Saturday, July 31, 2010

King Of The Castle

I will be managing the pool tomorrow. I will be in charge. The keys to the castle are mine. Is your body ready?
Mine is.
Chlorine levels, PH levels, nipple density, etc.; these are my responsibility now and mine alone. My loyal subjects, a collection of teenage whistle-twisters, will serve me and defend the sanctity of my rule. Has the metaphor dragged on too long?
I'll start by having my head guards craft a crown befitting my royal inheritance. I'm thinking a pool tube encrusted with dead wasps. For a throne, I will have them stack both guard stands on top of one another so my gaze over this glorious land will be unimpeded by drowning children and furious patrons. Scared?
You will be. You will be.
It's probably going to rain all day tomorrow, and we will probably close early. But a short reign is better than none at all, right? At least I'm moving up in the world, right?
/be lifeguard
//become manager
One day; I have one day to soak in the power before it is wrenched back. It's all a tease, but it's my tease. I'm sure it's been posted before, but what the hell.
You can't argue with the king, baby.

99 Red Baboons

If I were God, the Baboon would have made me throw away my box of latex gloves. "Triumph" I would have said in my booming baritone voice. "Utter triumph."

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.

Socially, Earth offers no greater model. Baboons fancy themselves sexual connoisseurs, accomplished goat-herders, and skilled craftsmen. While most of their societies offer limited accommodation, their harems are open 24/7-- for good cause. Like the School of Athens, the Baboon-Harem is a unique triumvirate of philosophy, math, and orgiastic howling. It is precisely because of this cultural elegance that the Baboon remains the most difficult monkey to harness for labor.

For instance, no baboon has ever been launched into space. Their anatomical make-up and sexual prowess makes them incompetent navigators. Gordo the Space Monkey, a South American Squirrel/Monkey, pitiful in most respects, was selected instead. On a side note: he along with his $19 billion space craft were lost somewhere in the abyss.

So yea. Monkeys are funny.

Friday, July 30, 2010

-Dwip, Dwip, Dwip-

The fount has dried up.
This is it, ladies and gentlemen...not with a bang, but with a whimpering arrhythmia descending into a slow and painful loss of circulation. Tunnel vision, thick spittle, curtains.

Sure, I could make light of it.
Ha-ha! I'm no fun anymore, right? Isn't that so!?
I might even get away with a few excuses.
But no; you all deserve better than that.

I'm going to leave you this evening with another Exploitable, and I hope it offers enough chuckles to last into tomorrow...Lord knows I need the time to scrounge for material. And if it's good enough, I might just get to live the dream:

Friday: Danza del Sombrero Mexicano

Chipotle Mexican Grill, better known as Chipotle, makes me happy. As a fast food joint, it's nearly perfect (clean, tasty, affordable, socially conscious). As a business enterprise, its genius. They're successful in following through with their motto, Food With Integrity, and integrating it into ever facet of their marketing strategy. Additionally, they are one of the few businesses that still thrives off an assembly line workforce. I love having my lunch prepared by people whose daily motions epitomize their working class status. And, God-willing, they're probably not unionized.

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

You ever feel crispy?

You're not alone

Bring It.

Just started my first serious work-out routine not based around a competitive sport.
You want to get real? Really real? P90X, bitches.
This shit is hilarious. The trainer is some loud-mouthed psycho who berates his companions constantly, making them laugh and screw up their exercises. He barely does anything himself.
The routine is based around muscle confusion, which is a fancy way of saying "do different stuff." Actually, I love it. There's nothing really special about the whole package, but the intensity and mock-motivation from the pack leader makes it hard to stop.


More, please.
Man, if only they started you out with pull-ups that no out-of-shape person can do...
Oh wait!
If only they had the same terrible grunge riff playing on repeat for an hour...
What's that!?
If only my complete lack of a career or social life could guarantee me commitment...
Oh no you didn't!

Please, sir; I want some more.

Wednesday, July 28, 2010

Is The Sun Burning?

Sure is, bro.
But let me get to the point: Sunshine. A delicious little Science-Fiction film which shows us mankind's attempt to restart our dying sun. Shrug off those petty scientific inaccuracies and join me on an adventure into the surreal!
I was privileged to see this film during it's theatrical run with Canadian Tuxedo, a fellow fan of similar movies. With only one exception (The Fountain), I have never seen a more horrific and emotionally torturous crafting of a first-person perspective of space and the bodies that reside inside it.
(lolSolaris is old)
I remember dreaming that night of walking barefoot on the surface of our sun. Gripping shit, bro.
Sure, stuff like surviving a short trip in the vacuum of space, bombs fueling a solar entity, or our sun dying anytime during the short lifespan of human history was silly, but not deafening. You truck through that shit, because John Murphy is a genius.

Bright lights, you retard.

Seriously, though; just finished a repeat viewing and the flick holds up. Y'all should check it out, even if only to get a beautiful eyeful of the best star ever up close and personal.
Yummy stuff, bro.

Bull Fights on Acid

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.

Cue diatribe.

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 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

"You Dream Good"

Haven't been sleeping so great lately. Long days, hard nights, etc.
But I managed to catch a nap this afternoon. Check it:

Colonial America.
I am an assassin, a top class killer of the time. I have been hired to assault an well-guarded estate in the middle of nowhere. A dozen armed men or more stand watch in the black forest, unaware that I have been tasked with their deaths, and the death of the man they are paid handsomely to defend;
With my custom silenced musket, I approach the manor with violent efficiency. My weapon sends four men to Charon. Reloading is a bitch, but I am infatuated with the gift of her quiet accuracy. Then suddenly...
The night and tall cedar provide good cover, but any movements continue to break my stealth. Eight men, at least, are on my trail, but there's no truth in this aching shadow-world. Every attempt I make to clear another soul for the afterlife sends the dream wheeling, and the blasts from my beloved rifle seem to grow in volume and shake me into consciousness. Soon it becomes difficult to establish the real threats from the imagined. Who am I? It doesn't matter. Washington must die.
I abandon my retreat, steeled and settling my metaphysical debts as I rush the only lit window I can see. Crashing through would normally be a rookie move, but my options ran out a mile back and I've got killing on the mind. There is a dazed pass from the boredom of reality and back into this perfect fantasy assault, but George is there, rising from his desk; pen in one hand, loaded pistol in the other. No time!
I unsheathe my knife and lunge, feel the sting of a masterful shot through the heart, but connect the point of my shimmering desire with man-flesh.

"Whofleck! You're going to be late for work at the pool!"


Take a turtle. Put it on its back. Remember where the head is.

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

Condoms Are NEVER Funny

Continuing a train of thought is impossible
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.

-I won't.

-Your mother will be most unimpressed.

-With whom?

-Pedantic little--

/slaps of retribution
//mutual flinching and flailing
///calm relapse

/sighs - Why did the condom fly across the room?
- Whyyyyy?
- Because it got pissed off.
/silently critiques
-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!

Namaste, You Child

Kneel, mortal.
Set your hands in prayer and savor my divinity; a 5,000 year old elemental has earned your humble servitude.
'In exchange for what?' you ask? What a bold boy you are. How does continued existence favor?
Good. But my pity for you has soured these last few seasons...rise. Partake of my flesh and be engulfed by the ghostly image I offer you. That crackling sensation is merely the sound of a couple millenniums waking deep inside. A wave of charred souls will wash your lungs of those childish questions and smear the fear from your stupid face.
Inhale. Yes.
Do you smell the civilizations, ancient and abandoned, preserved in the promise of my glory? Yes, just like Christmas. But this is no baptism by fire. My embers are original sin incarnate, dancing in front of your face like drunken satyrs.
Quest for my blessing.
Kiss the tip, my bones, my black apprentice. Over and over and over. It is a barren, burning teat for you to suckle from and learn the secrets of The Empty.
You have obeyed well, boy, and for that I set aside an empty shoulder amongst the mass-grave your worship has dug.

Now repeat this oath, and be welcomed into the volcanic realm of salvaged flavor:

Welcome, son.

Sunday, July 25, 2010


Begone! Things are on TV!

Stormy Weather

Our atmosphere went Nightmare-Mode a few hours ago.
Work ended abruptly. How abruptly?
We fled.
Total bullshit.

Saturday, July 24, 2010

No Gods, No Kings, Only Men.

I use the term "men" lightly...well, falsely.
But let me get to my point: Ayn Rand is not a topic of conversation. Objectivism is not a topic of conversation. Okay, so she wrote a decent trilogy; we get it. This isn't college and that "philosophy" is stupid. So please, ladies, drop the female pride for Annie Randy. She done good, and we all know it.
You don't hear anyone talking about Ursula K. LeGuin's contributions to the philosophy of flying tigers, do you?
Oh, I talk about that?

I'll be on my Windsteed, now. Pardon.

How We End the Naughtparty III

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

Back. To. Front.

It's just how I roll. Toilet-roll, that is.
Yes, the rumors are true. I wipe my butt-hole differently than you (everyone) do (does).
Want to wipe like Whofleck?
Step 1: After pooping, stand up.
Step 2: Get a folded length of TP.
Step 3: Bend over your knees, feet planted, as if trying to look behind and between your legs.
Step 4: Wipe from back to front.

Congratulations! If you aren't laughing or horrified right now, you are both
a) the owner of a clean asshole
b) a normal, healthy adult human

How We End The Naughtyparty pt II

The voice. Atonal. Vaguely french.

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

Fresh Air -- The Good Kind

You may have noticed my recent commitment to the topics of asses, anuses, poop, slimy poop, steam trains, fart noises, boogers, and lava balls. If you have, it's safe to say you also noticed my subconscious interest in covering scrotal tissue, the Lenape tribe's early struggles with Pthirus pubis, butt duds, glitter trends, the etymology of "scat", smoking babies, and the fascination with sandboxes. And although we've managed to touch upon Hamsters vs Pigeons vs Spiders, Roman Polanski, Thai Hookers, Malay Hookers, recyclablility and the 19th century, Isengard and the German Rite of Passage, and the oxford comma, we've been neglecting the proverbial elephant in the sleeping bag.

So today, my friends, I reveal to you, the hideous monster, that we all, refuse to acknowledge:

[unfortunately, the appropriate naked Judi dench photo could not be found. sorry for that]

Discipline: The Whofleck Matriarch's Driving Lesson

I didn't receive my driver's permit and license until I was eighteen.
This was a punishment.

My mother was upset because I was earning poor grades. I had expected, like many other teens, to grab up my permit after riding our planet for sixteen revolutions. This did not happen.

"No way, mister. If you want to drive you can go ahead and get better marks in school."
I'm not going to do that.
"Well then no driving for you."
But I work and swim daily. Letting me drive would alleviate a lot of the frustration you suffer from having to squire me about town.
"I'd rather put up with that then let you get away with screwing up your education."
But you're still going to drive me places. Wouldn't a more complete and effective punishment include some form of grounding?
So instead of actually punishing me, you are going to continue allowing the interruption of your life by my typically unnecessary travelling demands? Instead of earning yourself(s) some deserved relief, you will leave our weekly driving schedule in shifting tatters in an attempt to motivate my performance in school, even though I've already explained that it will have no effect?
I love you, Mom.
"Happy Birthday, son."

"You have got to get your license, I can't keep doing this!"

My Driving Road Test: A Play in One Act

As a means of catharsis, please find, enclosed, my dramatization of my road test yesterday.

Staten Island. July 21st, 2010. It is a stifling hot summer day. Desperate Pickle, 25, waits next to a car on the side of the road. No shade. He is 25 years old with no drivers license. He is not boy, not yet a pickle. He has to urinate so badly. SO FUCKING BADLY.

After a while, the ROAD TEST EXAMINER walks up. He is a man of about 70, 5'3", with a noticeable Russian accent. He may or may not have a wooden leg.

PICKLE: Good morning!

No response, as the EXAMINER fusses with some paper work.

PICKLE: Sure is hot, huh? Boy... How are you today?

No response.

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

U Mads?

You should really get that checked out. Could be infected.


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.


How We End The Naughtyparty

So there we were, waiting out the night with impatient canoodling, enjoying each other's bountiful lovelies, leaping from pile to pile of fluffy kitten noises, when from out of no where, as though materializing from the very grips of my bitterly clenched naughtyparty, we were bushwhacked by the clangity clang of the front doorbell.

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

The Spirit Of Competition

A return of the Craigslist post. I don't even know what to say...
"Thank you?"
"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.
Overrated? Underrated?
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.

Too Little, WAAYY TOO late

At least thirty minutes of Jaybro/Whofleck's camp-out. Just put your robes on backwards boys, it doesn't take a boy scout education to figure it out.

Craigslist Matchmaker : Fuck Me in the Heart Edition

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...


Monday, July 19, 2010

Sail on, Sailor

Today the gov'ment fingered us, the interstate meatbooty-luggers. Travelling by boat from the secret channels of Vermont through the illustrious bowels of the Berkshire's, hitchin up in the ten-truck Canadian convoy on the Connecticut border, we were brought to a fruity stop by a tight-sashed statie, his red lights flashing behind us like a rebellious colony of hemorrhoids. We stuffed the jerky in our anuses as the cop approached our window, flashlight out. He checked our seatbelts. We joe bidend, eye twitch and everything, just like our daddies taught us. But guy didn't budge

"Step. Out."

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.


Our mountain friend had a Sailfish.
I took me and my first-mate out on the sea.
I plundered every inch of her with the wind at my back.
I even managed to surf the darn thing!
A fine vessel, indeed.

Whofleck is talking about:
The Boat [ ]
Jaybro [ ]

Sunday, July 18, 2010

Drink Up, Me Hearties!

My sailing muscles are sore.
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.


After following me 9 miles from my home to the bridge and over the three notaries continued behind me, down into the station holding their briefcases and each others hands. They were the hired hands each about four times the average notary. They resembled a tag-team pro-wrestling trio, with
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

Chinese poop humor

Your daily poop-snack.

I'm starting to think this whole communism thing has a chance.

Boulder Fuckin'

What? This your first time 'round these parts?
Well, let make me this all plain-like for ya.
Grab the boulder, ya see?
Straddle 'em real good, that's it.

Friday, July 16, 2010

Where's that (w)underbelly

You now keep feeding me. Keep on! I can regurgitate, I swear, give me a chance! There's only so much one man can eat. I'll wake up early to catch the global edition, BLEhhhH --> /regurgitation on your lap. You want: less substance!!! <----> more bile??? Like the last picture of heath ledger alive? Second round -->>> more bile!!!! Here it comes. Heh....wait . Heh.

//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?

Poke A Nose

I'm taking a romantic vacation with Jaybro up the mountains this weekend.
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

Vitamin E

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?
For a moment.....


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

Jew Lie For Teen

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.

It's Dangerous To Go Alone! Take This.

"Senior Weekend Down-The-Shore" Treasure Hunting Checklist:

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]

Score? [n/a]


I missed it.
I missed it.
God damn it.
I missed it.

Tuesday, July 13, 2010

"If You Give A Kid Some Candy"

If you give a kid some candy,
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.

A poetic lesson gleaned from my Tuesday evening.

Your Daily Poop Snack

You were wrong, you were right, you were right too, and you two were definitely wrong. Well, not so much Messier. Gretsky though -- man did that guy hate poop. Never had a thing with Gary Coleman though. So sad.

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.

Who the fuck is this guy?

Who are you and what are you doing in the Home Run Derby (sponsored by State Farm... like a good neighbor, State Farm is there)?

Remember when the home run derby was held as a battle between gargantuan men with huge heads and small testicles? Remember when they would hit 800 foot home runs and then tickle each others pee pees in the shower afterwards? Remember when grown men had backne and ass sex?

This is just chapter 52 in the book I like to call "why sports are better with steroids." Remember Shawne Merriman? He used to be good. He also used to be on steroids. Now? No steroids. And terrible.

He went from this:

To this:

I think that's David Arquette.


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.[2]"


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

By Request:

I was eleven years old. It was Summer. I was at a swim club where I used to belong. -PUN-
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:
"Hey. No."

/swim fastest 500m of competitive career
//dissolve friendship with "fat asshole"
///spend evening fully realizing the power of masturbation over mental anguish

/blinks once

The year is 2499 A.C.E.
"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.

Forget nothing!

Sunday, July 11, 2010

A Whale Of A Good Time

This afternoon, three obese young girls were playing in the shallow end while I guarded their lives. Eventually, one shouted: "TRAIN TIME!"
"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.


You best believe the schwartz is with poop snacks.

Saturday, July 10, 2010

Los Links

Y'all ever wanna know how to hack Facebook accounts?
Oh man, sew much fun.
What's wrong? You scared it can happen to you?
Don't be ridiculous!

/is being ridiculous
//kant help it
///don't copy that floppy

We Don't Miss You Jesus. Okay, maybe a little.

My mother said it wasn't the time for fried clams. She said, "Honey, fried clams are delicious but do you really have to? Today?" It was Easter, and as most half-Jewish but non-denominational families, we were practicing our traditional driving-towards-a-non-denominational-eating-hole in celebration of the non-denominational side of a seemingly arbitrary Sunday. My mother, being the Jewish one, liked to assert her "heritage" into the day's festivities by implementing her kind of sick Eastern European Shari'a, which, while denying me such excitables as enslaving my neighbor Rich for stealing my x-wing, insisted I refrain from the always delicious: fried clams.

"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!"
"The d--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.

"Mozzarella sticks?"
"Prime rib?"
"Yes, yes!"
"...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


Windows has encountered a fatal problem with: "Fulfilling a Promise"
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 Slightly More Malicious (But Still Fun!) New Game!

Make your immigrant co-worker self-conscious by offering unique spellings of everyday words -- then seduce her.

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
Sonya: ...
PS: Champagne, caviar, bubber bath?
Sonya: Simon sez you scare me
PS: oooh, freeskie
Sonya: You're so learned
PS: Learned like a focks?
Sonya: Hehe.

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

"...Bustin' Makes Me Feel Good!"

Well, well, well, what have we here?

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.
...and yet...


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?


Being Sooooo Contagious

Rico my doorman placed this picture of himself sitting at my bedroom desk this afternoon with the following message:

"Inchoate love makes for awkward mornings. Call me."

MAN BREASTS Pictures, Images and Photos

I don't know what to do.

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'm starting to question why proximity-mining scientists was my favorite part of Goldeneye

Science, I'd like to introduce you to Toht. Toht, this is Science.

Death to Germany?

Ramen or Otherwise

I was a 20 year-old lifeguard during the summer while in college, and the pool allowed members to bring guests. One day, an unknown member brought two females close to me in age. During the aptly-named adult swim, these two girls were the only ones in the pool. I sat, literally being paid to watch the only two people in the pool. The girls proceeded to play-wrestle and get on each others' shoulders, and I had to politely tell them that horseplay was not allowed. At this point, one of the girls starts swimming around (poorly) while her friend looks up at me and says, "You know, my friend is a champion breaststroker."
"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.

Bikini back in place, she then proceeded to bring flotation devices(including a large, phallic, "wacky noodle") made of foam into the pool during adult swim, which was forbidden. Exasperated, amused/aroused, and not wanting to get canned, I tell them they can not have flotation devices in the pool during adult swim. To which the one who had exposed herself to me (now perched atop the wacky noodle with it poking lewdly out of the water) winked and said;
"What, no noodles in the wet?"