- Salvador Dali
Tuesday, August 31, 2010
Monday, August 30, 2010
Poop Snacks: Thank you, Don. I know how hard you've worked to gain this account. We're looking forward to your pitch.
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:
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
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.
I've been smelling football lately.
Saturday, August 28, 2010
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.
EDDIE: Harbinger of black destruction, soldier, powerslave, assassin, timecop, Pharaoh, grave robber.
Friday, August 27, 2010
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
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
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
Friday, August 20, 2010
Thursday, August 19, 2010
Wednesday, August 18, 2010
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
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
Sunday, August 15, 2010
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.
Saturday, August 14, 2010
Friday, August 13, 2010
Thursday, August 12, 2010
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
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
Monday, August 9, 2010
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
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
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.
We turn to spiritual spit.
Make room, we're about to start the static
forgetful pressure as gods.
Friday, August 6, 2010
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
No no no no no.
Thursday, August 5, 2010
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
-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.
-Can I ask you something?
-I remember a lot more pictures of your family on the mantle over there.
-You know I worked in the Hamptons, not far from you.
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?
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!
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.
Mel Gibson: I SWEAR ON THE SIX POINTS OF THE JEW SHURIKEN! I WILL FIND YOU! I WILL FIND YOU AND I WILL SWING AWAY MERRILL ON YOUR SMUG FUCKING CHILD-STEALING FACE. KEEP FISTING THAT HONEYPOT AND SEE WHERE IT GETS YOU! FIST THAT HONEYPOT ALL NIGHT YOU WORTHLESS SACK OF SEBUM! YOU ARE A PUSTULE! YOU DRESS LIKE A LITTLE PIGLET TRANNY DEPOT AND EVERYONE KNOWS YOU LIKE HOW YOU LOOK DRESSED LIKE THAT. IF YOU GET RAPED BY A PACK OF TIGGERS, IT WILL BE YOUR FAULT. I HOPE YOU GET RAPED BY A PACK OF TIGGERS YOU HONEYED COMBDUMPSTER! A WHOLE PACK OF TIGGERS!
/hangs up treephone
//hears crying from nearby bushes
Winnie: Christopher Robin, I think I hear someone crying from those nearby bushes!
Winnie: Is he....is he gone?