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.

PLOOT

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.

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?

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.

Yo Momma Brought You Up Wrong Muthafucka!

My respect for Mark Walhberg has gone up 6 trillion percent....

...does that make me a racist?

Wikipedia:
As a teenager, Wahlberg participated in multiple acts of violence and vandalism. He later claimed to have been in trouble 20–25 times with the Boston Police Department as a youth. By the age of thirteen Wahlberg had developed a serious addiction to cocaine and other substances...When he was sixteen (again using racist language) after robbing a pharmacy under the influence of PCP, Wahlberg knocked a middle aged Vietnamese man unconscious, left another Vietnamese man permanently blinded in one eye, and attacked a security guard. For these crimes, Wahlberg was charged for attempted murder, pled guilty to assault, and was sentenced to two years in jail at Boston's Deer Island House of Correction, of which he served 45 days. In yet another incident, the 21-year-old Wahlberg fractured the jaw of a neighbor in an unprovoked attack. Commenting on his youthful indiscretions, Wahlberg has stated : "I did a lot of things that I regretted and I certainly paid for my mistakes".

Paid for my mistakes?!!

This man is my hero. And by hero, I mean its great fantasizing about being a 15 yr old PCP addict on the stand for attempted murder.

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!

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

-Now.....go.
/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!

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.

Chinese poop humor

Your daily poop-snack.

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

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.

/swallows
//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?

Leia...unescorted?

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

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.

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."



I don't know what to do.

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?

Custom Mugs?

Pigeons will not and do not fuck with me, categorically, because I wear the shades. They scatter when I don't think about wearing my shades indoors and, since I'm being real, I never think about wearing my shades indoors. And before I get too meta about it, the very fact that I'm not thinking about it makes the whole pigeon collective too collectively distressed for anybody still sill-dwelling to look in and verify it. Real pigeons are like dry grundles: they do not exist. I like to make sure they don't exist by placing upon the bridge of my nose my shades and remind those orange lidless eyes that we all look and feel like Ray Charles alone and inside.

Quietly....

-Slap me. I said SLAP me. Call me a duck breast. I'm a perfectly cooked duck breast.

-You're all pink.

-You can eat poultry rare, I read it. It's not like the fifties. Feel that layer of fat? I'm a lazy duck breast, aren't I?

-No, I mean you're really pink.

-Pair me. I go well -- HEY! watch it.

-Well put down the tea.

-I'm busy pairing myself.

-What the hell...

-Mango Salad. Tennis. I go great after a game of tennis.

-I think you should see a doctor. It's all bubbly and raised.

-You should really take me off the heat.

-How did this happen?

-I am the hunted. You: the hunter.

/slips on mouth noise, drools

-Oh God.

Spend it on an orgy kids!

I'm goinna start over, because I know you weren't listening. So there we were. Where were we? Well, we were in Poughkeepsie, where we all lived. Most of us lived there that is: Terry, Jerry, Cooper, Knox, Esther the Harlot, and of course Fibler. Fibler's the one who used to fix things. Poughkeepsie wasn't like it is today. We only had one gas station for the entire village, and before that, we didn't have any! The whole dang place ran on onion oil, which was about as abundant as the cats in Knoxie's backyard cat farm. Those cats sure did whine a lot. I was of the school of thought that cats weren't meant to live in pens, or even wear socks, but that Knoxie made sure each one of those little pesks had two fresh pairs every sixth moon, which was a lot in those days. Me and Esther used to trade socks periodically to keep from getting the footrot. Show me a cat outta Knoxie's cat farm that suffered from footrot I used to say and I'll show you a free meal! Those were the kinds of jokes we used to tell back then. Of course when Fibler got pinched he blamed it on me, citing all the jokes about eating the cats. I came at him with my switch and they pinned me down for damn near two hours till my mouth stopped its foamin'. Does that answer your question dear?
















That all you got, Missy?

Itsyo move, Pussy-Face

Am I too old, at a point where I just can't see the 21st century Passenger 57's being made all around me? Are they so targeted at the 10 year old I once was that my brain cannot even register them? Or is it that everyone has finally realized, after an incredible wealth of evidence, that Wesley Snipes is actually from the future, and thus is forbidden by SAG to star in any new Hollywood movies? (Interesting sidenote: a similar circumstance drove James Carville from his stage-acting career and into the news room, though his banishment had to do with a brief stint in a Tolkien reality, not a journey from the future). Regardless, I curse the day I let my cynicism ruin every vapid action movie since Face-Off.

If anyone wants to join me for a marathon film festival featuring the following films, please let me know. I'll be the one in my room.

Passenger 57
The Rock
Predator 2
Die Hard: With A Vengeance
The Negotiator
Aladdin
Bad Boys

Dontcha miss the hell outta him?

Point: A-Rod should have as many centaur themed self-portraits as he wants

Really, just imagine you're a woman. Just four hours ago you were drinking vodka-cranberries in your studio apartment with four co-workers you really doesn't know or like all that much. You applied a thong and lipstick for the 10,000th time, and now, after barely ten minutes of chit chat with the guy, you're walking into the $8 million upper west side luxury apartment owned by none other than the New York Yankee's Dominican Prince, Alex Rodriguez.

You slip off your knee-high laced heels because he says he's got a "Japanese thing going", and feel beneath your feel the comfort of the finest rug the D.R. has ever exported. A is off in some hidden room, prepping. The walls are covered with framed action shots of some of Alex's greatest swings, diving plays, and photo-ops with urban youth. Three hanging candelabras burn, and you breathe the fine aroma of honeydew, Gold Bond, and waxed pubis.

Then, you hear a voice. From out of no where, a satyr dressed in a tuxedo emerges with a glass of champagne on a tray. His face resembles A's, except it shifts when you look closely. You don't look. You take the champagne and walk turn away in disgust. But when you glance back, you see him, A. The Rod.

"Come on Dottie."
"Joanie"
"Danny."

He beckons you, and you say nothing. What is left to say. You've been called by the king of kings to his love chamber. You walk down a long dark hallway lit only sporadically with candles high above your head. The hallway feels endless, and you're kind of wondering where the bathroom is. You feel gassy, and you know its unhealthy to hold it. Oh well.

At the end of the hallway is a room, glowing like fire. As you near, you feel the radiance of the divine, the gentle stabbing of ecstasy. A seems to grow as the light get's brighter, heavier, and he's full now, grown into something new, something pure and eternal. You're there. He turns and behind him, above his fifteen foot diameter bed, is a portrait of Alex Rodriguez in his natural, god-given form.

Without that coup de grace, where would A-Rod be, eh?