800 help line for Epoch.com
A: Good afternoon, this is Adam, how may I help you?
CT: Uh, hi Adam, this is Canadian Tuxedo, and I just was looking over my statement, and there is a $34.95 charge to Epoch.com...and I honestly have no idea what that could be.
A: Well I can help you find out, can I have the first and last four digits of your check card?
CT & A: /confirm CT's identity and info
A: Well, it looks like that's a monthly charge for XXXblackbook.com
CT: What?
A: It looks like you've been signed up for some time.
CT: What?
A: Since June 2008. Would you like to cancel that?
CT: What? Yes. How did that happen?
A: ........
CT: I have no idea how that happened.
A: *Sighs* Okay, it's been canceled, you'll get an email confirmation shortly.
CT: I won't get charged again?
A: No, it's been canceled.
CT: Uh, thanks.
/hangs up
Holy shit. Holy dogshit. Look, the jobless, ambition-less period immediately following college wasn't a great time for CT. He wandered his parents' lovely home like the mayor of the Island of Misfit Toys. He drank Coors light until it was time to drink more Coors light. He would take long walks by himself smoking clove cigarettes and largely avoided friends, exercise, or doing anything of merit. Whofleck and I refer to this as "Black Summer" for these and other, somehow more pathetic, reasons. As for CT circa June '08, I have no memory of what terrible decision he made that entailed signing up for XXXblackbook.com, and I will insist that it probably happened somewhere between 4 - 6 AM with his pants around his ankles. I am so glad that man is dead. OR IS HE? It's not even a cool site! It's not even top 5 of what I would sign up for (Netflix, for God's sake man, NETFLIX!)!
And apparently I've been signed up for 24 months. I HAVE TASTED REGRET AND IT IS BITTER, BITTER. Stick to craigslist, CT of yore. It's cheaper and more entertaining, with likely an identical "success" rate ( less than one percent, negating wind resistance).
Hobby of the Day: Figuring out what $838.80 could have purchased me if I hadn't unwittingly spent it on a sex dating site for the last two years. If nothing else, at least today I became a little bit less of a sucker. Oh, and I'm not a member of "XXXblackbook.com" anymore, so there's that.
Boys, boys, boys...
Your father and I are very disappointed.
What's all this fighting about? Does it really matter who's a hipster or who finger-banged a minor last weekend at Coney Island? Of course not. The point is, we need to let bygones be bygones.
We have soiled the waters of the lagoon of peace.
Now, I never finished Lolita. I was really enjoying it but then I remembered that I have the attention span of a bored llama except when reading Stephen King. So I stopped reading it. I regret this and I really will go back and finish reading it at some point. But until I do, let me be the completely uninformed arbiter here.
Hipsters are terrible.
Lolita is delightful.
Tastykakes are disgusting.
Mental health conferences are interesting.
Furrie-themed erotica is disturbing, yet arousing.
My penis is semi-erect.
Keep up the good work.
What's all this fighting about? Does it really matter who's a hipster or who finger-banged a minor last weekend at Coney Island? Of course not. The point is, we need to let bygones be bygones.
We have soiled the waters of the lagoon of peace.
Now, I never finished Lolita. I was really enjoying it but then I remembered that I have the attention span of a bored llama except when reading Stephen King. So I stopped reading it. I regret this and I really will go back and finish reading it at some point. But until I do, let me be the completely uninformed arbiter here.
Hipsters are terrible.
Lolita is delightful.
Tastykakes are disgusting.
Mental health conferences are interesting.
Furrie-themed erotica is disturbing, yet arousing.
My penis is semi-erect.
Keep up the good work.
Monday, June 21, 2010
Sorry?
Sure, it's my fault. Apologies, Snacks, I had no idea your (ex)girlfriend was a literary prude. Lolita is a great novel. Baby fucking is wrong. Have I covered the bases?
One of the most beautiful short stories I've ever read was about a ten year old boy fucking a mechanical doll during the turn of the century; I guess we're both seeking to amend Megan's Law. Also, Lolita IS hot. Don't try and shame the rest of us into denying it. I'm going to go ahead and pass over questions such as "Why do you own Full House DVDs?" and "What kind of pet name is 'Sweet Girl'?" There are meatier posts to address:
Hipsters suck. The culture is built on being shallow, pretentious, and (unconsciously) inexperienced. These are not virtues. The defense of suggesting that they are unique and in any way directly affecting us is embarrassing as well. Hipsters are the next evolution of teens wearing backwards baseball caps...teens wearing flannel...teens picking flowers. Leave it to the lifeguard in his mid twenties to tell people to get a life. Yes, I'm narcissistic, but at least I played sports in school.
Do they deserve our ire? Nah.
Do they deserve any more attention? Please, no.
Good luck with the lady problem, though. I suggest you return in a grovelling position, armed with the Twilight series. Whatever you do, steer clear of analogies.
Now, if you'll excuse me, I have to get back to watching porn.
One of the most beautiful short stories I've ever read was about a ten year old boy fucking a mechanical doll during the turn of the century; I guess we're both seeking to amend Megan's Law. Also, Lolita IS hot. Don't try and shame the rest of us into denying it. I'm going to go ahead and pass over questions such as "Why do you own Full House DVDs?" and "What kind of pet name is 'Sweet Girl'?" There are meatier posts to address:
Hipsters suck. The culture is built on being shallow, pretentious, and (unconsciously) inexperienced. These are not virtues. The defense of suggesting that they are unique and in any way directly affecting us is embarrassing as well. Hipsters are the next evolution of teens wearing backwards baseball caps...teens wearing flannel...teens picking flowers. Leave it to the lifeguard in his mid twenties to tell people to get a life. Yes, I'm narcissistic, but at least I played sports in school.
Do they deserve our ire? Nah.
Do they deserve any more attention? Please, no.
Good luck with the lady problem, though. I suggest you return in a grovelling position, armed with the Twilight series. Whatever you do, steer clear of analogies.
Now, if you'll excuse me, I have to get back to watching porn.
I never said it was "hot"
About three weeks ago, at my recommendation, my girlfriend started reading Lolita. She had heard bits and pieces about the acclaimed work, and I gave very little preface about the subject matter. Instead, I addressed what struck me most about the book. "It's beautiful," I said.
"Oh" her eyes shrugged, a drop of skepticism, barely detectable, oozing from her lip. I stood by the comment. It's true, dammit.
About a week in, she had a different look on her face. "This book is sick."
"Yes, true," I conceded apathetically, hoping she would come to ignore the plot and focus, like I did, on Nabokov's masterful word-play and the ingenious depths of character he created. From my disinterest in the "wrongs" to which Lolita was subjected, an air of suspicion grew about our apartment. A oh how it thickened.
Another week passed: most of my Full House DVDs are now missing, play-names like "Baby" and "Sweet Girl" are causing extended self-defensive slap-fit bouts, and trips to her sister's house to visit her three nephews and nieces have become nothing but cold stares and ushering of children from my presence.
Point of fact: my girlfriend, despite my attempts at contradicting her, thinks this blog is mine, that it's not shared, evenly, between myself and:
Enter Whofleck, with his Thursday evening post.
If someone has a spare room, some sun-lotion, anything! it'd be much appreciated. I'm so hot, to tired. I haven't not peed myself in days! I'm on 49th and 10th ave, northeast corner. Bring fire.
"Oh" her eyes shrugged, a drop of skepticism, barely detectable, oozing from her lip. I stood by the comment. It's true, dammit.
About a week in, she had a different look on her face. "This book is sick."
"Yes, true," I conceded apathetically, hoping she would come to ignore the plot and focus, like I did, on Nabokov's masterful word-play and the ingenious depths of character he created. From my disinterest in the "wrongs" to which Lolita was subjected, an air of suspicion grew about our apartment. A oh how it thickened.
Another week passed: most of my Full House DVDs are now missing, play-names like "Baby" and "Sweet Girl" are causing extended self-defensive slap-fit bouts, and trips to her sister's house to visit her three nephews and nieces have become nothing but cold stares and ushering of children from my presence.
Point of fact: my girlfriend, despite my attempts at contradicting her, thinks this blog is mine, that it's not shared, evenly, between myself and:
Enter Whofleck, with his Thursday evening post.
If someone has a spare room, some sun-lotion, anything! it'd be much appreciated. I'm so hot, to tired. I haven't not peed myself in days! I'm on 49th and 10th ave, northeast corner. Bring fire.
Sunday, June 20, 2010
Nay, embrace Them, for They are YOU!
I want to apologize to everyone for my insensitive post yesterday. It was wrong of me to poke fun at an undefined group of people that have such broad commonalities they might as well be called "upper-middle class young adults".It makes me wonder: why is it that "hipsters" have become the scapegoats of our generation's self-loathing? Bring them up once in a while and notice the squinching faces, the gagging, as though we were talking about an infestation in our living rooms. Notice how absolutely judgmental everyone gets about a group of people whose only real common denominator is their flamboyant attempts at individuality.
What makes them hipsters even? Quirky clothes? That's surely what triggers in too many of us the hipstergag-reflex (we assume indie rock and dance-pop go along with the package, but that's hardly superficial enough to cause the reactions I speak of). So is that really what bothers us so much, the fact that they feel the need to assert their individuality? Is it we feel they're thrusting it down our throats, that somehow our individuality is being sucked away by their very presence?
I think that's certainly part of it. No one likes to be made to feel anonymous, like part of a crowd, and I'm guessing "hipsters" make the insecure of us bitter and, well, insecure.
But there's one more thing: many people feel "hipsters" carry an aura of pretension, that by their shabby-chic attire, opinions, and lack of practical, "real-world" skills they're somehow better than the rest of us. Unfortunately, this too makes little sense. Most people judge hipsters as a group, not as individuals and their corresponding individual opinions. We don't hate that guy Dave; we hate his hipster ass, his cheap sunglasses and his annoying, perfectly sculpted goatee. He's just another Hipster.
I think we need to stop being afraid of defending the common hipster. The more we disdain them, the more we sully our own integrity. The only thing our revulsion of hipsters shows is that we ourselves are narcissistic enough that we feel entitled to despise an entire group of people because they make us feel insecure about our own individuality.
Saturday, June 19, 2010
Whiteboard Battle Rap
My mother had written some turtle puns on our family whiteboard to use in her preschool (the kids were making turtles/cards for their parents).
My sister mocked the puns with her own.
The following is a copy of the water-based tête-à -tête.
Mom: I love you slooooow much!
Sister: I think that is slooooow gay!
Mom: I think you are turtley annoying!
Sister: I think you are a toadall dweeb!
Mom: Shell we stop this since you seem to have frogotten what animal we were working on?
Sister: You're afraid to be creative, I get it.
Mom: Buttface...
Sister: (editing the previous entry) HOLE.
My sister mocked the puns with her own.
The following is a copy of the water-based tête-à -tête.
Mom: I love you slooooow much!
Sister: I think that is slooooow gay!
Mom: I think you are turtley annoying!
Sister: I think you are a toadall dweeb!
Mom: Shell we stop this since you seem to have frogotten what animal we were working on?
Sister: You're afraid to be creative, I get it.
Mom: Buttface...
Sister: (editing the previous entry) HOLE.
Friday, June 18, 2010
!
I learned this song on guitar when I was sixteen.
I spent the whole night drinking (still am) and my neck is sunburned.
I have diarrhea from the most delicious BBQ chicken ever.
Gotta make a post, gotta make a post, gotta save the blog.
Itsyo move, Pussy-Face
Am I too old, at a point where I just can't see the 21st century Passenger 57's being made all around me? Are they so targeted at the 10 year old I once was that my brain cannot even register them? Or is it that everyone has finally realized, after an incredible wealth of evidence, that Wesley Snipes is actually from the future, and thus is forbidden by SAG to star in any new Hollywood movies? (Interesting sidenote: a similar circumstance drove James Carville from his stage-acting career and into the news room, though his banishment had to do with a brief stint in a Tolkien reality, not a journey from the future). Regardless, I curse the day I let my cynicism ruin every vapid action movie since Face-Off.
If anyone wants to join me for a marathon film festival featuring the following films, please let me know. I'll be the one in my room.
Passenger 57
The Rock
Predator 2
Die Hard: With A Vengeance
The Negotiator
Aladdin
Bad Boys
Thursday, June 17, 2010
Spot The Slut?
My younger sister and I just spent the night life-guarding an annual 6th grade graduation party at the pool. Suicidal thoughts were had. In order to make the experience of a few hours babysitting twelve year old street rats bearable we invented a little game...
"Spot The Slut?" is simple. You pick out the trashiest preteen skank and observe her all night while trying to fight off hysterical laughter. Then just pose the question to the others playing the game; if they guess correctly, everyone gets to laugh! The tall one with the rainbow peace symbol on her right breast was a strong candidate for me, but the field of potentials became foggy and overrun when they gathered by the DJ's party van for a hula-hoop contest. In the end there could be only one:
Braces [x]
Baby fat [x]
Pink/zebra striped bikini (no tits) [x]
Self-esteem [ ]
A future [ ]
DING DING DING! We have a winner! Oh man, I think she's talked her friends into dancing on the benches...yup! Watch 'em go, it's like a race to see who gets high school pregnant first! Tell DJ-I'm-A-Total-Creep to play a more fucked-to-death top 40's dance hit, I don't want this to end.
...Scratch that. I totally do.
"Spot The Slut?" is simple. You pick out the trashiest preteen skank and observe her all night while trying to fight off hysterical laughter. Then just pose the question to the others playing the game; if they guess correctly, everyone gets to laugh! The tall one with the rainbow peace symbol on her right breast was a strong candidate for me, but the field of potentials became foggy and overrun when they gathered by the DJ's party van for a hula-hoop contest. In the end there could be only one:
Braces [x]
Baby fat [x]
Pink/zebra striped bikini (no tits) [x]
Self-esteem [ ]
A future [ ]
DING DING DING! We have a winner! Oh man, I think she's talked her friends into dancing on the benches...yup! Watch 'em go, it's like a race to see who gets high school pregnant first! Tell DJ-I'm-A-Total-Creep to play a more fucked-to-death top 40's dance hit, I don't want this to end.
...Scratch that. I totally do.
Guess what?
I ran into the guy who smokes weed in stairwell B on the eightfloor at around 9:30 each morning. He has a recording studio on the 8th floor. He uses a small coffee cup for ash but when I look closely at the stairs when he's not in the stairwell, I often see ash. When I ran into him outside of the stairwell, I shook his hand in a high five kind of way. We chitchatted for a bit about our days and nights. I mentioned a movie I saw recently and he didn't know who Natalie Portman was and I blamed all the time he spends in his cavernous studio and cavernous stairwell. Natalie Portman is a very excellent actress with a huge range and rather beautiful by most standards. She has approachable beauty, which I contended, makes her more beautiful than woman of unapproachable beauty. I emphasized the word approachable. I went on to talk about specifics of her approachability, like how I imagined her face after a long day's work to taste like a delicious salty ham, but I sensed his boredom and quickly excused myself from the conversation.
Wednesday, June 16, 2010
Always.
I have standards when it comes to karaoke. Specifically, I will always sing "Always" by Erasure whenever I find it hiding in a song list...always. There are very good reasons for this:
1. It's great.
2. Harmony.
3. Killing the mood for laughs.
And how could I sing anything else in front of strange, drunk crowds? The song itself instructs me to "wear no disguise." I'm nothing if not blindly obedient to the literal translation of lyrics. This is more difficult than you can imagine. It is also no coincidence that, almost simultaneously, Adult Swim released a flash game that was the embodiment and vehicle for the spirit of the tune when I started crooning ancient suburban housewives. Time-Wasting-Link. (prepare for centaur-like insanity)
Needless to say, it takes a few measures before any inebriated audience will accept my message of OH LOVE and HARMONY, HARMONY, but I'm nothing if not dedicated. Every horse must break, just as every centaur must sleep.
This weekend I intend to drag CTuxedo out for a taste of my fanatical devotion to this pop relic. I also intend to force him into a duet and seduce him; babysteps, though, right? No matter what, the fool will have to suffer my singing if he wants to be with me.
And make believe with me.
Etc.
To all those naysayers that expect variety with their infrequent doses of karaoke, what can I say? I'm nothing if not repetitive.
1. It's great.
2. Harmony.
3. Killing the mood for laughs.
And how could I sing anything else in front of strange, drunk crowds? The song itself instructs me to "wear no disguise." I'm nothing if not blindly obedient to the literal translation of lyrics. This is more difficult than you can imagine. It is also no coincidence that, almost simultaneously, Adult Swim released a flash game that was the embodiment and vehicle for the spirit of the tune when I started crooning ancient suburban housewives. Time-Wasting-Link. (prepare for centaur-like insanity)
Needless to say, it takes a few measures before any inebriated audience will accept my message of OH LOVE and HARMONY, HARMONY, but I'm nothing if not dedicated. Every horse must break, just as every centaur must sleep.
This weekend I intend to drag CTuxedo out for a taste of my fanatical devotion to this pop relic. I also intend to force him into a duet and seduce him; babysteps, though, right? No matter what, the fool will have to suffer my singing if he wants to be with me.
And make believe with me.
Etc.
To all those naysayers that expect variety with their infrequent doses of karaoke, what can I say? I'm nothing if not repetitive.
Tuesday, June 15, 2010
Streets Of F(ire)
This album is pumping me up.
I'm so pumped up.
Up in this album? Nothing but pumps;
Pumping it into me.
Remember Streets Of Fire?
Remember Willem Dafoe as Raven?
Ravens are all like ka-CAAAW! Oh shit!
It's fun to pretend (so fucking pumped) when doomsday-USA is on the mind.
Let the bombs drop, let the gas drift, let the death fly.
I want to party.
I'm so pumped up.
Up in this album? Nothing but pumps;
Pumping it into me.
Remember Streets Of Fire?
Remember Willem Dafoe as Raven?
Ravens are all like ka-CAAAW! Oh shit!
It's fun to pretend (so fucking pumped) when doomsday-USA is on the mind.
Let the bombs drop, let the gas drift, let the death fly.
I want to party.
What would be your world cup goal celebration?
You don't see this in many sports. Well, American football, kind of, but even there it's been somewhat criminalized, I'm guessing due to the fact that a) NFL players are basically conditioned to cause pain and b) they're easily provoked.That leaves the other football.
Just for some context: Ronaldo has the record for career most world cup goals, with 15. For his entire career, in the world cup, 15 goals. It's something to celebrate, but the world stage obviously requires a little more creativity for the goal scorer's victory dance.
To be honest, I've been a little disappointed so far. So I've compiled the ten most helpful tips for all those out there reading this and competing in the World Cup. I know that narrows it down, but hell, I've already started this thing and damned if I'm gonna start over now.
1) Never run towards the crowd, to the corner flags, or back to your side of the pitch. Stay right in the 6 yard box, or, if you scored from the outside, run to it.
2) Use your jockey. Italians have this down to an art. You think they're that endowed? Please. They hide ribbons, garlands, daisy-chains -- anything to festoon the opposing goalie with crotchal adornments. It's soul crushing.
3) Be acrobatic.
4) No synchronizing, choreography, or circle jerks. I cannot stress this enough people. You scored. This is a game of individual efforts. Make it clear who's the real hero here. Flail your limbs if necessary.5) Also, no hugging. Sharing emotions is contrary to everything. You'll look weak, and the Germans are playing very well. Can you afford to look weak in front of the Germans?
6) Have sex with a supermodel. Everyone else will do it later on that night, but you could be the first. She looks great under those stadium lights.
7) Grab a microphone and publicly thank yourself for being at the right place at the right time, having exceptional technical abilities, and for having grown up in the slums.
8) Get what this guy's got
(Note: Google Imaging Sean Michaels yields very different results from Shawn Michaels. Not to be discovered during work hours.)
9) Squeal
10) uh... music?
Monday, June 14, 2010
The GrundlyGrip O' Summer
My balls are sweatyand my balls do not get sweaty!
BALLS they do not sweat they do not get so sweaty
I swear my balls are sweaty
But don't forget that part
About my balls, they're sweaty
They do not get too sweaty.
Like I said,
I cannot forget what is happn'n
I must find
A way to remedy my problem
There's no way, but to
find a friend that can
IGNORE my claim
that my balls do not get sweaty
That they do not get sweaty...
The Return Of Silas Dent's
No. Nope.
Yes:
The greatest t-shirt of all time. It is framed because from the moment I discovered it in late 2004 until my sisters and mother stole it a couple years back (claiming it was "disgusting" and that I "shouldn't wear the same t-shirt everyday") it rarely left my flesh. Sure, that meant frequent washing to stave off Stinky Kid Syndrome, and yes, that made the fabric thin enough over time to easily reveal nipples...but I was young! That's what young men of my derelict nature do! Alas, as I mentioned, it was taken from me and framed so that I could ne'er feel its soft and ancient insides against my outsides again.
FAST FORWARD TO NOW!
I was ordered today to clean out my closet. -R. Kelly/Eminem Joke- It isn't really my closet; it's just in my room and full of everyone's shit except mine. As I was trudging through old guitar cases, wedding gowns, baby clothes, retro sweaters, etc., I made a discovery.
'Second of the day!' I thought, having earlier found a petrified pack of Camel Lights circa 2005. And in the left sole of a pair of skater shoes I haven't touched since I probably put those guys in there! That was a particularly lucky find, considering I had just finished my last and would have had to drive and pay twice as much as I did back then for a less experienced sack of drags. But this...
Don't be coy. I'm sure you've guessed by now. It was another Silas Dent's shirt. A twin, untouched by time, so unlike his posthumously posted brother. The same old man, the same address and date, the same shitty restaurant blessed by the advertising gods with a t-shirt that travels through time and changes my life over, and over, and over again.
I guess there's only one question left to answer:
Have I/Will I ever use a Silas Dent's shirt to clean up after I masturbate?
Yes:
The greatest t-shirt of all time. It is framed because from the moment I discovered it in late 2004 until my sisters and mother stole it a couple years back (claiming it was "disgusting" and that I "shouldn't wear the same t-shirt everyday") it rarely left my flesh. Sure, that meant frequent washing to stave off Stinky Kid Syndrome, and yes, that made the fabric thin enough over time to easily reveal nipples...but I was young! That's what young men of my derelict nature do! Alas, as I mentioned, it was taken from me and framed so that I could ne'er feel its soft and ancient insides against my outsides again.
FAST FORWARD TO NOW!
I was ordered today to clean out my closet. -R. Kelly/Eminem Joke- It isn't really my closet; it's just in my room and full of everyone's shit except mine. As I was trudging through old guitar cases, wedding gowns, baby clothes, retro sweaters, etc., I made a discovery.
'Second of the day!' I thought, having earlier found a petrified pack of Camel Lights circa 2005. And in the left sole of a pair of skater shoes I haven't touched since I probably put those guys in there! That was a particularly lucky find, considering I had just finished my last and would have had to drive and pay twice as much as I did back then for a less experienced sack of drags. But this...
Don't be coy. I'm sure you've guessed by now. It was another Silas Dent's shirt. A twin, untouched by time, so unlike his posthumously posted brother. The same old man, the same address and date, the same shitty restaurant blessed by the advertising gods with a t-shirt that travels through time and changes my life over, and over, and over again.
I guess there's only one question left to answer:
Have I/Will I ever use a Silas Dent's shirt to clean up after I masturbate?
Sunday, June 13, 2010
I know I'm flip-flopping, but mayo is not something that should be ingested in large quantities.
It was a mistake, I admit it. So let's all just get over it. Really, I feel much better. You'd surprised at how easy it is to swallow your pride after you've tried to swallow about six tablespoons of mayo in one go.Don't judge me. Mayo is not what it used to be. It's powerful stuff. It's versatile yet simple, satisfying yet addictive, nauseating yet delicious. And like most things born of contradiction, it's often misunderstood.
Seasoned & Coagulated Unfertilized Chicken Embryos (SCUCE), known colloquially as Mayo (short for Mayonnaise), was originally concocted by ancient medicine-men as a sexual stimulant to be lathered on the testicles during new moons. In fact, many couples are prescribed it to this day, though the religious nature of its application has since become dated. Around 1904, female application of the sauce become a provincial sensation in Western Russia, which incensed the bourgeoisie and sparked a series of events ending with their defeat at the hands of the Japanese. Governments across the world, taking fair heed of Russian folly, embarked on a massive campaign to remove mayo from the common sexual organ and place it on bread and in salads.
Since then, mayo has gone dormant as a fairly popular condiment, but that seems about to change. Take recent events: just this week in the gulf, mayo has both been instrumental in saving precious marine life in the Gulf, as well as caused a massive HAZMAT emergency. That's right, it can cure and cause environmental disasters. Simply put, mayo is breaking out of our refrigerators and forging a new life for itself.
So the next time you want to impress someone with your eating skills, skip over the mayo. Try garlic, bacon, 0r soy sauce. There's no telling what overdosing on the stuff will do in this day in age, but I'll tell you one thing: it'll certainly save everyone a lot of napkins.
Saturday, June 12, 2010
Listening To The World Cup On A Radio:
MHA Finale
What a fantastic, epic, transplendent conclusion to this year's Mental Health America Conference. Attendance was at its highest as everyone agreed it's far too hot out to leave the Hyatt. The super highpoint occurred during breakfast, the convention was hit with a face-full of pedigree when in walked none other than preeminent mental health advocate and amateur muppet Patrick Joseph Kennedy (of the Kennedy family), who took the stage just when everyone was thinking about sneaking out to address their impending coffee-induced doo-doo movement. The flustered P-Jo also seemed rather inconvenienced by his own arrival, which was 6 hours early.
During his 45 minute tirade, P. Jiggles roused the 250 MHA constituents to a solid clap-fest usually reserved for minor league ground outs. At certain times his speech/rant had hints of Bluto, which was both adorable and sad. When I approached Congressman's press secretary to get the transcript of his speech for this report, Ol' Patty interrupted by inviting me "out sometime," his eye twitching all the way out the door.
Lunch was a salmon fillet and salad and media awards ceremony, which your humble journalist exploited grub-wise and stealthily exited just as some Johnny Thinks-A-Lot took the podium.
After that, it was all pretty much free pens and politically correct small talk.
G'night!
During his 45 minute tirade, P. Jiggles roused the 250 MHA constituents to a solid clap-fest usually reserved for minor league ground outs. At certain times his speech/rant had hints of Bluto, which was both adorable and sad. When I approached Congressman's press secretary to get the transcript of his speech for this report, Ol' Patty interrupted by inviting me "out sometime," his eye twitching all the way out the door.
Lunch was a salmon fillet and salad and media awards ceremony, which your humble journalist exploited grub-wise and stealthily exited just as some Johnny Thinks-A-Lot took the podium.
After that, it was all pretty much free pens and politically correct small talk.
G'night!
"And...Effleurage!"
This is my medicine; a friend for years. Who says you need physical contact to experience a back massage? I just lean back, relax, and let my mind imagine wave after wave of sausage fingers caressing my (imagined) thick, pale, milkshake-flesh.
"A little bit...shaking like a guitar!"
Shake my guitar, daddy.
"The vibration causing, eh...technical approach."
Oh, baby. Tell it to me in broken English!
"And CUPPING. We do. Like this. By NOISES."
I love it when I don't understand you over the fat-slapping of cupped whale blubber!
There's nothing wrong with touching yourself while this video plays.
...and EFFLEURAGE!
Friday, June 11, 2010
MHA Day 2
What an exceptional showing today. The day was kicked off with yogurt, melon, and ice water
Just a quick rundown before the pant suit competition begins:
An outstandingly exciting visit from the guy in a duck suit (artist's representation to your right) really capped the day. No one thought he would show here again after an over-publicized debacle of 2008 The most surprising visit was from
Willie the ReRe ran amok at the keynote luncheon screaming "Where'd you find these laws? Where'd you find these laws at?" He was finally subdued when he noticed two golden retrievers from paws4vets making whimpering noises.
A terrifying poison cheesecake incident caused serious restigmatization of schizophrenia in at least three people, who were promptly ostracized from the conference.
A sweet old lady was arrested for taking all the pens from the screening booth.
Your reporter at large would also like to note he was made an honorary Brotha and Asian SIMULTANEOUSLY. All in all a good day.
Questioning his vocation,
Poop Snacks
Jennifer's Thumbs 2: IN SPACE
I have yet to see Jennifer's Body, but after my dream last night I have resolved to do just that later on this evening. At its core, the dream was what I understood of the plot of the film (having not yet seen it) except set on a military star ship during an intergalactic war.
"So it was awesome, right?"
Right.*
I was a scientist for the earth's military planetary defense council, set out on a research mission with a few other scientists and soldiers to research the bug-like race who we were at war with. Megan Fox is one of the crew, but I only get a glimpse of her before shit gets real. These formics are typically half the size of a man and have mysterious and unexplored societies and attack strategies. Inevitably, one of the crew is attacked as we are observing a derelict bug-ship and we are forced to raise the question of "infection." This is where I first really encounter Megan Fox, but something is off. In a weird Body-Snatcher deja vu, having never actually spoken to her character, I can tell something is different with Megan Fox. Nonetheless, we start to share a distant romance,
all the while as I suffer a growing suspicion for the girl I like.
Cutting to the chase:
1. She develops a sudden obsession with socks/stockings.
2. More people turn up dead/different and Megan Fox is nonplussed, but unconcerned
("You're overreacting.").
3. A short stop at a chilly desert planet to consult with my older brother, Donald Sutherland, also a bug doctor. He sees nothing wrong with my collected evidence on Megan Fox and the others.
4. Terrifying peekaboo moment where I lift up some survey photo-screens and see a few pair of stockings, only to notice Megan, who has been looming there the whole time. She casually turns it into a flirty surprise, but I have since shit my pants.
5. More unrealized romance.
6. Etc.
I will try to turn this into a full-fledged sci-fi horror short, but there are a lot of changes to be made, especially in the casting. Maybe I should leave out the socks as well. Maybe I should just watch the movie and then totally lose interest in the idea.
*She looks angry at my post! Also, expect an edit later with a short review of the flick.
Edit: It was entertaining. I had a few laughs and a boner. I don't know why DP hated it so much.
Thursday, June 10, 2010
Surely, You Jest!
-Incoming Message-
AlWaYz_JoKiN33: Heeeeey!
Whofleck: Hello?
AlWaYz_JoKiN33: Long time no see, stranger ;)
Whofleck: Yea...who is this again?
AlWaYz_JoKiN33: Heeheehee! Don't kid a kidder. You remember me!
Whofleck: ...
AlWaYz_JoKiN33: Oh, come on. Last year, around this time, you and me were inseparable for like a month!
Whofleck: Oh god. It's you. Hey.
AlWaYz_JoKiN33: YAAAY! Teehee! Don't be that way!
Whofleck: Look, I thought I had you blocked. I apologize, but I really don't want to talk to you. It's why I stopped taking your calls. And texts. And pornographic emails.
AlWaYz_JoKiN33: Stop it, I know you liked those! ;P You were just putting me on a looong leash-
Whofleck: No, I just wanted you to quit pretendi-
AlWaYz_JoKiN33: (_(_)XXXXXD
Whofleck: Jesus.
AlWaYz_JoKiN33: That's you, big man. :*
Whofleck: This is exactly why I haven't bothered spending time with you. It's too much.
AlWaYz_JoKiN33: Oooooh! I knew you hadn't forgotten what I can do.
Whofleck: Not even if I tried; and believe me, I have. But seriously, I'm trying to move on. I got what I needed from you at the time, and now it's over.
AlWaYz_JoKiN33: You don't know what you're saying. Come on, let's do something tonight. Pick me up in an hour and we'll see where things go. An AA Meeting, a tennis match, anywhere you want! I've got some dirty tricks I'm sure you can't remember. :D I've got pot!
Whofleck: No thanks, I just showered. And I've got a good idea about where things with you will go; probably where they always go; either Boston, or down the same toilet of despair I was drowning in last year. Besides, I have other...distractions...to attend to. Look it was fun, but I really don't need to go through this a second time with you.
AlWaYz_JoKiN33: ...
Whofleck: I'm going to block you now. Please don't sneak around and try messaging me anymore, it's gotten out of hand. And if I see you in the science-fiction section of the library again, I'm going to call someone and have you removed. You don't belong there and I know you're stalking me. There are plenty of other guys who-
AlWaYz_JoKiN33: None of them are dedicated to me like you were! Sure, they treat me like an open book from the start, digging their fingers into my deepest crevasse, but in a week or two they just give up!
Whofleck: That's not my problem. I treated you with respect and we had fun. I'm logging off now-
AlWaYz_JoKiN33: NO! WAIT! I've got something for you...
Whofleck: Pease, just go-
-Incoming Picture-
-Whofleck Signed Off-
AlWaYz_JoKiN33: Heeeeey!
Whofleck: Hello?
AlWaYz_JoKiN33: Long time no see, stranger ;)
Whofleck: Yea...who is this again?
AlWaYz_JoKiN33: Heeheehee! Don't kid a kidder. You remember me!
Whofleck: ...
AlWaYz_JoKiN33: Oh, come on. Last year, around this time, you and me were inseparable for like a month!
Whofleck: Oh god. It's you. Hey.
AlWaYz_JoKiN33: YAAAY! Teehee! Don't be that way!
Whofleck: Look, I thought I had you blocked. I apologize, but I really don't want to talk to you. It's why I stopped taking your calls. And texts. And pornographic emails.
AlWaYz_JoKiN33: Stop it, I know you liked those! ;P You were just putting me on a looong leash-
Whofleck: No, I just wanted you to quit pretendi-
AlWaYz_JoKiN33: (_(_)XXXXXD
Whofleck: Jesus.
AlWaYz_JoKiN33: That's you, big man. :*
Whofleck: This is exactly why I haven't bothered spending time with you. It's too much.
AlWaYz_JoKiN33: Oooooh! I knew you hadn't forgotten what I can do.
Whofleck: Not even if I tried; and believe me, I have. But seriously, I'm trying to move on. I got what I needed from you at the time, and now it's over.
AlWaYz_JoKiN33: You don't know what you're saying. Come on, let's do something tonight. Pick me up in an hour and we'll see where things go. An AA Meeting, a tennis match, anywhere you want! I've got some dirty tricks I'm sure you can't remember. :D I've got pot!
Whofleck: No thanks, I just showered. And I've got a good idea about where things with you will go; probably where they always go; either Boston, or down the same toilet of despair I was drowning in last year. Besides, I have other...distractions...to attend to. Look it was fun, but I really don't need to go through this a second time with you.
AlWaYz_JoKiN33: ...
Whofleck: I'm going to block you now. Please don't sneak around and try messaging me anymore, it's gotten out of hand. And if I see you in the science-fiction section of the library again, I'm going to call someone and have you removed. You don't belong there and I know you're stalking me. There are plenty of other guys who-
AlWaYz_JoKiN33: None of them are dedicated to me like you were! Sure, they treat me like an open book from the start, digging their fingers into my deepest crevasse, but in a week or two they just give up!
Whofleck: That's not my problem. I treated you with respect and we had fun. I'm logging off now-
AlWaYz_JoKiN33: NO! WAIT! I've got something for you...
Whofleck: Pease, just go-
-Incoming Picture-
-Whofleck Signed Off-
MHA Conference, Day 1
Reporting to you live on site at the Mental Health America Conference at the glorious Hyatt Regency on Capital Hill, Washington D.C... This. Is. Poop Snacks.
It's a fine affair here at the 2010 Mental Health America conference, a convention certainly of sizable proportions, possibly even super-sizable proportions. All the big hitters are out and flaunting their interest in things mental health related -- Mindy Appelbaum, Jack Holker, and of course, the incorrigible Willie the ReRe. Although I haven't had a chance to talk with them as of yet, they certainly seem humble and sympathetic to one another's personal histories.
Many rookie MHAers are also showing themselves around in a meek fashion. Mainly Amys and Craigs, this group seems to simply appreciate a change in scenery and talking to people "not from around here". I've noticed them mingling with others of their age group, which I 1) happen to be a part of and 2) am now banished from, having started an anecdote by trying to bite my own ear and hitting my wrist to my shoulder, having taken an amateur cue from Willie the ReRe. Needless to say, I should have stayed in journalism school.
Though the conference has not officially started for me (I got here too late for the opening night gala and the lobster-taco cook-off), I will say that there's an unmistakable atmosphere here. It's exciting to behold such an "in-person" congregation of strangers and I'd like to add that I'm strangely aroused by the fact that this wasn't done on Facebook.
Until tomorrow --
Poop Snacks
It's a fine affair here at the 2010 Mental Health America conference, a convention certainly of sizable proportions, possibly even super-sizable proportions. All the big hitters are out and flaunting their interest in things mental health related -- Mindy Appelbaum, Jack Holker, and of course, the incorrigible Willie the ReRe. Although I haven't had a chance to talk with them as of yet, they certainly seem humble and sympathetic to one another's personal histories.
Many rookie MHAers are also showing themselves around in a meek fashion. Mainly Amys and Craigs, this group seems to simply appreciate a change in scenery and talking to people "not from around here". I've noticed them mingling with others of their age group, which I 1) happen to be a part of and 2) am now banished from, having started an anecdote by trying to bite my own ear and hitting my wrist to my shoulder, having taken an amateur cue from Willie the ReRe. Needless to say, I should have stayed in journalism school.
Though the conference has not officially started for me (I got here too late for the opening night gala and the lobster-taco cook-off), I will say that there's an unmistakable atmosphere here. It's exciting to behold such an "in-person" congregation of strangers and I'd like to add that I'm strangely aroused by the fact that this wasn't done on Facebook.
Until tomorrow --
Poop Snacks
Wednesday, June 9, 2010
I See What You Did There
This shit is fantastic.
It's a site where artists can upload instances of others, often blatantly, caught stealing and redistributing another person's work. Theoretically, it is a useful tool that helps the original artists maintain control over their art and gives them an opportunity to launch cease and desist letters, preserving the spirit of ownership. Of course, that can't be the truth. For me this growing compendium of failure is a means of entertainment; probably designed with me in mind. Hot-Topic is, not surprisingly, one of the worst and most frequent offenders. They even caught Nick Simmons, son of Kiss guitarist Gene Simmons, who blatantly traced other comics to supply artwork for his own, shittier comic.
My favorite capture so far was of a budding young artist from the UK. She was doing well in University. Her friends liked her and trusted her. She received a handful of awards for her work. Then someone noticed something odd...something familiar.
Turns out this chick hasn't had an original artistic thought ever. Over fifty examples of her tracing and copying were waiting in the open to be discovered. Her portfolio contained, quite literally, another artist's portfolio. She posted them all over the internet, flaunting her lack of craft and intelligence. And she stole everything from a single source; another female artist. Hilarious. I am laughing. Her reputation has been ripped and torn.
"So," I ask myself, pacing and smoking in the barn, "...why?"
---
I LUV BEING AND ARTIST LOL SOFUN, RITE SOOOO HIP?OHSHIT I DONT' EVEN GOT ANY ARTS, BETTER GO AND INTERNET SUM. DERP DERP DERP! TRACING EES EASIER THEN ARTING MY OWN FUCKS. BRING ON THE AWARDS!
HATERS GONNA HATE!
---
An Open Letter to the Crazy Guy on this Morning's Commute:
Good for you! You really showed those college-boy commuters how to have a fun ride. Forget about what they said about you being a fat slovenly jerk who carries all of his possessions stuffed into target bags. That's only true if you look at things objectively. You my friend have a much better understanding of the world. And a stench that could stop a truck to boot.And yes, I will take your advice and lubricate -- not because we can't let the Chinese be the only ones doing it, but because it feels good on the penis. That may have been what you meant. You seemed to be stuck speaking in metaphors for quite a while. Man, you were sure over my head!
Like when you started singing your "Adam had a party" song, which was just that line repeated over and over again? Wow man, I mean, wow. You totally got to me there. I mean, it's such an interesting topic, What would Adam's party really be like? I guess it would depend on whether he had been banished from Eden yet, which you barely hinted at when you stopped briefly to note that "Eve wouldn't be there". Not sure what you meant by that. Could you send me the latest newsletter/pamphlet that clarifies your position on this? Anway, like, furry creatures and everything? Is that what you meant? That's a great party idea. Bringing two of every creature to bang it out right there on the floor in God's foyer. I know he'd love that!
Can you teach me to sing and dance like that? I think you'd work well in front of a piano. Do you play piano? You'd be really awesome if you had a microphone too. When are you riding the subway next? Let me know if you do cause I'm starting to think you don't have a mailing address and this letter is never going to find you. Talk soon!
Tuesday, June 8, 2010
It's...that damn brain again
I really don't feel that guilty. It sounds hilarious. It really does. But like all sports-related injuries, sex-related injuries, and dental malpractice, it's one of those things that sounds fucking hilarious, but makes you wonder how a self-described "decent person" could be excited once you actually watch it.
Two reasons that justify my (your) initial reaction:
1. Puke is by default fantastic to witness
2. Weightlifting is possibly the least impressive physical test anyone can put themselves through (lift a Buick over your head, pull a Buick down the road with your teeth, something with a Buick.
But this is just awful. I mean really awful. This is like watching a Jeopardy contestant vomit on Trebek and pass out as he scribbles the first three letters of a correct final Jeopardy question. And what's to happen to the 2% of his brain that was actually functioning to begin with? The whole thing makes me reconsider whether my grotesque love of misfortune is the only real part about me.
But seriously, how guilty can man feel for eagerly awaiting the foretold money shot of that video? This I pose to you, reader. Help me get over my self-loathing. I mean, it does sound pretty funny, right? Ok, well what about this.
Two reasons that justify my (your) initial reaction:
1. Puke is by default fantastic to witness
2. Weightlifting is possibly the least impressive physical test anyone can put themselves through (lift a Buick over your head, pull a Buick down the road with your teeth, something with a Buick.
But this is just awful. I mean really awful. This is like watching a Jeopardy contestant vomit on Trebek and pass out as he scribbles the first three letters of a correct final Jeopardy question. And what's to happen to the 2% of his brain that was actually functioning to begin with? The whole thing makes me reconsider whether my grotesque love of misfortune is the only real part about me.
But seriously, how guilty can man feel for eagerly awaiting the foretold money shot of that video? This I pose to you, reader. Help me get over my self-loathing. I mean, it does sound pretty funny, right? Ok, well what about this.
"My Father Taught Me To Kill The Sunflower."
This film has everything I need. It is incomprehensible. It is dynamite.
I was introduced to it when my friend, drunk on wine and dirty from a day of hiking, tried to tell the video below as a story over steak & eggs in a smoking diner at five in the morning.
Needless to say, he succeeded.
Now go back to work.
Monday, June 7, 2010
One of THOSE days
We've all had them, and this is the result: a tupo-laden blog post due to my stubborn refusal to look directly at my monitor as i tupe. Ten hours at the computer on one of most perfectly temperate days of my life, and here I am spending one of the few hours I hafve left in the day back at a computer. Well, my eyes get a break this time. How'm I doing so far?
Boy theselittle markers on two of the keys are helpful in getting my bearings. But why can't I figure out which letters they are. I think F. H the other? Anywho, being blind isn't all that bad. Being blind and alcoholic is much hardert,especially when you're trying to tyupe. That's where the bearings come in. Find your F and your J and get it going. Oh boy, lost it for a minute. Easy..don't spill the beverage. Ok. I think i'm okay
God its hot in here. THey rI don't know how people focus when they're eyes are shit. I guess that's why dreams go the way they do, all willy nilly. WhDoes anyone dream they're blind? Do blind people dream? AreHow far back am I backkspacing right now?> I guess its about time to getthrow a picture in here somewhere. That's a little more difficult, without the eyse i mean. Should have dictated this thing.
Wow that was kucky? I hope its a chihuahua like i think i searched in my google images toolbar.
We'lop, i hope you've enjoyed this as much as I have. I'm pretty much as;ee[ at this point, though my digits would contend otherwise. Probably form all the typing they've beenm doin recently. Say goodnight everyone. GOOD NIGHTE VERYONE /safingers !
Boy theselittle markers on two of the keys are helpful in getting my bearings. But why can't I figure out which letters they are. I think F. H the other? Anywho, being blind isn't all that bad. Being blind and alcoholic is much hardert,especially when you're trying to tyupe. That's where the bearings come in. Find your F and your J and get it going. Oh boy, lost it for a minute. Easy..don't spill the beverage. Ok. I think i'm okay
God its hot in here. THey rI don't know how people focus when they're eyes are shit. I guess that's why dreams go the way they do, all willy nilly. WhDoes anyone dream they're blind? Do blind people dream? AreHow far back am I backkspacing right now?> I guess its about time to getthrow a picture in here somewhere. That's a little more difficult, without the eyse i mean. Should have dictated this thing.
Wow that was kucky? I hope its a chihuahua like i think i searched in my google images toolbar.We'lop, i hope you've enjoyed this as much as I have. I'm pretty much as;ee[ at this point, though my digits would contend otherwise. Probably form all the typing they've beenm doin recently. Say goodnight everyone. GOOD NIGHTE VERYONE /safingers !
Basic Math
Humor:
volume(fun + 1) ... where fun = repetition^repetition
Romance:
delusions(love potential)/willingness to be manipulated > crippling loneliness
Responsibility:
[blog + (casual indifference - me)]/E:everything = crumbling empire(shame)
volume(fun + 1) ... where fun = repetition^repetition
Romance:
delusions(love potential)/willingness to be manipulated > crippling loneliness
Responsibility:
[blog + (casual indifference - me)]/E:everything = crumbling empire(shame)
Sunday, June 6, 2010
Counter-Point: Fuck Centaurs
I'd fuck normal Goro over Centaur-A-Rod any day, even if his batting average is only .245. His OBP is fucking staggering.
Saturday, June 5, 2010
Point: A-Rod should have as many centaur themed self-portraits as he wants
Really, just imagine you're a woman. Just four hours ago you were drinking vodka-cranberries in your studio apartment with four co-workers you really doesn't know or like all that much. You applied a thong and lipstick for the 10,000th time, and now, after barely ten minutes of chit chat with the guy, you're walking into the $8 million upper west side luxury apartment owned by none other than the New York Yankee's Dominican Prince, Alex Rodriguez.
You slip off your knee-high laced heels because he says he's got a "Japanese thing going", and feel beneath your feel the comfort of the finest rug the D.R. has ever exported. A is off in some hidden room, prepping. The walls are covered with framed action shots of some of Alex's greatest swings, diving plays, and photo-ops with urban youth. Three hanging candelabras burn, and you breathe the fine aroma of honeydew, Gold Bond, and waxed pubis.
Then, you hear a voice. From out of no where, a satyr dressed in a tuxedo emerges with a glass of champagne on a tray. His face resembles A's, except it shifts when you look closely. You don't look. You take the champagne and walk turn away in disgust. But when you glance back, you see him, A. The Rod.
"Come on Dottie."
"Joanie"
"Danny."
He beckons you, and you say nothing. What is left to say. You've been called by the king of kings to his love chamber. You walk down a long dark hallway lit only sporadically with candles high above your head. The hallway feels endless, and you're kind of wondering where the bathroom is. You feel gassy, and you know its unhealthy to hold it. Oh well.
At the end of the hallway is a room, glowing like fire. As you near, you feel the radiance of the divine, the gentle stabbing of ecstasy. A seems to grow as the light get's brighter, heavier, and he's full now, grown into something new, something pure and eternal. You're there. He turns and behind him, above his fifteen foot diameter bed, is a portrait of Alex Rodriguez in his natural, god-given form.
Without that coup de grace, where would A-Rod be, eh?
You slip off your knee-high laced heels because he says he's got a "Japanese thing going", and feel beneath your feel the comfort of the finest rug the D.R. has ever exported. A is off in some hidden room, prepping. The walls are covered with framed action shots of some of Alex's greatest swings, diving plays, and photo-ops with urban youth. Three hanging candelabras burn, and you breathe the fine aroma of honeydew, Gold Bond, and waxed pubis.
Then, you hear a voice. From out of no where, a satyr dressed in a tuxedo emerges with a glass of champagne on a tray. His face resembles A's, except it shifts when you look closely. You don't look. You take the champagne and walk turn away in disgust. But when you glance back, you see him, A. The Rod.
"Come on Dottie."
"Joanie"
"Danny."
He beckons you, and you say nothing. What is left to say. You've been called by the king of kings to his love chamber. You walk down a long dark hallway lit only sporadically with candles high above your head. The hallway feels endless, and you're kind of wondering where the bathroom is. You feel gassy, and you know its unhealthy to hold it. Oh well.
At the end of the hallway is a room, glowing like fire. As you near, you feel the radiance of the divine, the gentle stabbing of ecstasy. A seems to grow as the light get's brighter, heavier, and he's full now, grown into something new, something pure and eternal. You're there. He turns and behind him, above his fifteen foot diameter bed, is a portrait of Alex Rodriguez in his natural, god-given form.
Without that coup de grace, where would A-Rod be, eh?
Friday, June 4, 2010
The Plasma Of Me, Shed For Me
Today I gave blood.
I know what you're thinking, "Does that mean you got that sticker and we have to be nice to you!"
No, you fucking jerks. The consistency of how nice you are shouldn't be dependent on the amount of blood in someone's system, although it clearly is. No wonder all those teen bitches love vamps. Back to the story. I gave blood, but in a brand new way! It's called apheresis. With apheresis, your blood is drawn and pumped into a machine which separates the red blood cells from the plasma. This way you can yield twice as many red blood cells in the same amount of time.
BUT THAT'S NOT ALL!
They then pump the plasma back inside of you. No dehydration. No long cell reproduction phase. It was my first time. I was nervous. I was excited. I was full of blood.
For the first ten minutes, the process was old news. Stick me with the needle, suck out the blood, grip the dowel, etc. Then came a big surprise...the flow was reversed. To my left, I strained to look at the machine. There I saw a collection bag, full not of my black-red life, but beer. No, not beer; plasma!
That frothy mixture was Whofleck's own pale ale! It even had a thick head! (dick joke)
Slowly, the bag of man-booze emptied into my arm. I shuddered uncontrollably. IT WAS COLD!
I had been sweating from the heat of the unventilated church basement, but suddenly I had my own personal air conditioning: Blood Conditioning, if you will! The sweet taste of saline hit the back of my throat and my tongue surged with chilly spittle. My lips when numb. I looked down to my arm and saw a sight unmatched:
MY BEER-BLOOD WAS FLOWING DIRECTLY INTO MY VEINS!!!
I almost came. I couldn't stop giggling. My Red Cross servant caught my case of giggles and told me I was acting "Cah-razy!" I was rubber to her mental insinuations. In time, the pale plasma slowly gained a bright pink glow. In a flash there was crimson once again. This entire cycle was repeated, and I got a second chance to let my soft inner-elbow suckle lovingly from the recycled teat of my body's brew. The last chance for one hundred and twelve days.
Fuck this blog, I have more important countdowns to attend to.
P.S. I want to bottle human plasma and drink it. Too vampy?
I know what you're thinking, "Does that mean you got that sticker and we have to be nice to you!"
No, you fucking jerks. The consistency of how nice you are shouldn't be dependent on the amount of blood in someone's system, although it clearly is. No wonder all those teen bitches love vamps. Back to the story. I gave blood, but in a brand new way! It's called apheresis. With apheresis, your blood is drawn and pumped into a machine which separates the red blood cells from the plasma. This way you can yield twice as many red blood cells in the same amount of time.
BUT THAT'S NOT ALL!
They then pump the plasma back inside of you. No dehydration. No long cell reproduction phase. It was my first time. I was nervous. I was excited. I was full of blood.
For the first ten minutes, the process was old news. Stick me with the needle, suck out the blood, grip the dowel, etc. Then came a big surprise...the flow was reversed. To my left, I strained to look at the machine. There I saw a collection bag, full not of my black-red life, but beer. No, not beer; plasma!
That frothy mixture was Whofleck's own pale ale! It even had a thick head! (dick joke)
Slowly, the bag of man-booze emptied into my arm. I shuddered uncontrollably. IT WAS COLD!
I had been sweating from the heat of the unventilated church basement, but suddenly I had my own personal air conditioning: Blood Conditioning, if you will! The sweet taste of saline hit the back of my throat and my tongue surged with chilly spittle. My lips when numb. I looked down to my arm and saw a sight unmatched:
MY BEER-BLOOD WAS FLOWING DIRECTLY INTO MY VEINS!!!
I almost came. I couldn't stop giggling. My Red Cross servant caught my case of giggles and told me I was acting "Cah-razy!" I was rubber to her mental insinuations. In time, the pale plasma slowly gained a bright pink glow. In a flash there was crimson once again. This entire cycle was repeated, and I got a second chance to let my soft inner-elbow suckle lovingly from the recycled teat of my body's brew. The last chance for one hundred and twelve days.
Fuck this blog, I have more important countdowns to attend to.
P.S. I want to bottle human plasma and drink it. Too vampy?
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