Tuesday, August 31, 2010

Towards More Dalian Thought

"The secret of my influence has always been that it remained..........secret."

- Salvador Dali

The Architechtonic Angelus of Millet, 1933

Soft Construction with Boiled Beans (Premonition of Civil War), 1936

The Metamorphosis of Narcissus, 1937

The Hallucinogenic Toreador, 1968-70

Crucifixion (Corpus Hypercubicus), 1953-54

Young Virgin Auto-Sodomized by the Horns of Her Own Chastity, 1954

Monday, August 30, 2010

Consider it Severance

Don Draper: Good morning, gentlemen. Thanks for coming in. We have some great ideas for SlightSack Jerky, and I think I can speak for all of us at SterlingCooperDraperDickinson when I say that we are truly excited by the prospect of your business.

Poop Snacks: Thank you, Don. I know how hard you've worked to gain this account. We're looking forward to your pitch.

Don Draper: (smiles) Well, then, shall we? Peggy, the lights, please?

Those present turn toward a large screen at the front of the room as a proposed television spot begins to run. In it, a well-dressed young man hurriedly makes his way up a set of apartment building stairs. He breaks into a run as he moves through the hallway towards his apartment door. He removes his tie, then his shirt, and is in the process of unbuckling his pants as he crashes through the kitchen en route to the bedroom. He stops, naked, in the doorway and gazes upon the king-sized bed in the center of the room. It is covered with a twelve-inch layer of SlightSack Beef Jerky. The jerky is grass-fed and glazed, with no rub. The young man falls forward into the bed, arms outstreched and mouth agape. The camera cuts to a closeup showing his erect penis slowly sinking, balls-deep, into the glistening jerky. He emits a guttural moan as the camera cuts away again, this time to a goat, tethered to a doorknob and standing in the corner of the bedroom. The goat bleats once as the image greys out and the slogan fades in on a black background:

SlightSack: Love Your Jerky

Salvatore Romano: Ohhhhhhh...............

Don Draper: So...........Gentlemen, what do you think?

Poop Snacks: I....I.....what do I think? I mean, Jesus, Draper! This is terrible! That man is fucking our product! He is actually fucking our product on a bed! We can't do a goddamn thing with this!

Don Draper: I'm sorry to hear that. A lot of the firm's talent was tied up in the development of that particular copy. Not to mention the cost. $35 a pound for jerky? I mean......come on. Unfortunately, it is quite apparent that you have very little appreciation for a week of creative.

Poop Snacks: A week of creative? A week of creative? Draper, there was a fucking goat! Did Desperate Pickle put you up to this? I'll bet he did. Well guess what, Draper? You are nothing but a Dick, and everybody is about to find that out, you can mark my words! I will see to it myself!

Don Draper: What did you just say to me?

Poop Snacks: I said you are nothing but a Dii.............

Draper? Don, do you hear me?



Poop Snacks: OK, Don, look, I'm sorry. Look, the ad is fine, the goat is fine, I love the ad, Don. DON what the fuck are you doing? Don, no! Don, NO! OH GOD DON NO I AM SO SOR



Sunday, August 29, 2010

No More Chunky Soup

I acknowledge the universal nature of this blog. I mean, the topics are varied, for Christ's sake.

I understand that the Centaurs sleep in the ether; tucked away in the craggy folds of windswept seaside cliffs on the planet Lovetron. But somewhere, back on Earth, a major American sports town is happy to see an old act take his final bow.

I am talking about #5. Donovan McNabb: aka Jellopuddins.

Two short weeks separate pigskin enthusiasts from NFL Opening Sunday. Fans of GangGreen will gird up their loins and get behind the same organization that has represented their fall ambitions for the past seventy-seven years. But this time, things will be different. There will be less pain this year, regardless of whatever weekly dramas unfold on that grassy hundred by the corner of Broad and Pattison.

Allow me to show you exactly why Jellopuddins had to leave. You know exactly what is coming, but that doesn't make this any easier.

Tolerance is a camel, and this represents oh so many straws:

Briefly, two things about this that (barely) make me smile:

1.) #7 Mike Vick hanging his head in absolute shame. Again.

2.) #10 DeSean Jackson playing along until things get too weird. Then he looks a bit confused. Then his crashes into Jason Avant, just like the stormtrooper and that damned blast door.

Ah, yes.

/breathes deeply

I've been smelling football lately.

Saturday, August 28, 2010

Centaur Deathmatch: 80's Metal Mascot Edition

Megadeth's VIC RATTLEHEAD vs. Iron Maiden's EDDIE


VIC: Born 1983 - Los Angeles, California, USA

EDDIE: Born 1975 - Leyton, East London, UK



VIC: Skeletal form equipped with bolt-on steel visor, ear plugs, and mouth clamps.

EDDIE: Ten-foot alien zombie replete with piloting skills and an astounding live presence.



VIC: Realtor.

EDDIE: Harbinger of black destruction, soldier, powerslave, assassin, timecop, Pharaoh, grave robber.




EDDIE: Can be unlocked as a playable character in Tony Hawk's Pro Skater 4

VIC: ....................................... Derp?


Friday, August 27, 2010

Phoodie Phriday

Kotopoulo me Dendrolivano
(Rosemary Chicken)

4 whole skin-on chicken legs
Kosher salt and freshly ground
- black pepper, to taste
1⁄2 cup flour, for dredging
1⁄4 cup extra-virgin olive oil
1 cup white wine
3 sprigs fresh rosemary
2 fresh bay leaves
Juice of 1 lemon

1. Heat oven to 425˚. Season chicken generously with salt and pepper. Put flour on a plate and dredge chicken in flour to coat, shaking off excess. Heat oil in a 12" skillet over medium-high heat. Add chicken and cook, turning once, until browned, about 10 minutes. Add wine, rosemary, and bay leaves. Return pan to heat and cook until wine reduces by half, about 2 minutes. Add 1 1⁄2 cups water and bring to a boil.

2. Cover skillet, transfer to oven, and cook until chicken is tender, about 45 minutes. Uncover and let chicken skin crisp, 5 minutes. Remove chicken from the oven; stir in lemon juice. Serve chicken with the pan sauce.

Suggested pairing: Dogfish Head Saison du Buff

Thursday, August 26, 2010

Morning Manifestations

7:00 AM Thursday found Pheewrap nominally awake and nattily attired in a conference room located on a corporate campus just outside the limits of a minor Northeastern city; a city that may or may not have been the urban vista laid to waste in the closing scene from a certain1999 David Fincher classic.

A handful of folks around a conference phone gnashed, nodded, noted, and napped as topics too important to MENTION were covered. I mean, I should have not even MENTIONED that they were too important to mention. At the front of the room, the sordid details of a recently failed initiative flashed across a large projection screen with the grisly impact of car wrecks and war casualties. Thankfully, only the strong and stoic were on hand to take it all in.

Then, suddenly, the DEUS took control. My attention turned to the blank tablet directly in front of me. This was not a time to cower. This was not a time to hide. This was a time to CREATE. My eyes rolled back into my head. I flickered in and out of consciousness as my right hand picked up the pen. “Here it comes!” I thought to myself. “The QUICKENING!”

Moments later, I came to. I looked down at the formerly empty canvas before me and saw the fruit of my unplanned journey into light and truth:

Holy Fucking Dogshit, people. It’s the Fulcrum of Integrity.

I fired my loaded mental cannon to the page and delivered the Fulcrum of Integrity. Just look at that motherfucker. We. Are. Fucking. Saved.

I don’t know what it is, I just know what’s it’s for. If the Ark of the Covenant is a radio for talking to God, then the Fulcrum of Integrity is the tool to make everything all right again.


I drew it, so it must be real.


Wednesday, August 25, 2010

The Decline of the Western Vacation Day

In Pheewrap's younger years, a vacation day usually meant having a story worth telling upon your return to the office, classroom, pool deck ("breezeway?"), or what have you. Perhaps your vacation day afforded you a long weekend out of town, or maybe the chance to take in a notable ballgame. Maybe you took the day off and spent it cavorting with a half-dozen friends in the comfortable confines of local watering holes and eateries. Yes, vacation days used to mean all of these things to me, just as Christmas Eve meant Santa, and visits from certain aunts meant smoke-filled kitchens, crying parents and screaming. Unfortunately, it seems the last few years have slowly relegated these halcyon days to the proverbial past. If you'll indulge me, I'd like to illustrate the point through some recent personal experience (note to you, Constant Reader: I'll be doing this quite a bit in coming months).

In the waning days of June, my home sustained some mild damage from light debris sent askew by an ill-timed sunshower:

After the fragile twigs and supple, dew-drenched leaves were swiftly tidied up, it appeared as though a few shingles and a brick or two would benefit from some tender restoration. So - like any good American - I filed a claim and dove headfirst into uncharted bureaucratic waters.

Fast forward now to Monday last, my most recent "Vacation Day."

The first truck arrives just before 8AM. The Two Carpenters knock as Canadian Tuxedo, sexily groggy from an overnight stay, scurries upstairs and secures himself a "fresh towel." Carpenter #1 ascends with me to survey some recent water damage. As the telltale patter of the running shower asserts itself, I decide to preempt any unspoken questions as to who may or may not be wet and naked at that precise moment. A furrowed brow is raised in disdain as I explain that "it's just my brother in there, man." Sure it is, single thirtysomething male - with your vases full of cut flowers, your monogrammed coasters and your lightly scented candles - complete with Yankee Candle Jar Toppers. Suuuuuure it is.

It did not help that CT had also left The Lifetime Channel on from the night before.

Canadian Tuxedo and I effect our triumphant and verynotgaythankyou exit just as the calvary begins to arrive. Nearly five-hundred pounds of Germanic stock strides with urgent, manful purpose towards the street, where parked is CT's vintage Mercury with just the CUTEST Cape Cod plates. In full view of our critics (subjects?) we grunt our way through a menacing farewell and return to our respective caves. Out of the corner of my eye I see Carpenter #2 shaking his head.

Assistant Project Manager has arrived to lead the charge into the attic, where a weekend of rainfall on my roofless home has resulted in some malady. Meanwhile, Roofing Battilion has moved in to flank the property, and in the distance I hear the doomsday rumble of Replacement Dumpster Truck. Suddenly, grizzled men with hands of gnarled bark emerge from my attic clutching soggy boxes full of train sets and wet teddy bears. Carpenter #1 just turns and walks away in disgust.

At full count, nine men took up position around my modest dwelling on that Vacation Day. Trapped in the kitchen, furiously sponging countertops to validate my place and worth in my very own home, I kept a close watch upon the Axis of Labourers. Fat Ones on the patio, Youngish Longhairs shuffling about in the mulch on the side, the Crusty Unionized Veterans out front with so many ashy columns dangling from mouths turned sour from the decades-old passage of rye and unsavory epithets...

Christ....Where was I?

Tuesday, August 24, 2010

Monday, August 23, 2010

Saturday, August 21, 2010

"For The Last Time!"

Get out of bed!

100 days, they said. It will be fun, they said! You cretins.
I had a hoot trying to make you all laugh and waste enough of your collected time to suggest that my own efforts were worthwhile. Sure, my reputation suffered grievous and irreparable damage, but that's just part of the journey! I've revealed some pretty little lies and turned my initial anxiety-anxiety into something more akin to a shrugging grace. Well, if this ends like any of my childhood sleepovers I'll receive a stern talking to from my parents and be reminded of where I can and cannot touch strangers.
Do you hear what I hear? It's the cock; the clock; the rising sun. It's about time we grew out of our Rip Van Winkle phase and turned a sedated and grumpy eye toward the future. I've got high hopes and low self-esteem. I've got an empty flask and a full bladder.
I regret nothing.
Here's to never seeing you people ever again.
Wait, have we met? No?
My name is Whofleck. It's a pleasure to meet you!


Friday, August 20, 2010


One day left. One day and we're through. How long has it been?
Oh...exactly 99 days, eh?
It's been a wonderful journey (lie) and I've learned so much (lie) about myself and my blogging crew (lie). All I want to do now is finish, settle down, and enjoy approximately 100 days without writing every day.
What's that? My chosen profession? No...no, no. It can't be. It's not fair.
I just need to focus on orienting my new lifestyle around something other than writing about my terrible job and drawing inappropriate comics on dated software. Oh, god.
This is going to be worse than I thought.

/use one of first posts to declare old blog leadership "derp"
//spend next few months changing nothing

Thursday, August 19, 2010

Maybe I'm Not Being Clear

I'm telling you to stop screaming. I will not repeat myself again. Bees are everywhere. They do not care about you. They have no desire to sting you. Just because they are flying around does not mean they are out to kill you. Be quiet or you will not stay in the pool.
Boys! The lane line is not there for you to hang on. Go away from it.
No, don't just let go. Swim away from it. Go over there immediately.
Attention Baby Pool. The Baby Pool is for babies. We here define babies as children under the age of six. You, you, you, you, you; you are all too old to be in here. You are disgusting, get out and go play on the grass. No you may not sit on the edge. Go away.
Get down. Stop laughing. Get Down. That's it. Follow me; you're going to stand against the fence.

Just trying to uphold a proud lineage:

Wednesday, August 18, 2010

Snake(s) Plissken!? I Thought You Were Dead!

Hey. I tell you what I'm gonna give you, Snakes.
I'm gonna give you to the count of ten to get your lying, yellow, no-good keister off my property.


Tuesday, August 17, 2010

Death From Above

A hawk showed up at the pool today, did a couple of low-altitude passes, and scared the shit out of every living thing within the area.

"Oh, sorry. You pussies can't fly without the help of machines? That's pretty gay. What, this thing here? Just some tiny animal I was saving for later. Hold on;
"There we go. Nothing quite like the head of a recently peppy mammal to start the night strong. Yeah, yeah, I'm nocturnal. No biggie. These peepers right here?

"Binocular. Right, something else I do better than you. Didn't mean to rub it in...my apologies. I think I'm gonna drain this little guy of blood over there. Excuse me."

The Sinkhole has been Drained- Run!

After four days of farewell blog entries (thanks to DPCT for ruining the tally and revealing my ignorance of the basics of subtraction), I believe we're finally here...?

It wasn't always easy, it wasn't always fun. It most certainly wasn't always "perceived" by more than one individual. I guess I learned that doing something every day doesn't necessarily make you better at it. It does however ruin your sex life.

That said, let's turn on the lights.

10 of you. really? Oh god.

Ok, well that's not very impressive at all is it? Well, no matter. Joyce's only friend was a three legged potato farm dog wild bear, and look how he turned out. Having spent the past 100 days in an cyber-incubator, who's ready for some HU-MAN IN-TER-AC-TION??! I don't know, or care for that matter, the origin of this blog's name, so at the risk of being a poopy-come-lately, I propose an actual centaur sleepover, naturally by replacing centaurs with ourselves in revealing but mythologically-themed PJs. If that's too "gay", maybe Centaur Brunch? Eh?


I love you all. Let's rejoice.

Monday, August 16, 2010

Life: Vomited

I'm not sure I've made it clear enough -- but if we're gonna make it as a species, we've got to be regurgitating.

No Time For Love

I made arrangements for this evening to eat wings and get drunk with Jaybro and Canadian Tuxedo. Imagine my surprise when the annual Staff Dinner was rescheduled...for tonight.
Imagine my surprise when, although usually a fancy affair involving classy duds and five star dining, the Dinner will be held at a board member's house. The board members will be cooking for us instead of a professional chef.
No seven course meal.
No twenty-five year old scotch.
No thousand dollar, scale-tipping bill.
You cheap bastards. You dirty little rat dicks. How dare you spit in my face and then compound a night of gluttony with more gluttony. I'm not a large man! I can't handle this much pressure!

Sunday, August 15, 2010


I have as much patience as the next man, but I'm finished with you, M. Night Shamalam. I'm not saying it's entirely your fault; there are too many unknowns. For now, you're simply in the lead.

To get to the point, Shamalamalama Ding-Dong, you fail at subtlety. This tragic flaw of yours is epitomized by having your terrible excuse for a sympathetic main character embodied by one of Hollywood's most distasteful, veiny big shots. Sure, you may not have known what he was to become in this century, but come on, you must have had at least an idea. Mel is a self-identified Knight Templar Reserve, owns ten veal farms across California, and probably considered making you an offer on your name. And you expect to be able to give directions to a guy like that? Unforgivable mistake.

Sorry, this is meant to be about you, not Mel. I'm partly at fault for wasting two hours of my adult life on a plot-line that amounted to a three year old's scribbling. I should have read the six hundred reviews out there denouncing this artistic equivalent of a lawn mower. But dammit, I couldn't help it. Why do you always make movies with such sort-of intriguing concepts? And the way you always preface your name in your trailers with "From The Mind of...". Ach, why can't it all just come together? It always seems like it might happen. But it never does Shammy. It never does.

I Don't Know What To Say

So I will quote an advertisement from a fitness magazine I happened upon:

Like a whirlwind whips the desert sand, delicious BULLNOX™ whips up a NOX-carrying "Androrush" that protects and strengthens your pumps on the battlefield. Through the power of BULLNOX™, every muscle is able to swell larger and its strength and power last longer.

Lightening bolts everywhere? You betcha! An Actual representation of a bull charging through said deadly electricity? No doubt! Notable ingredients include an "neuro-emotive energy?" WHAT THE FUCK, YES!
Pardon me, I need to supplement my balls with some delicious NOX.

/six days
//regrets nothing

Saturday, August 14, 2010


Gotta go, gotta go, gotta go right now!
Friendship is calling, and she is a nimble mistress. I shall make haste to catch her fleeting image before another of her twisting shadows slithers through my titan's grasp. Please, prepare the love stones. Ready my essential ethereal oils and the scented doom-candle. The nymph of chums will be mine!

Message from Poop Snacks of the Past.

My Friend and I bought beanie babies when they first came out because we were in fourth grade and for some reason our parents decided to give us allowances. We sat on either side of my room with the ceiling fan on high and tactfully tossed them up into the cyclone above us, causing them to whip at tremendous speeds into various objects and eye sockets. Once we tired ourselves of that particular waste of time, I decided to sell my friend the beanie babies. This was the summer of '95. I sold them for my missing 18 lego pieces to the Division Bell special edition. Eight Months later, the craze hit. Dude made $500 at the age of 10, before Ebay.

You know what happened to that kid?

Friday, August 13, 2010

Goofy Clown Face

"There's Nothing Quite Like It, You Know..."

I assure you; this is the best crew money can buy. We run a very safe operation here.
Insurance!? And I thought you were cool. Courageous, even! But, I mean, if you're gonna act like this I might as well ju-
Oh, well. Glad to hear you've come around. Ha-ha! Get it!? Come around?
But seriously. I'm going to need for you to sign these waivers. "Liability" is just a fancy word for your ability to lie about doing this. You want to waive that. Besides, when we're through here you'll be clawing for attention from friends, family, local news, you name it!
It's a saying, friend. You don't have to keep naming things.
Okay, now initial this form for the laboratory-grade safety goggles. Very necessary, trust me. I'm not saying there's any risk of retinal damage or blindness, but you don't want that stuff swimming around up there. I'm sure you've heard the urban legends-
You haven't!? Christ, you are new. No, you don't sign there. That's where the coroner signs if-
Just a special kind of doctor. Again, safety precaution. Now, now; no nervous Nancy's allowed on our crew! Okay, almost finished! You've made a wise decision. This is a top notch internship opportunity. You're going to be at the foreskin, uh, front of our profession. I can see it now: You and I, rulers of a carpet-stained kingdom!
See you Monday!



Thursday, August 12, 2010

Pussy Face

I lopped the beard off. Not a mistake insofar as there have been definitive benefits:

1. Gave my face it's first good scrubbing in a few months.
2. Finally look ten years younger and 500% less manly.
3. The pleasure of destroying something beautiful.

...but it will be (is) missed. Things are significantly more tactile now.
Lots of things.
I was wholly unprepared.

Fret not! A few more days of clean-shaving and pretty soon she'll be prepped for a winter coat. What can I say? There's just something about beards that really...

...grows on me.


What's Ours Will Always be Ours.

Listen blog. I... I think, I don't think this is working out. It's been a long time. I....I just think we could...

It was great while it lasted. But we've grown apart! Yes, yes we have. Just admit it.


Now come on, you don't have to cry. We both know you'll find someone new. Yes, you'll find someone-- I'm a no one. You'll do better. I'll do better. Think about it, we have plenty of things going for both of us. You have your....your.

Stop. Your. Damn. Crying.

See, this is exactly what I'm talking about. You sit there in your pajamas like you own this thing, with your hankie and your plastic pee-wee whatever trophies. I can't get through to you anymore. It's meaningless! All of it! Meaningless I tell you!!

We can't go on like this. We. Can. Not.

Your move, Pussyface.

Wednesday, August 11, 2010

A Dolt Swim

"Attention Whofleck's Swim Club:
It is now time for a dolt swim. All pink and blue cardholders,
please clear the pool...
and the deck.
That is all."


They're essential to any unsustainable super-empire. They give a lot and take very little. Landscaping, lunch parlors, bicycle-related activities, all have flourished under their hard, stout labor. Their children, ashamed of their heritage, will be eager to dispose of their past and assimilate (which, according to Merriam, the WEB, is Latin for "engorge"...which is Latin for Thanksgiving).

The MLS has some foreigners. But not enough. I just don't understand it. We have a temperate climate, an excess of running water, affordable man-servitude. You'd think we

By the way: Yes, I am talking about the MLS, also known as the Major League Soccer.

Now, I'm not "familiar" with statistics relating to this subject. It seems my internet save isn't what it used to be. However, during tonight's New York Red Bulls vs Toronto FC game, I managed to corner a local "futballer", Estoban, who, while only being 14 years old, has already lived quite a life. He regaled me with some tales from home, his tiny car, his muddy feet, his flock of chickens he's tended since hatching. It was adorable. We talked. Bonded. He had comments. Constructive criticisms. His appreciation for the hot-dog was astounding. The Dixie Cup, immeasurable. Affection for JGL, carefully concealed (I know one when I see one). As for the level of play: "There's so much grass on these fields. I love America!"

Welcome to America, amigo.

Tuesday, August 10, 2010

An Obsession: /Explain'd!

Fast-forward twenty years:

/great comic
//no veins

Earth Mother

Not sure why I don't trust anyone but her when I read things like this.

Monday, August 9, 2010

Barbershop Blues

Got my hair cut this afternoon. Was concerned when I walked past my usual barber on the street. She assured me that I would be swiftly taken care of by equally talented employees.
"Hey, I'm Katie! Sit down."
This seems harmless. Carefully explain desired look. She starts talking.
"So what do you do?"
Blah blah writing blah blah Science Fiction blah movies blah blah blah.
"I LOVE Science Fiction; horror, too! What do you write about? Any books yet?
Promising. Blah blah anthropologist explorers blah tribal communities blah ancient traditions blah blah blah dying inside.
"Oh man, have you ever seen The Dark Crystal?"
/heart skips a beat
Touch, barber. You have taste and are successfully holding conversation that does not bore me, as is typical. I fucking love that movie. Those puppets!
"And those backdrops! You just don't see oil-paintings screened like that anymore. It's been difficult to search through the books lately for quality, what do you recommend?"
The ball is in my court, eh? The annual anthologies are a good start, but I just finished George R. R. Martin's Dreamsongs Volume II if you are interested; I think you would be stunned by his collections.
"Awesome! You'll have to write it down so I don't forget. I've just gotten into Twilight myself."
/sinking feeling
Okay, Whofleck...time for damage control. Yea, my little sister prefers the True Blood books and they seem a bit more interesting to me.
"Oh, I totally agree. The TV series is phenomenal. I just remembered! Heart-Shaped Box. You should read it."
Okay, okay. Not bad at all. Blah blah vacation this summer blah blah.
"Sea Isle!? Awesome. I love that place. Ever been to Shenanigans?"
You will never find a more wretched hive of scum and villainy.
//dead stare
"...Would you like your eyebrows trimmed."
No thanks.


Livin' The Dream

Just ripped open a 10lb bag of jerky, No work today. No one rocks it like PS rocks it!


Could really use a scotch. I'm a business man now!


Had to leave house. Left freezer open last night. Out of ice. Tough maintaining eye contact.


Left house again after failing to find underwear. Lung's is open. Hmmm....


Phone call reminds me jerky can't, won't pay rent/makes me forget day of week. Boss had difficulty hearing me through beefy mouth and slurring. Decide to rest up in case he calls back.



Woke up, stepped in puddle. Damn it's hot. Dewars, that lonely butler, reminds me not to go to work. We take a walk, but only make it to the hallway.


"Brown nosin' yellow bee ass!" That's really what I said. They didn't hear me, but I said it loud enough so others did. Heading back out there in a few to see if there's a crowd


No crowd as of yet


The tension is insurmountable. Going to be a long one. Soak it up, liver!

/gobbles handfuls of beef

Sunday, August 8, 2010


This is the post where I derail and potentially inflame a friendship with a lovely young female. She offered this article, written by activist Angela Davis in the 80's, as the foundation for a future discussion on the role of women in the home.
Boy, oh boy! Let's begin.
"Just as a woman’s maternal duties are always taken for granted, her never-ending toil as a housewife rarely occasions expressions of appreciation within her family."
Fuck you, Mom! More bologna sandwiches...like, fucking NOW.
"In the final analysis, neither women nor men should waste precious hours of their lives on work that is neither stimulating nor productive."
Honey!? This little infant wants to eat; AGAIN! ... I know! It's like the third time today!
Sure, I'm being predatory. The essay is well-written and mostly supported. I just can't jump the hurdle of one half-claim she makes throughout the work:
Mothers should earn wages for being mothers.
Wait, what? Mom wants a twenty for that bologna sandwich? Forget it. The snack bar offers chicken tender combos for less than six bucks, and there's probably more TLC in a prepackaged Tastykake than in those abominations you call "Brown-Eaze." I guess I'm just a little lost. So having children is a choice?
But you should be compensated financially through the government for not being chemically barren like a good little twenty-something from the suburbs? I remembered to brush my teeth this morning; where's my check? What about that nice lady who wore clothes in public this afternoon? How many government stipends can she redeem for not subjecting us to floppy-flesh?
Is the quality of the mothering in any way graded? Thanks, Mom! I suffered through your brutally absent and often demeaning parenting with almost no molestation and little psychological blow-back from that time you made me eat five pounds of Spotted Dick! Your check should be in the mail any day now! I mean, I bought my mother a bright blue Hydrangea for Mother's Day this year. Do you have any idea how difficult those are to find during that season?
Fully blossomed!?
I'm put off by the notion that being a mother requires monetary returns when you consider all of the indescribable wonders that mothering in the home lends a dedicated woman. Her hardworking man will never get to experience baby's first lie or that time I caught Adam wearing my underwear in the basement.
Okay, all jokes aside? I don't think mothers should earn wages because most of them do shitty work.

Dear, this sure is a lot of work.
I should be paid for it!

It was funny, but I am so fucked.

Baats and bals

Ear tug, nose pinch, shoulder shield, belt brace, crotch cradle: these are the ways major league managers communicate to their players on the field.

I didn't believe it either. But it's true. I went to a game yesterday and watched. As soon as one play is over, the hitting team's manager begins a face-tugging mating ritual. The third base coach interprets and resignals to, well, nobody. Every pitch. Each time, neither the batter nor the runner(s) were watching.

It's no surprise that Mr. Burn's essentially won the game with his hilarious signaling. It's probably the least consequential part of baseball, a game so repetitive that the most exciting aspect, besides gossiping about who's juicing, and seeing who can projectile vomit furthest at the sound of Michael Kay's voice, is the anticipation of a statistical anomaly. Don't get me wrong -- I'm in love with baseball. IN LOVE. Joseph Gordon-Levitt in love. But in a game where almost every possible scenario (personal favorite: most HBPs by a Samoan with 2 outs against a pitcher 30 years or older with hepatitis) has been exhaustively overplayed, how could any manager not be 90% certain of their opponent's strategy?

Who is actually watching those managers, waiting for them to slip up? It can't be worth it to an organization to spend the necessary time and energy to "crack" the intentions of a manager, whose best strategy is always known to both sides. If no one's paying attention anyway, what's the difference if they do steal it?

The answer of course is no one cares about the signals. So why do they do it? Superstition? To keep the 3rd base coach conscious? Authority complex? Honestly, I think it goes back to the old adage about the circle of eccentric Cuban billionaires that secretly control all of baseball and who have miraculously kept Lou Piniella on the payroll long after he should have been thrown in jail . How's that one go again? stupid brain.

Saturday, August 7, 2010


Yeah, I'm going to do it tonight. I expect to be wowed by Ken Watanabe, fucking shit up as usual. I expect Joseph Gordon-Levitt to look handsome and hopefully do better than he did in Rise Of The Cobra. Cillian Murphy? I don't think I need to explain. I expect Ellen Page to look cute and goofy and remind me, with repeated and striking distraction, of an ex-girlfriend. I expect the score to be absolutely fantasBRRRRRRRRRRMMMMMM!

Leonardo Diwho? Whussat?
That idiot from Gilbert Grape!?
Ha-ha! That's the whole joke!

Fun Theory

You called to reinvent
The flow, the incessant,
Our pleasantries without the closed screen.

While back before, the happy humours thinned,
(And could channel below our expressions)
A turn against gravity's pump,
A pulse past the pallor.

Here, take: we control our nightly mutation.
Be glad,
We turn to spiritual spit.
Make room, we're about to start the static
forgetful pressure as gods.

Friday, August 6, 2010


Watching Hellraiser Duex.
Shit is seeeeew money.
Remember how they established in the later films that Pinhead was not named Pinhead and was in fact a British officer during WWI? How gay was that!? Sure, hedonism is grape and all; I just don't see the connection between pure pleasure and pure pain.

/is a prude
//loves Hellraiser

No no no no no.


Can I get an official ruling on this?

Thursday, August 5, 2010


A couple weeks ago I purchased a case of Samuel Adam's Summer Ale. It was a fun surprise for Canadian Tuxedo, who was coming to visit for a party. It was an even more fun surprise for me, when I took a sip at CT's urging.

Instead of bitter, flowery flavor I was treated to a scented, swollen sin of modern brewing.
It tasted like a diaper. It tasted like a diaper because it smelled like a diaper, and then it tasted like a diaper. Regardless, CT and I gulped through our bottles, he with new resentment and I with a fresh sense of guilt.

I returned to the distributor from which I purchased said shit-catching drinks and asked for a different, comparable case. There was no dicking around:
"What's the problem with the beer, bro?"
It tasted like a baby human's diaper.

Now I've searched and searched for an image to replicate the reaction I got from this poor peddler of pints when I revealed the secret ingredient of Samuel Adam's Summer Ale, but to no avail. It is without an ounce of irony I introduce the embedded photo below.
This is almost precisely the face I was offered.

Science Matters Not

Q: If you were being thrown a ticker-tape parade and got to substitute anything for the ticker-tape, what would you choose?

A: Ravioli.

4 Reasons

Soft, messy. Public safety is the highest priority when it comes to parades, especially when deciding on which objects to unload onto the spectator's heads and clothes. Color and texture are tied for second, and edibility last. It's fair to say then that adequately cooked (and well sauced) ravioli make for perfect fanfare. Plus, the sauce makes for some decent press longevity. Spectators can run away from the parade screaming freedom. It'll make for some interesting racial profiling, not to mention unreliable testimonies.

Animals. Once the crowds have dispersed, it's important to make cleanup as easy as possible. The glorious ecology of any city can lend a helping hand. Yes, this may result in overbreeding, but...there's ravioli everywhere!

Italians. If TV has taught me anything, it's that Italians are opportunists. Given that parades have become a notorious breeding ground for the poor and nefarious, a few well-fed Italians can provide all the security you need. But make sure there's plenty to go around--nothing turns on you faster than a hungry Gumba, so I'd make sure there's plenty of plastic cutlery and grated cheese lying around.

History. There's no telling how many photographers will be present at a ravioli-parade, but it's important to set them up with a few Pulitzers, shots juxtaposing the Caligulian nature of the event with the inevitable images of horror and carnage, what with all the red sauce, lest the parade be forgotten behind some obscure Latin American thing.

Wednesday, August 4, 2010

Keeps Me Up At Night

-Here we are...

-Huh...this place is a lot smaller than I remember. Just a first impression I guess. Or cause I'm not serving people in it.

/coughs, chokes, gets some water
-Well, as Americans we often feel we need more than we...um, need. Space, that is. I prefer a humble...abode. I mean, we're a lot like gas, heh heh...we expand the limits of our containers.

/everyone takes a sip

-Can I ask you something?
-I remember a lot more pictures of your family on the mantle over there.

/lung collapses
-We redecorate for the summer. We're out of the apartment for the most part. In the Hamptons, you know.
-Ahh. "Vacationing"
-You know I worked in the Hamptons, not far from you.
/everyone sips
//insects ride the wave
-I love a woman who toils.
-Is this the Fugees?
-Do you think it's true what she said about white people and killing her baby?
/leans in



Childhood: Deceased

I loved Winnie. I still have a poster of Pooh-bear in my office.
Canadian Tuxedo, my thanks. You've done what I once may have called "impossible à faire."
I bequeath unto you this piece of art.

I should have drawn the pot cracked.

Blustery Days

Christopher Robin: Oh how I do love a good stroll through the Hundred-Acre wood! Such a fine lot of adventures it has brought me in my young life!

Christopher Robin: Wait! What's that? Over yonder hill? Why, I do believe it's my good friend Winnie the Pooh!

Winnie: Christopher Robin! My best friend! Hello! Have you got any Honey in that picnic basket of yours?

Christopher Robin: Well Pooh-Bear, I just might! Let's have a look!

/opens picnic basket





/closes picnic basket

Christopher Robin: I knew I remembered to bring some, Pooh! But look, the honey is attracting bees! What should we do?

Winnie: Follow me, Christopher Robin, we'll run deeper into the woods where the bees can't get to us and our precious honey!

/run deeper into woods

Winnie: See Christopher Robin, I told you we would be safer here!

Christopher Robin: And right you were, Pooh-bear! A boy sure is lucky to have a friend like you, Winnie! Let's have a bit of this honey, shall we?

/phone rings

Winnie: Oh, Christopher Robin, what could that be? I think that tree over there is...ringing!

Christopher Robin: Well gee, Pooh...I guess you'd better answer it!

Winnie: Hello?

/labored breathing


Winnie: Hello?


Mel Gibson
: So I've been doing some thinking and I'm ready. I'm ready to talk about forgiving you. Forgiving you, you know. Because we have a child together.

Winnie: Umm...may I ask who is calling?

Mel Gibson: May I....MAY I...are you serious with that shit? Do you think anyone believes you actually talk like that? They're laughing at you. This is Winnie's phone isn't it? I know what women want.

Winnie: Well...this is Winnie...and I am on this phone...but I don-

Mel Gibson: Jesus Christ. Jesus shit-eating Christ. How did you get so stupid? Do you think I'm a fool? You're making me look like a fool. Everyone talks about what a dumb idiot whore you are. You cunt. You're nothing. You're nothing. Go hide in those woods. It could be The Thousand- Fucking- Acre- Wood and I'll still fucking find you, you honey-felching dicktrap. One thousand acres isn't enough, let alone one hundred. I'm not going to let you make fool out of me. Apocalypto was transcendent.




Winnie: Umm-


/hangs up treephone
//hears crying from nearby bushes

Winnie: Christopher Robin, I think I hear someone crying from those nearby bushes!

/bushes rustle

Winnie: Is he....is he gone?

/bushes rustle