Saturday, July 31, 2010
Whimsical, ferocious, rapacious love-making machines, worshiped by society after society after society after society, the elegant Papio is unrivaled in the animal kingdom, with a consummate balance of subtlety and poise, and multiple transferable parasites. For millennia they have triumphed against the swelling tide of mankind's destruction, always partaking in unbridled frenzies in the organic-matter treasure troves we call trash bins.
Females especially, whose heart-shaped bottoms so poetically convey their disposition, are the last remaining beacons of love in the wild. It is this ruby tukus that sets the standard for all inflammations of the rear, from this to this and of course this.
So yea. Monkeys are funny.
Friday, July 30, 2010
The fount has dried up.
My Chipotle is on the corner of 7th ave and 26th street. It has a badass graffito on it's plywood southern wall outside. It has an icy cold interior--the optimal kitchen working condition. It serves beer, which is the only justification I have left for drinking during work hours. And most importantly, it has the exact same inner workings as every single other Chipotle.
Except one (maybe).
My favorite part of Chipotle is the fixins stage. Four kinds of salsas, etc, no limits. It's lovely, but its also where the most amount of human error occurs (the mitigation of which is arguably the the hardest part about the franchise model). Some restaurants can spin this inevitability as "home-made", but not fast food chains. So how does one shave down the potentially hazardous chin of this highly entropic stage of the burrito making process?
At my Chipotle, they have this strategy of hiring elderly mexican (I use the term in the most ethnically ignorant sense) women --perhaps the most underrated workforce in America today, specifically for the fixings stage. These women bring decades of culinary experience to their single task of drizzling my burrito with sour cream...
..., applying the perfect scoop of salsa (a thorough understanding of each salsa's mass to spicy ratio is a necessary imperative here), and the sacred sprinkling of the queso.
Though it's technically "unskilled" labor, it takes a shit-ton of practice to fully appreciate the intricacies of a perfect burrito. At my Chipotle, they kill it -- it's a skill that tells me one thing: they gots some authentic viejas.
And they're hot!
Thursday, July 29, 2010
Wednesday, July 28, 2010
Catalonia's recent legislative decision to ban bull-fighting isn't really a big deal in a lot of ways. We are pretty burdened by "more important" news, but it's always interesting when governments ban cultural practices, especially peculiar ones. And while not unique to Spain, Bull-Fighting is still a peculiar custom.
I don't know anything about bull fighting, but it seems like one of the few artistic expressions of human power left. I stress human because, at its core, a bull-fight is a display of our species dominance over the natural world. It's an ancient custom, and its evolution has continued to the present day, mirroring the evolution culture of mankind exquisitely.
But I'm not going to go into the details. If you want them, go read Hemingway.
My beef (I looooove bovine-puns) with this is that, while fascinating to note that it may be Catalan's subconscious desire to further its cultural schism from "Spain" as a nation (it's already fairly autonomous in terms of governance), it appears that the main reason why the ban took effect was the animal rights cause.
Animals don't have rights. People who think the contrary are just misanthropic. The right to anything is a completely human concept, the foundation of which lies in our attempts at maintaining some kind of functioning society. For centuries, some people were granted rights, while others were arbitrarily denied. Only recently do we see an attempt to live harmoniously and give everyone equal rights. It's a bold code, and it certainly doesn't apply to the animal kingdom.
No species participate in a social order with another species. Individual animals certainly do, but we as individuals essentially consider them nominal members of our own species. Now, within their species, you don't see any kind of establishment of "rights". Usually there's a dominant member of a closely knit society, and the rest try to eek out a minor existence until they bone someone successfully enough to spawn something. Otherwise, its some kind of fascist colony (and we all know how that turns out....great!). And besides that, solitary. That's about it.
Humans are granted rights because we manage to exist in a society where we balance being relatively efficient/happy, and not really wanting to rise up against our governments...as long as we're given some kind of "freedom". It's a give and take. Humans abide by a certain order of laws, and within the confines of those laws, they have certain rights. If they break those laws, those rights are stripped.
Animals do not participate in this give and take with people. Either they give completely (domesticated animals) or they take (read: kill us) completely (wild animals). (Some animals take us completely, but that's just gross). We obviously prefer our domesticated animals, but we never assumed they have rights. They're our slaves. We breed them for their milk, flesh, and speed.
Now it's true: we rarely kill these slaves for entertainment, and yes, bulls are domesticated and destroyed for our entertainment. But is that so wrong? Does that make us barbaric? Well, yes, but who cares? I'd much rather be considered barbaric than whatever you consider most of the underhanded white-collar pseudo-criminals that are destroying the fabric of society today. Banning these little semblances of our "barbaric" past is merely misdirected guilt over how fucking disgusting we as a culture have become.
So for all you who feel bad that humans have ravaged the natural world, enslaved a bunch of hapless animals, and are bound to destroy the atmosphere and most things on the planet, just remember: Bruce Willis is here to help...but he's only one man.
Tuesday, July 27, 2010
Don't worry, their only defense is sheltering themselves. They can't defend aggressively.
Grip the tail-end. Spin.
Look directly away from the epicenter.
Speak to the swirl in a funny upper-class British accent (don't worry if it's not accurate -- you should be alone by this point).
Note new position.
Place turtle shell-up.
Monday, July 26, 2010
One thing my father always told me was I should always research and rehearse a good joke before I go out anywhere. Time it for the awkward silences, was one of his pointers. Everyone hates awkward silences, and they love people who interrupt them with jokes. And incorporate funny accents if possible. Accents make people sound stupid, and stupidity gets laughs.
And I would plead: Dad, father. People like when you make jokes. Not when you tell them.
-Son, what you just said just proves just how incomprehensible my brilliance must seem to you. Let's practice.
-Your mother will be most unimpressed.
/slaps of retribution
//mutual flinching and flailing
/sighs - Why did the condom fly across the room?
- Because it got pissed off.
-Better. This time draw out the becaaauuuuse. And make sure to look at everyone's set of eyes at least once. It's the sign of a good entertainer. Annnnnnd....Go!
Sunday, July 25, 2010
Saturday, July 24, 2010
My lovely didn't look her typical lovely way on the stairs looking down over me sitting over Gertrude, who hadn't said a word since I emerged and rested her down with my upper back and shoulder muscles and ascoted her mouth with the ascot via my muscles that are typically quite impeccably toned but due to recent events such as my lovely's arrival and subsequent upstairs dormancy are not to impeccably toned, as it's become very difficult for me to even earn the money I so sorely need to entice such lovelies into their upstairs dormancy let alone find time to expand my deltoids vis å vis my training regimen. I do not know for sure what made that face on my lovely's face, but seeing the ascot stuffed deep in our neighbor's gob was my first guess. I grant that. It is rare, even for me, to see an ascot deep into anyone's throat, but I promised myself to promise her that I would make amends by taking her out for a treat to make certain she knew I would not fault her for any of this…
With our departed Gertrude not making amends I turned my attention to resuming where I left our flavorful naughtyparty, which in case you didn't know was not quite finished. It being a naughtyparty, that is, etymologically, a party best qualified by the number/non-number/entity zero, which as mathematicians will tell you, causes several additional problems when working out the party's primary purpose. I'll tell you from my experience that the number zero has very little to do with the party and is only brought up to appease the valedictorians of our audience who would be unsatisfied by being fed the simple colloquial definition of:
naughtyparty (n): any occasion involving two or more people without personal connection with the outside world over a period of at least eleven days.
It really doesn't need to be so specific.
I guess I'm proud to say my skills and dexterous handiwork exhibited in subduing Gertrude Stein's one true doppelganger saved me and replenished my lovely for the moment, though in all honesty, corpses really ruin all parties, not just naughtyparties. I asked my lovely what she felt and she shook her straight black explosive hair in an "I'm not very interested in talking" kind of face with her mouth opening into a large moaning O. It was bizarre to not hear what came out because she clearly was having a very hard time expressing herself and seemed to be trying excessively hard, but these noises were failing somewhere along their journey from her to me.
Friday, July 23, 2010
Helloooo? My lovely panicked, jumped into my arms and squealed. NO NO ! I mustn't. Pleeeaeaassee!!!
I held her closely. We were alone and in danger, exactly what my desires consume. She was nothing that couldn't be dealt with by a slow coddle and several buckets of ice. I could manage a quiet noise to sooth her.
Helloooooo?? so suspiciously. I cried with laughter and dropped my lovely and closed the door on her as she lay covered in herself and with a rather soft carpet beneath. The voice below was quiet now and not unlike Gertrude Stein.
I took three steps down the carpeted steps that led into my foyer which I pronounce without the R as a sign of majesty over most of my friends who haven't the courage to explore new and interesting pronunciations of things. I remained confident, forceful in my steps. My lovely waited. Step and step and the creak of the floorboards kept her silent and I could feel her still fear her inner panadomium her consecutive breathless heartattacks -- it's well understood between us though unspoken it might be we are both in a very scary situation and no one would deny this but someone who wasn't there and had not a clue, not one single clue as to the suspense that drew out between us for those ten seconds.
From the bottom of the stairs, I caught her odor. I leapt, ascot in hand, at her neck. My lovely waited.
Thursday, July 22, 2010
So today, my friends, I reveal to you, the hideous monster, that we all, refuse to acknowledge:
PICKLE: Good morning!
No response, as the EXAMINER fusses with some paper work.
PICKLE: Sure is hot, huh? Boy... How are you today?
PICKLE: How has your day been so f--
EXAMINER: Get in the car.
They get into the car, PICKLE on the driver's side, EXAMINER in the passenger side.
PICKLE: Here's my permit and paperwork.
The EXAMINER takes them silently. Farts. Looks up embarrassedly. Grins. Farts again.
PICKLE: Well, this is nice.
EXAMINER: (quietly) There is no way I'm going to pass you.
EXAMINER: Turn on the car.
PICKLE: No, wait, what did you just say?
EXAMINER: Turn on the car, sir.
PICKLE: No, before that.
EXAMINER: Sir, if you do not turn on the car and pull out, I will terminate this examination.
PICKLE: Okay. Right on.
They pull out of the spot and get going.
EXAMINER: (just as they reach a corner) Make a right turn here.
PICKLE slows down sharply to make the turn.
EXAMINER: Sir! Slow down.
PICKLE: Could you please tell me when to turn a little earlier? So I have time to signal and
stuff? And so I know where I'm going? And so... I'm failing, aren't I?
EXAMINER: You betcha.
PICKLE: Well. This is nice.
They drive on.
EXAMINER: Parallel park here behind this SUV.
PICKLE does so, impeccably, he might add.
EXAMINER: Fine. Whatever. Pull out.
PICKLE: That's what she said.
EXAMINER: Ten points off. For failing to illicit a laugh with a stupid joke.
PICKLE: Well. This is nice.
They pull out. They drive and eventually get back to the test site.
EXAMINER: Guess what?
PICKLE: I failed?
EXAMINER: (cheerily) Yep!
PICKLE: Great. This was fun. Let's do it again some time.
EXAMINER: Good luck.
PICKLE: Go fuck yourself.
PICKLE throws the old man out of the moving car and heads South to Mexico.
I also hit two small children and ran over a puppy. But it was mostly the examiner.
Wednesday, July 21, 2010
All I'm saying is that we've got things called transplants these days. There's really no need for you to keep ignoring what is clearly a problem. We all know about how you dream in red -- are you even listening?
What about your depth perception? Huh? All I've got is one occasionally bleeding eye and I still couldn't foresee that smug Limey pulling a straight flush on me.
You aren't fooling anyone with that silent, tough-guy act. Why don't you just drop it and we can discuss things further on my yacht.
You're never going to get invited back to Montenegro with that attitude.
This was not to be. Not to be! I said aloud, scaring my lovely. I had a rapturous voice that could often twist her into a lemon rind or worse. I felt bad, so I whispered, Not. To. Be...
Making haste, I yoinked a nearby ascot, checked the mirror, and ran for the door. The chime, again, resonated through the house. I worried not for my lovely, who, as per our post-powder-drink training exercises, was by now secure in the upstairs walk-in. She knew better than to disobey. Not really, actually. She didn't know at all. She simply did. Hence: my lovely.
Even in my complete and furious nudity I was wise enough to peek through the fish eye to see the rather large womanly neighbor, not unlike Gertrude Stein, there on the doorsteps.
I rushed back upstairs to find my lovely there under a pile of scarves and sashes. It's her.
My lovely shook her head.
-Yes, I whispered.
My lovely covered her head in her breasts, and shook her thin dark hair out over her cuddling body. I was saddened and made at her, causing her to shriek. Shrieking is worse than cuddling, and the two combined set my watch to clench, which scares her and me as we both know it sends us both to a frightening cloud.
-It's a mix-up, my lovely whimpered with the perfect amount of sweet and cold.Get rid of her.
Tuesday, July 20, 2010
"I asked for this?"
Only a month of posting left and I've yet to leave my mark. Well, I've left marks, to be sure, but not the indelible scuff with which I intend to ruin this entire endeavor. Attempts and failures are kind of my thing, so at least I've been consistent.
Thus far I'm not even ranked. Maybe those two-hundred or so previous posts set the bar too high?
Maybe...maybe I should just go. I didn't mean to ruin the party.
Pardon me. Excuse me.
Stereotyping Love - 30 (Nashville) w4m
Date: 2010-07-09, 3:46PM CDT
It never ceases to amaze me how many people search and search for love only to find themselves by themself at the end of the day. When I think about me I touch myselfs. And they continue to wonder why love's compassionate clutch eludes them. Love Clutch: An Apostrophe's Journey. Allow me to offer one piece of advice in three paragraphs:
1. Stop stereotyping love. That means you throw out pre-conceived ideas about your 'ideal' man, how he looks, his profession, the house he owns, the car he drives (or doesn't drive), whether he has kids, etc. "Kids, and other things before 'etc.' : A book by the NBA Player's Union."
Love is patient, love is blind, love is plagiarism, love is compassionate (it clutches!), love is caring, love is, above all else, selfless. Themselfless! Love is entirely immaterial, Madonna, you lying whore, it cannot be touched (The Unclutchables) or sensed by anything but an immaterial power, which some of us have, and some of us do not...that would be the soulTRAAAAAAIIIINNNNNN!!!!!!!. The soul is the only instrument we possess enabling us to capture the power of love and share it with others besides every major drug and cadbury cream eggs. If you find yourselfs lonely, miserable, going through long periods of rocky relationships culminating in another futile life endeavor, GO ON......., then it would be wise to read these words each and every day. Unless you are blind, like love, and can't read. It would be even more wise to put them into practice. Like love-slaves! Wise or More Wise- your move, Owl.
There is a law (Megan's), almost universally accepted among those spiritual warriors roaming about this world, that states, "You attract what you are." A = Wht(UR) You cannot transmit what you do not have (herpes simplex II), so if you find love eluding you, you clearly do not possess the true nature of love yourselfs, though you may be entirely convinced you do. Try getting out of yourself (see: every major drug and cadbury creameggs) and doing good for the sake of doing good, expecting nothing in return except the desire to possess the true nature of love yourselfs. Get back to me when you are amazed...
-A caring soulTRRRRRAAAAAAAIIIIIIIINNNNNNNNN
Monday, July 19, 2010
I laughed. The rest of the convoy drove 2gears past us, but the statie's was fixed, as though seeing the trickle down my leg through my eyes.
Turned around, hands on the windows. My eyes tightened. The next thing I knew, I was 4 lbs lighter.
Sunday, July 18, 2010
I spent all weekend plundering booty with Jaybro on the high seas.
Then there was a mut(ant)iny and I ended up surfing our vessel from port to port.
I can't put this experience into a pixelated comic, but I'll try tomorrow.
expressions possessed by all pro-wrestlers, begging you to question the authenticity of their
vocation. When I first saw them, I was sure they'd corner me with their red-rover daisy-chain, but they didn't. They just followed me down into the station, a wall of authority.
We both entered the same doctor's office of a subway car. and I saw their fountain pens. I couuld see in their eyes that within their briefcases sat the legal-sized paper, dripping with overcompensation, restless for being without signature, without stamp.
I swallowed. The three twitched around the face, necks bulging over the tight white sleeveless shirt collars . Notaries smell fear -- a natural gift for the country's anti-counterfeiters. They were a terrifying panel to sit before.
The train and I continued past my stop -- an eerie feeling I must say. The notaries were unflinching.
I stood and checked my paranoia, walked to the door and stood watching the movie theater glow of the tunnel interior from inside the speeding pill. I tactfully checked the reflection for the trio, who sat calm as stone. The very notion that they had this contingency for my most spontaneous of decisions. Their quiet confidence and and unwavering belief in the documentation they held in their briefcases and the warm sweatless hand of their partner explained everything: how those stampless may remain bobbing listlessly in our swimming mind, until, deprived of the air they breathe and need to breathe to live, swell and sink to the recesses and thicken the detritus floor.
Saturday, July 17, 2010
Well, let make me this all plain-like for ya.
Grab the boulder, ya see?
Straddle 'em real good, that's it.
FUCK IT FUCK IT FUCK IT!
Friday, July 16, 2010
//holds back tears
ugh that'll linger kind. I'm...sorry. I haven't, had, anything else. Excuse me. Anybody have a towel? Yeesh.
/sighs with relief
who else saw that?
We're going to have campfires and cookouts and go fishing and hiking and have a great time!
Jaybro is especially excited to use the outhouse up there, because there isn't any plumbing. Me too!
I'm just relieved that the news doesn't hurt Canadian Tuxedo's feelings.
We. Are. Laughing.
Thursday, July 15, 2010
I'm Landjäger! A delicious German treat made of beef, pork, and lard (sometimes even horse meat)! Go on, take a chunk of my rectangular girth in your mouth...let my juices morph your taste-buds into savory little vaginae. Invite me in.
Feel the spices and red wine seeding your throat?
Do your eyes see the architecture of my crimson glory?
Do you hear the music?
Über Alles, baby.
I'll be spending my evening with our old friend, Whofleck, atop a throne of dry Cheerios.
Bitte? What are you asking about?
Actually, scrabble-nudity. 11 points, sans word scores. Not bad really. Breast is only 9, tied with penis. Nipple I believe sets the bar (14pts), with vagina (13) and clitoris (12) bringing up the proverbial rear, the last of which with a rather pathetic points-to-length ratio.
Sidenote: best point-to-length ratio: Rajon.
Most countries have the nude beach, whether its a legitimate institution or more of a casual collective of like-minded panty-shredders. I've never been (pallor/child-bearing hips -- two things I cannot afford to reveal ). <<--sideboob], but i plan to. The colonies however are a different story. Mangy middle-aged (and not the good kind of middle age, the kind we're about to assume, but the kind that grew up in the 70s, came of age in the 80s, and never looked back). (For a Peeyulitzer-contending back story on the current state of nudist colonies in the US, please see this journalist's take on the whole controversy.) (But back to the beaches). I have to ask. What SPF does my penis need? Ultra-sensitive skin mind you, and the slightest hint of lubrication and...well, i think generic italian guy said it best with: "i gotchya pavlovian response right heeah!"
Wednesday, July 14, 2010
I sit around in my robe, drinking bottle after bottle of white wine. All my roommates are gone. I have no reason to wear pants. I do not wear pants. I do not wherepants. I do not 'ware pants.
Instead I sit, and I wait for my little wubblings to make their posts. I sit and I click refresh and I wait for my wubblings to bring me the pretties. Where have my pretties been? PoopSmack has brought me a video I already saw. I hate seeing videos I've seen already. Even if they are clever, creative, "ah, how droll" videos. Unless those videos are the first five minutes of the director's cut of Basic Instinct. In which case, PLAY AWAY. I'm sure Whofeckless is working on something as we speak. CUTTING IT A LITTLE CLOSE, EH BOAYS?
It's fine. Your One Hundred Days will end s(o)(o)n enough. I see it's become a bit of a prison sentence. Well, this is your own prison. That's right, Scott Stapp was singing about YOU. Find the boobs, Scotty, find 'em raw and find 'em true! And now I have to sit here, in my robe, typing as fast as Trader Joe's Chardonnay will allow. Why? BECAUSE I RUN BARTERTOWN.
Look at this guy....look at the books he reads....look at the words he uses...he's probably capable of writing lyrics.
Drink heavy beers with no understanding of personal limits [x]
Watch Kazaam [x]
Drunkenly stumble from block to block searching for friends [x]
Use stealth and confidence to pass by police cookout undetected [x]
Get lost [x]
Eventually find rendezvous point abandoned [x]
Get approached by Mexican [x]
Carefully explain (in Spanish) that you do not speak Spanish or know where "The Mall" is [x]
Bathe in Mexican's disappointment [x]
Eat tons of hot Chinese food in solitude [x]
Wander home, drink more, play cards [x]
Get felt up repeatedly by female friend [x]
Respond angrily; demand sex, threaten reprisals [x]
Make out on picnic table [x]
See some tits on picnic table [x]
Receive blow-j on picnic table [x]
Get interrupted by male friends [x]
Three times in a row [x]
Don't ever ejaculate [x]
Leave female on picnic table [x]
Watch sunrise with cock-blocking males [x]
Return home [x]
Find female asleep on picnic table [x]
Tuesday, July 13, 2010
He's going to want to hop.
He'll hop as far as he can,
then go farther until you say stop.
If you tell the child to stop,
He'll yell and laugh and grin.
And continued in his hopping,
Will argue where he's been.
If the child argues blindly,
He may trip and bump his head.
You'll surely go to prison,
To suck cock until you're dead.
Yes: shoving the toothpaste back into the tube is not only possible, it cures things. Not only is poop not waste, sometimes it makes things better. And in a beautiful twist of fecal fate, that thing is your anus! Poop has been scientifically proven to be what I always believe it to be a magical shmear of goodness rivaled only on this Earth by bacon-scallion cream cheese.
Science....please don't leave me.
I think that's David Arquette.
WHAT THE FUCK?
But I digress.
The guy at the top is Corey Hart. He's a pasty white guy in the home run derby. He kind of looks like me. In case you weren't aware, I'm not an attractive man. I look like a short, unathletic, more heavily bearded Corey Hart. But at least I'm not hitting in the home run derby. I know my place. My place is in the blogosphere, where I am mercifully hidden from judging eyes. This guy, Corey Hart, does not belong in the Home Run Derby. He probably doesn't even belong in the All Star Game. He looks less like a professional athlete and more like your pimply 12 year old cousin who fixes the DVD player when it won't work.
I didn't know who this guy was. My brother didn't know. So I "googled" him. And here is what the wikipedia search turned up this, and I quote:Corey Hart may refer to:
Corey Hart (singer) (born 1962), Canadian musician
Corey Hart (baseball) (born 1982), American baseball player
Courtney Simpson, a pornographic actress under the stage name Cory Heart
The man is supposedly an all-star and yet he shares his wikipedia splash page with a singer from Canadia and a former pornstar who, according to her wikipedia page, "Courtney Simpson for her primary stage name based on her own first name, and the last name of singer Jessica Simpson."
What is the world coming to? I'm admittedly intruiged by what a pornstar named Barry Bonds would be like, but this must stop. Where have all the heros gone? We need to get our baseball players back on steroids, stat. I nominate Jason Giambi for the task. You think he LIKES being bad at baseball? Of course not. He liked it better when he was good. When he was full of the Clear and the Cream and all the other good things, no one cared that he was weird looking and nigh-retarded. He could hit a baseball 32 miles and that was all that mattered. And now look at him. That vacant stare. That slimmed down body. He's like a junkyard dog that slinks under the porch to die. Alone. In the Rocky Mountains.
Monday, July 12, 2010
I had a crush on a girl...let's call her "Sadie McBabe."
Sadie and I were awkward friends, but instead of having conversations I just got really good at turning away quickly when she caught me staring at her. She got really good at bearing it. The older boys took advantage of this obviously embarrassing time in my life by asking me personal questions about my feelings for her in a relentless mockery of young hearts.
Things I try to black out:
"Sadie is faster than me at swimming and that's great."
"I think she likes Twix bars and I also like them."
"She's so pretty, she should be on the cover of Time magazine."
"I think I'm going to buy her flowers and Twix bars."
This was a constant form of entertainment for the bastards. This freak crush ended near the dimming embers of late August during a sleepover/party/dance. Those fucks forced us to dance together, and it was terrifying, and it was soul-wrenching, and the combination of Eddie Money and Meatloaf did little to soften the realization that, yes...this will haunt you for a long time. I was also too young to simply go home and beat the sadness out of my tiny erections (a trick I learned nine months too late, apparently).
Needless to say, the crush never went anywhere; unless, of course, you include the grassy yard behind the dance area moments afterward when I heard Sadie and her pack of little bitches laughing at me.
Years later, I was reintroduced to Sadie through a mutual friend at a swim meet. I was unaware he and her were friends. His conversation starter?
"Hey! Sadie just told me about how much you crushed on her back in the day! Still in love with her?"
Yes, you fat asshole. I still love her. Thankfully, I waited until the adorable good looks of my childhood had been acid washed in acne and shame before developing the confidence required to hold a conversation. Actually, I said:
/swim fastest 500m of competitive career
//dissolve friendship with "fat asshole"
///spend evening fully realizing the power of masturbation over mental anguish
"Gubernatorial" has been voted America's favorite word for the 300th consecutive year.
Blood Be-Ball (formerly known as Be Blood Ball, even more formally known as There Will Be Blood Ball) has become a nominal past-time for the New York City elite.
And exquisite breasts on white women are a thing of legend and mystery.
On the cusp of such an arbitrarily momentous occasion, one might be inclined to look backwards at the foundation below the paths ahead of us to find what's propelled us to such heights. Historians will claim, as they must, that the vast database of creative brain vomit siphoned into one another's pupils contains all they need to know to understand the first half of the 3rd millennium. Of course, as historians are apt to deny, their claims are without merit. Teams of millions of social anthropologists working union hours would still take trillions of years to condense the abyss of these the interwebs into a concise thesis statement. It's impossible.
I'm preparing for when the truly important artifacts of our time are those that live outside this all-consuming medium, that which can withstand power-outages or whimsical corporate billing. I'm talking of course, about a sea monster colony.
This Friday at 8:21 (sundown), dress up as your favorite Leviathan, troll or snowman (or david bowie for that matter), and meet me at Union Square. There you will receive instructions.
Sunday, July 11, 2010
"Train Time" means they cling to each others' soft, sour backs in a conga line and bounce on a set path toward me.
I'd take a noodle in the wet any day over that shit.
This is exactly the picture I imagined while it was happening.
Saturday, July 10, 2010
"But I'll starve," I whimpered, drooling ever so discreetly at the fleeting image of my beloved clams. My parents chuckled, looking into their various mirrors to catch a glimpse of my utter disappointment. "It's all I love..."
"You love lot's of stuff, buddy. What about 3 Ninjas?
"Besides, we're going to the diner!"
"Yes," he said. "The diner."
"You mean dinner?"
"The diner is a place to get dinner. It has everything in the world to eat."
Glory be! I thought. My mind raced. Images of plantains stuffed with langoustines stuffed with utter-cream sent peristaltic tidal waves through my viscera.
"...Side of gravy boat?"
They turned to one another with expressions of pure love. My father took my mother's hand and held it on the stick shift, downshifted as we pulled into Nellies Restaurant. After the gravy boats came (two each) and I pooped a little in its presence, we held hands and said a brief prayer to a deity of our choosing. I choose the god of the beef fat. Mom was thrilled at my piety.
Friday, July 9, 2010
The following services: Dedication, Friendship, Endship, Blogging
have been disabled to prevent you from further damaging your ancient overheating laptop.
If you cannot afford a new machine, Windows advises you to: GFY, B
Any attempts to restart in Safe Mode will instead force you into Pain Mode
For instructions on computing while in Pain Mode, see: Ichi The Killer
A moment to let DP to put his pants back on. Aaaaaaanndd....lights
PS: I brought extra guacomore for lunch. Do you want some?
Sonya: Never had. What is?
PS: Green poo, but better
PS: Champagne, caviar, bubber bath?
Sonya: Simon sez you scare me
PS: oooh, freeskie
Sonya: You're so learned
PS: Learned like a focks?
Sent at 1:56 PM on Thursday
Sonya: take me
PS: simon sez there's a time and prace for everything, my deer.
Thursday, July 8, 2010
That's so funny...because I just pooped.
I felt it come out. This place smells like poop. I feel devoid of poop. Most of my senses are in agreement as to the event of poop being evacuated.
IT'S A GHOST!
Yes, a delightful little [read: enormous] poop banished to the bottom of the pipe. Ashamed, even, perhaps. Now this is cause for celebration! Fuck American holidays, I just pooped out magic invisible poop!
Eastern Block Tourist: You mean dat ven you make poop, you cannot see poop?
Wednesday, July 7, 2010
I worked all day in 100+ degree heat. I complained all day about working in 100+ degree heat. I am now heading over to a male friend's yard upon my beloved Espree to sit in a hot tub and drink cold brews.
Am I a whining, homosexual hypocrite?
...just asking questions.
"I don't believe you." I replied, more perturbed than anything else at their gleeful ignorance of the rules I had to enforce. They were playing "Cool Hand" Luke Jackson to my steely aviator-clad Man With No Eyes stare. With that, the swimming girl rolls onto her back with her bikini top pulled off to the sides, essentially flashing me while she does backstroke. She and her friend laugh as she asks me what I think of her breaststroke. I say nothing, bewildered as to how no other patron sees this happen. I stare helplessly up at the office where my manager sits, oblivious.