Oscars 2010: Celebrity Circle Jerk Bukkake

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Jeremy Renner is a midget

What are you looking at?

Oh, is it this bomb in the road? Don't worry about that. I got it.

Yeah, I'm pretty badass.

I diffuse bombs under tense circumstances on foreign soil. But something you might not know about me: I'm fucking tiny.

Yeah, like really fucking tiny. When I fuck doggystyle, I stand on a stool. Women find it unnerving.

You saw The Hurt Locker? Yeah, the rest of the cast were little people. You know, dwarves. Midgets. Anthony Mackie? We had him stand in ditches the whole time just to make me look normal sized.

Seriously, I'm FUCKING TINY. They had to get my costume from those child mercenaries who fight civil wars in third world countries. They don't make American army fatigues in my size.

If the movie was a fire drill, I'd be the first in line.

No, really, I'm fucking tiny.

Greetings From the Keystone State

This counts! This totally counts!

I'll be back with substance tomorrow. Or at least more words than this.

Episode IV: A New Post

It is a period of civil war. Desperate Pickle, striking while his counterpart is sequestered in a secluded part of the mid-Atlantic, has won yet another victory against the evil Canadian Tuxedo.

During this weekend, the Tuxedo managed to author a post before his departure. Pickle stole the secret plans to Tuxedo's ultimate weapon: a post about choose-your-own-adventure books. You'd have thought this advance warning would have allowed the pickle to craft a hilarious post in response.

You would be wrong.

Pursued by the knowledge of CT's superior comedic prowess, DP hastily throws together a post including a surprisingly awesome and hypnotic solo song by the late Robin Tyner of The MC5. He races home aboard his starship, custodian of the stolen post that can save his people and restore freedom to the centaur-blog...

Subservient Brunette Preteens: A Film by Canadian Tuxedo

Canadian Tuxedo is romping around in Pennsylvania this weekend. He says he may not have access to a computer to post from. I find this to be both suspect and despicable. So I'm posting this for him. The title is mine. All the rest is his. I mean, if that selfish bastard can't be bother to post his own stuff then...

...

OH GOD I MISS HIM ALREADY.

Anyway, here's his post for the day.

Look at the cover of this book. I read this book in grade school. In fact the school library had a ton of choose your own adventure books just like this one, and I read them all. School is supposed to give you skills for life. But all these books did was make me think that being an adult was going to be incredible. Look at that cover again. YOU'RE THE STAR OF THE STORY! And we wonder why we are a generation obsessed with celebutantes and famous trainwrecks. You know how I choose my adventure?

WILL YOU HIT SNOOZE?

CANNED TUNA WITH SOUP FOR DINNER?

DOMESTIC LIGHT BEER OR DOMESTIC LIGHT BEER?

No computer named H.E.N.R.Y. No subservient brunette preteens. No gleaming gold and red armor spacesuit with jetpack and blaster pistol. Dell desktop, no one, and No-Wrinkle Dockers are the things adulthood has afforded me.

Ralph Reese must have the saddest or coolest life ever to draw something like this. Space Patrol?! Why is the blaster pistol drawn on the ship's bridge?! IF YOU WOULD LIKE TO KILL EVERYONE USING THE VACUUM OF SPACE TURN TO THE NEXT PAGE.

I hope you are all choosing your own adventures this weekend- and if you're lucky, you'll be able to predict if it's going to be a happy or sad ending and pre-emptively flip back to where you started and choose the better option. I always did that. It was the childhood literary equivalent of the Plan B pill.

IF YOU'D LIKE TO WASTE YOUR TIME AGAIN CLICK "REFRESH" AND START READING.

Craigslist Matchmaker: Reading, PA Edition

Helpful, insightful matchmaking comments in lavenderish.

Couple looking for a friend-n-more - mw4w - 30 GAS-N-GO!

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Date: 2010-02-20, 7:25AM EST Hey. Honey? You awake? Good. Let's post our Ad.

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We are a good looking couple looking for a female friend to hang out with. If anything more happens great, if not and a friendship forms great too. If a rash forms... We enjoy the outdoors, motorcycles, tattoos. What could go wrong? The female half is bisexual and this would be more for her, the male half is not looking for a new girlfriend, I repeat he is not looking for a new girlfriend. No, no, honey, this is way more about you. You're all I need. Except for another woman. Repeat, except for another woman. We both have jobs and she goes to school too, so we are mainly looking for someone that can hang out on the weekends mainly sundays and if things go well week nights or more on the weekend. So pretty much all the time. But not as a new girlfriend! We are both very open, not controlling and believe it or not we are very drama free. Haven't seen Les Miserables in years! DRAMA FREE, so you be too. We do not do drugs, We do not do drugs. We just type like it like it. So if you are a drug user/abuser, please move on. We do enjoy a few drinks though. We travel alot, we enjoy going places and think it would be cool to have someone that wanted to go with us. Not looking for a girlfriend. Just someone who spends time with us after work and on weekends, gets a few drinks, and travels with us. And the sex. We go to Jim Thorpe hiking and swimming then hit the pub for a few cold ones, we go to NYC to hang out and check out the stores, we go to Baltimore to check out the club scene, and the aquarium too, we'll go to the occasional strip club, breakfast at Panera Bread, or the motorcycle swap meet in Harrisburg. That's quite a Saturday. We are not looking for barbie WE WANT ANTHROPOLOGIST SKIPPER but we want someone that is in relatively good shape, and has a nice smile. She is very slim, he is well built. Like an outdoors motorcycle threesome enthusiast. We both have tattoos, she is blond today, and bruinette Bruin? Net? tomorrow, wears leg warmers, fishnets, and mini skirts and jeans and a t shirt. The last time I wore fishnets, a trainer died. NO MEN. No boyfriend drama. It'll be like an Indigo Girls concert! We are looking for someone between the ages of 24 to 40. But a young 40. Like 24. We don't mind kids, we love them, so kids are not a problem. Hi, I'm Chris Hansen with Dateline NBC. Hope to hear from you soon. Or on March 5. Also you don't have to be from schuylkill county, but we prefer if you are not more than 35-40 minutes away. We're only a heartbeat away.

AND THE PERFECT MATCH:

First timer - w4mw - 26

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Date: 2010-03-05, 10:04AM EST

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looking for a no pressure meeting to see where things go 26 average built open to new things

You'll do just fine rookie. GET YOUR FISHNET DRAMA READY.

Failure to pay federal income tax

I don't blame you, Mr. Capone. Taxes are difficult. And you didn't even have TurboTax. In the immortal words of Chris Rock, I'm not saying you should've done it... but I understand. The federal (and for that matter, state) tax code is set up as a maze of incomprehensible nonsense who's sole purpose is to befuddle the taxpayer. I have no idea what any of it means. Tax credit? Tax refund? Deduction? 1099-INT? 1099-DIV? W-2? I feel like I'm playing Battleship only instead of a joyful board gaming experience, I lose my money. I make... well, let's just say it's not a lot of money. I don't make very much money. And yet somehow, according to TurboTax, I owe the state of New York an additional like $170. I have some investments and things, but in case you weren't paying attention for the last year and a half, we're in a recession. So everything I own LOST value. And yet, here we are. Look, I don't object to paying taxes. I'm not Wesley Snipes. They pay for schools and police officers and roads and public works and all sorts of things that I am in favor of. Libraries. But the point is - firefighters - the point is that I feel like I end up paying them twice. Public transportation. Once when they take it out of my paycheck to begin with and once at the end of the year when I inevitably owe them more somehow. Public parks.

This also could just be one of those times when I am proving myself to be a completely inadequate adult. You're SUPPOSED to be able to do your own taxes. And yet, I'm a hair away from calling H&R Block. I want to be one of those "I got people," guys... Is that the right ad campaign? 15 minutes could save you 15% or more on your tax return? Yeah, that sounds about right.

Anyway, it's almost the weekend. Go out there and have some fun. It's supposed to be warm. In the Caymans. I don't think they pay taxes there.

Snow plows. Municipal fairs.

I'm done.

Mountain Don't

The Mayor of Philadelphia is imposing a tax of two cents per ounce on any beverage that contains added or artificial sweeteners. It's called the soda tax, and it is expected to bring in $77 million in tax revenue for Philadelphia next year. Oh..what...it's not called the soda tax officially? What is it officially called? Oh, the Healthy Philadelphia Initiative. So is it a tax or an initiative? It's both! Laxative!

See, over 50% of Philadelphia children are overweight or obese. And it's all because soda is so cheap. A 20oz soda that will now cost 40 cents more means that instead of wanting that Coke after cutting Gym, chubby widdle Billy Delphia will now reach for a conservative handful of carrots and take up pilates. World saved? World saved. But wait, how is this a solution to both the $150 million deficit Philadelphia faces next year AND obesity?

We need those fat children to buy soda to make up the deficit! If the initiative works and it prices people out of buying soda, the tax revenue aspect will fail and the deficit will remain. If the initiative fails, Philadelphia will be rolling in dough. Dough they will immediately deep fry and and consume in an eating contest. We will be unhealthy or we will be insolvent, but Mayor Nutter will be damned if we'll be both. This will not make make children healthier. This will create some revenue, but will not bring Philadelphia's ledger into the black. If there was a tax on paradoxical initiatives, we wouldn't have this problem.

One day I'm going to follow in Mayor Nutter's footsteps and I'm going to fail at solving one problem by pretending to address two problems. I will call this parenting.

Oh, hey, good morning!

Good morning!


It is the simplest thing in the world to say.


As a receptionist, I say it probably a hundred times every day.


And you know what? A ton of people say precisely nothing in return. How hard is it to just say "good morning" right back? Or even just grunt? An unintelligible acknowledgement of the fact that another human being has greeted you? I'd even accept the "what's up" head nod. The very briefest and least taxing movement of the neck would suffice. But no. Most people just move along.


I don't understand it. I do it as a reflex. If someone I don't know greets me, I still greet them back. I don't even register it happening. It's just something that goes on. I could pass Pol Pot on the street and if he said "good morning," I guarantee you I'd say "hey, how's it going," or something, without even thinking. It also helps that I'm not sure I could identify Pol Pot just on sight. But I really wanted to avoid Godwin's law. So I went with Pol Pot.


Ugh.


Good morning!

Walter...

I know things got out of hand last night. I know you only agreed to see me because you thought I could be mature about it. Well, I'm sorry. I thought I had put all those feelings away, but I hadn't.
I...I wish you would look at me.

.....

Okay. But...I wore the cummy teardrop scarf you gave me for my birthday last year. Remember that day? Remember how warm it was? Sometimes I wonder if it was actually that warm, or if it was just because we were together. I never told you...but I didn't want to wear this scarf for a long time after you gave it to me. Not because I didn't like it- I love it, you know that -but because it still smelled like your apartment. And I didn't want to wear it because I could just close my eyes and pretend I was with you.

.....

I understand. I don't deserve to be looked at after what happened. My face doesn't deserve to face your face.

Life is full of possibilities

First of all, I seriously have no idea what this picture is. But it's disgusting and it's one of the first images that shows up when you Google image search "office job." To be honest, I was expecting more porn of the "office sex" genre and less of the "fat guy on his floor half nude fixing a computer" type images. But that's neither here nor there. This picture is like a car crash. A fat, naked car crash. I can't look away.

The reason I was Google image searching that was that I daydream a lot about other jobs I could be doing. I was a theater major in college precisely so that I wouldn't have to work in a regular office job. And yet, here I am, working a shitty office job to support my semi-existent theater career. That is so counter-productive it's ludicrous. One of the side effects of advanced education in this country is that we emerge at the age of 22 with no discernable skills. I can write a perfectly adequate compare/contrast essay regarding the Hegelian dialectical approach vis a vis the Nietzschian Apollonian-Dionysian dichotomy in theatre, but I don't know how to build a fire. Or fix an air conditioner. Or drive a car. Or ride a bike. Or pleasure a woman. Okay, I'm a failure of a man. I blame my parents. They didn't teach me shit. I can't do any of the things a man of my age, status and education is supposed to be able to do. I'm a receptionist. Literally, a trained parrot could do my job. That isn't an exaggeration in the slightest. I have thought a great deal about how to train just such a creature so that I could stop coming to work and no one would notice. It's emminently doable.

But this got me thinking.

What are the jobs I COULD do? And which would I most like to have? I immediately dismissed all jobs that I couldn't physically do (Professional football player, Army Ranger, porn star etc.) and then moved on to deciding which of the remainder I would like to do the most. I tried to ignore financial compensation as a criteria. Here's what I came up with:

1. Olympic curler - I've been through this before on here, but I just really want an Olympic medal. And as a curler I think I'd have a shot. It's not that physically taxing and I'd really enjoy learning a new skill. My obscene dedication to and training regimen with regard to my masturbation habits is going to help with that sweeping motion. The sport itself is just obscure enough to give you some hipstery-cool, but just mainstream enough that people will be impressed when you tell them you're on the Olympic team.

2. Major film studio executive - You don't think I could do this job? ANYONE could do this job. And do it better than the assholes who do it now. These people greenlighted not one but TWO sequels to Big Momma's House. But the job would be amazing because a) you get to watch movies and talk about movies and read movie scripts ALL THE FUCKING TIME, b) people respect and fear you and take you out to expensive, boozy, sushi-filled lunch and c) when you inevitably get fired, your severance is higher than your salary ever was. BONUS: My Semitic heritage is a big ole plus in Hollywood. In case you haven't heard, those people RUN THE FUCKING MEDIA.

3. Scuba diving instructor -My brother used to do this. It's fucking awesome. You just get to scuba dive all day. If I didn't get seasick, I would have been all over this shit. I love diving but the whole "being on a boat" thing sucks for me. I puke a lot. All over myself. It's delightful. Any activity that involves a lot of vomiting is not a good one for me. Hence, the lack of "vomitorium manager" on this list. So if I could just be a diving instructor who never had to do long boat trips, that would be ideal. Get working on that, God.

4. Teacher at super-rich private school - Teachers in general fit exactly my profile. Those who can't do, teach. But being a teacher in one of the places that actually needs teachers (inner cities, impoverished rural areas etc.) is scary because the kids are tougher than you. And might be packing heat. I would be so scared of my own students. But teaching at a snooty private school? Where the kids are all just stoned and spoiled? That I could do. And you get the WHOLE SUMMER OFF. I would probably drink a lot though. Like every day after school, I'd go home and drink some whiskey and listen to Nina Simone and beat my self with a knotted-rope. I don't know, it sounded right in my head.

5. Morgue assistant - Now wait, hear me out. I couldn't be the guy doing autopsies or embalming or any of that; to refresh your memory (I know this is getting long) I have no skill set. But just being the guy, like hanging out at the front desk, moving the occasional corpse from one freezer to another, coordinating with funeral homes. It would be interesting at the very least. People would rememeber what you do for a living. As opposed to now. Every time someone tells me where they work, I immediately forget unless I have a personal connection to it or it's something really wacky and absurd. I think it would also be a daily reminder that life is precious. To not waste a single moment. To wash your hands often.... Okay, I fuck dead people.

6. Video game tester - Actually, I think I'm not good enough at video games to do this. But if I was, I think it would be fun. Although, can you imagine if you did that for a job? Would you never just play them for fun? I'm a receptionist and now that means that when I'm not at work I hate answering the phone. Just hate it. I wonder whether video game testing would do the same thing to you. I have a friend who watches TV for product placement/ad placement for a living. I think he hates TV now. At first the job was awesome but gradually he grew to resent it. And I think he's still stuck doing it. Come to think of it, I haven't seen him in a while. I hope he's not like Ellen Burstyn in Requiem for a Dream.

I could go on and on. But I won't. Add yours in the comments if you so desire. Or don't. It's a free country. And it's not like I'm getting paid for this shit... Waitaminute!:

7. Professional blogger

Verbatim

In the Supermarket:

20 something male: "Is Easter when Jesus died, or is that when Jesus killed somebody?"

20 something female: "I'm not sure."

Me: "Jesus Christ."

We Are All The Shai-Hulud

As I moved up the subway stairs this morning, trudging through along with the tired, weary masses, I was overcome by the feeling that we are the giant sandworms of the Planet Arrakis. The Shai-Hulud, if you will. And I was Paul Atreides. I just needed my maker hooks to snare the beast and ride it through the wasteland. All those bodies, moving in rolling unison, like the segmented corpus of the spice-making sandworm. We are all connected through this ecosystem, all tied to the melange, the spice.

And then I remembered that I had smoked meth with my cereal.

But I Tigress.

I don't know if I'm alone in this, or if I'm merely the first person I know to reach out to the world about confusing prepubescent lust for fictional female figures in little boys.

Oh, you've decided to keep reading? Very well then. Bold. These are the women who made me know I was a boy before I knew that boys wanted to do things to women. At least, some boys do. If that sentence only kind of made sense, that is exactly the point.

5.) Cheetara- She's a Thundercat! This show stopped it's original run when I was 4. It ran in syndication a bit. I remember nothing of plotlines or themes or other cat humanoids. One of 'em was blue. But ooooh Cheetara, you mynx (almost literally!). You were the reason we were not a pet family.

4.) Poison Ivy from Batman The Animated Series- This series was mine, all mine. Fox, 4PM. Poison Ivy, the crimson poison flower that bloomed through the cracks of Gotham's gritty noir terrorscape, made me think that I would grow up to marry a cartoon. AND I MIGHT.

3.) The Brunette Diver from National Lampoon's Christmas Vacation. We never saw them. She removed her bathing suit and we never saw them. The camera just wouldn't pan low enough. I once stood in front of the TV and peered down into it, thinking I'd be able to see them. My grandfather yelled at me. I was too young to actually berate though. I just knew I wanted to see.

2.) Barbie Dolls. It's the saddest, creepiest cliche. My sister was done playing with her Barbies just as I was discovering their appeal. Looking at a Barbie without pants on is the fastest way to learn nothing about sex or why it hurts to stand up sometimes. The basement in my parents' home will always remind me of spending inordinate amounts of time staring perplexedly at smooth beige plastic.

1.) Carol Burnett in a Slip as Mrs. Hannigan in Annie. I don't know why. I never knew why. Excitement mingled with shame. Are orphanages bad? Will I grow up to be Daddy Warbucks? Daddy? Mommy? Is it time for a nap? Will Mrs. Hannigan be there? Will she fall backwards into the bathtub? Am I ruined for life? Is this why things have turned out this way? It feels like I have to pee but I don't have to pee. WHAT IS GOING ON?!

I Just Wanna Live Fast...

I'm sore.

From snow football yesterday.

When the snow starts melting like it is outside, there's a really conflicted situation going on. On the one hand, it's definitely warmer and most people look forward to that. On the other hand, my frigid misanthropic heart beats in sync with the dead foliage. When winter ends, I just have months of unmitigated sweating to look forward to. And I am nothing if not a sweaty man. I haven't worn khaki pants in years. It's simply too swampy down there for that. If I'm sitting down for more than twenty minutes or so in khaki pants my ass will look like I sat in a puddle. A fart-scented puddle.

Look, I know I'm a repulsive creature. Where was I going with this? Oh, right, the snow.

Playing snow football is one of the greatest things about winter. But in the melting snow, it's more like playing football in a muddy, freezing cold puddle. That's hard to run in. It just wasn't quite as intense as it has been in the past. I'm just a little sore. No broken bones or anything. It all feels a little underwhelming.

Welcome to March. The Quickening is upon us.

Sell the kids for food.

Because It's All I Have

Quack, Quack, Quack, Mr. Ducksworth.

I Hate You Sidney Crosby

Yeah, I pretty much rest my case.

Silver medal my ass.

Anyone want to start a curling club? We have four years to train. All I want is an Olympic medal. Is that too much to ask? And I think that at this point it's too late for me to start training in any other sport. So it's going to have to be curling. Unless they're going to make diarrhea an Olympic event. In which case, hand me the Kati Roll and let's get training.

Belligerent Foreign Policy

Main Entry: jin·go·ism
Pronunciation: \ˈjiŋ-(ˌ)gō-ˌi-zəm\

Function: noun

Date: 1878

: extreme chauvinism or nationalism marked especially by a belligerent foreign policy

— jin·go·ist\-ist\ noun or adjective

— jin·go·is·tic\ˌjiŋ-gō-ˈis-tik\ adjective

— jin·go·is·ti·cal·ly \-ti-k(ə-)lē\ adverb

How many goals will count as "belligerent"?

The New Cold(er) War

Sunday.

3:15 PM EST.

Oh, it's on.

Turbine of Social Awkwardness: Part II

Okay, not a turbine. But social awkwardness. This is the tandem umbrella. If I saw you using it on the street, I would kick you in your hipster shins. "Oh, it's so whimsical. It's like you're Zooey Deschanel and I'm Joseph Gordon-Levitt." Ugh.

But umbrellas generally: I don't believe in them. I believe they exist I just don't think we should allow them in civil society. In the past few days, during this rain/snow/whatever, I have been hit in the head many many times with other peoples' umbrellas. I am quite a petite man so I can only imagine that normal sized people get smacked in the face many more times than I. Considering how cumbersome they are, people so quickly and easily forget that they're holding this vinyl awning over their heads.

Even if you can avoid being poked in the eye by one of the metal supports, the conservation of matter states that the water or snow being blocked from YOUR head by your umbrella will inevitably land on MY head. It has to go somehere. And it always ends up on my head and/or trousers. You crumb-bums.

They're not even particularly practical. When the weather is like it is today (i.e Snowpocalypse), the umbrella really is only keeping your head and the first four inches of your shoulders dry. The rest of you? Might as well be nude on a frozen Minnesota lake. The umbrella is the least practical way to keep moisture off of you. I want to punch its inventor in the cock. Or vagina. Depending. A poncho? Brilliant. Simple, water-repellant, worn by Mexicans. It's a delightful piece of clothing. The raincoat? Staggeringly clever in its simplicity. Look! Its just a coat that's water proof! It keeps all the things under it dry! Umbrella? Uh... well... It's like this thing, that you hold over your head. And it sort of keeps PART of you dry. Sort of. And it gets in the way of your body's natural movement through the three dimensional world. Fuck. That.

I am very mild-mannered man. Very passive and non-violent. Some might say I border on meek and thus will someday inherit the earth. But if your umbrella hits me in the head today I'm going to insert it deeply and painfully into a body cavity of yours to be named at a later date.