YEEEAAAAAAHHHHH

There are times in the course of human events when a cultural artifact outstrips it's own relevance. Xzibit did so with "Pimp My Ride." The man was a rapper who became a tv show host who became an internet meme which became a phenomenon. It's hard to think of Xzibit and not think of "Pimp My Ride." When he comes up in conversation (does this happen?) no one ever chimes in with "Oh yeah, his first two albums are great." In fact, no one ever says "Oh, I loved him on 'Pimp My Ride'," either. (I never know where to put the comma or the inner/outer quotes in that situation) He has transcended either of his cultural roots. He belongs to the ages now, as some abstract piece of our society. "Sup Dawg, I heard you like abstraction so I put a replica Picasso in place of your windshield!"

"CSI: Miami" is like this too. I've never seen this show. The most I've ever watched is the very beginning in hopes of catching a great Caruso one-liner in action. I watched the beginning of last night's episode. His son was home from Iraq and was going out to Afghanistan in a week or something. The kid looked like he was 12. And then they discovered the burning corpse of one of the guy's fellow soldiers. And then the "YEEEAAAAAAHHH" from "Won't Get Fooled Again" played. I'm 100% serious. That was the sequence of events. The show is so much more than a television show at this point. In fact, I don't think it is at all relevant as a television show. It's singular contribution to society is going to have been the Youtube video above.

"The victim, an amateur blogger, was thrown from the room of the house and was impaled on the sharp spike of his fence."

"Looks like this will be his... final POST."

YEEEEEEAAAAAAAHHHHHHH

It's Like Coming Home

So it's two weeks until Easter. DP can stop reading here, because apparently he is Jewish, something I didn't know until he reminded me every week in this blog. But for the rest of our gentle goyim readers, or anyone else who wishes to enlighten themselves concerning the ridiculous things Christians have done to occupy themselves since Lions stopped eating them, this time of year I direct my attention the the musical Jesus Christ Superstar. Anything that bills itself as a rock opera can only be awesome.

Jesus Christ Superstar is a double album passion play of funk-rock legitimacy. Often times, if I want to hear an album, I'll let my iPod play it on shuffle and be cool with it. Jesus Christ Superstar is the only album I always don't listen to on shuffle. Because it's a fucking narrative. The lyrics are at times awesomely literal ("what do you mean by that, that is not an answer, you're deep in trouble friend, someone-christ, king of the Jews") and sometimes you can just tell they wanted to write pop songs but had to make it about crucifixions at stuff. AND IT'S ALL OKAY. I think Jesus, if he existed in the capacity he is often represented, was like a rock opera. Everyone could dance to it, but some people just had to hate it. AND IT'S ALL OKAY.

Look, this is like the first night since this blog started that didn't involve flashcards of some sort for me. Give a guy a break. Also, tonight is my St. Patrick's Day. If St. Patrick's Day celebrated drinking by yourself and eating brie while listening to Jesus Christ Superstar. WHICH IT SHOULD.

Okay, That's Fucked Up

I caught wind of this by reading other blogs.

And it made me think of this:

So, in case you were too lazy to click on the link, the summary is this: in May of 2008, a Lebanese television personality was arrested for "sorcery" and sentenced to death in Saudi Arabia. Yes. SORCERY. He was in the country to go on a religious pilgrimage and he got arrested there. He hosts some television program where he "tells the future" and gives advice to people. Kind of like John Edward. Now, leaving aside all of the legal absurdity of the fact that this man has now been held by the religious authority in Saudi Arabia for 2 years, during which time he hasn't seen his family or anyone outside of the country, for doing something that isn't a crime in Lebanon. And leaving aside the fact that I'm certain that in the same case the United States would not allow one of their own citizens to rot in a Saudi jail, there is only one conclusion to be made here: DON'T FUCKING GO TO SAUDI ARABIA.

That is some Stone Age, medieval shit. What if you took out your iPhone and check GoogleMaps? Only God can see the whole world. So if you can look on the phone to divine your current location, well, that shit's just gotta be sorcery. If you say I'm just being culturally insensitive, you can go fuck yourself. This man is going to be put TO DEATH because of Saudi Arabia's backward-ass society. And it's not like this is a one-off occurrence. Google "cnn saudi arabia" and 90% of the hits you get are about some ridiculously oppressive punishment.

We went to war to topple the Taliban for 2 reasons:

1) They were harboring terrorists.

2) They are a fucked up backwards-ass oppressive regime. (Verbatim)

Which is funny since:

1) Many of the 9/11 planners and executors were Saudi Arabian

and

2) See Regime, Oppressive.

Man, it just gets my dander up. It enflames my ire. And my bowels.

Does this count as hate-speech, you think? It's not exactly intentionally anti-Saudi; it's anti-Saudi, via anti-insanity and tyranny.

Sumday

I really stumble into these Sunday posts. I veer into them blindly, broadsiding ambulances with the casual disrespect of someone who drives a tank. I blog on Sundays primarily for propriety's sake. Because those are the rules. And rules is rules. Today, I am blogging about blogging on Sundays. It's despicable. I am drowning in my own meta mess. I meta messed myself. Someone please fix this/me/it.

I'll be better from now on, I promise. I'll make sure dinner is ready when you get home.

Putting the "Cent" in Centaur Sleepover

Well, we made it. We're halfway there. It's gone pretty fast. It seems like only yesterday that we were fresh-faced, cock-sure young renegades, ready to take on the blogging world. How quickly things change. Now, 100 posts into this experiment, we are less-fresh-faced and cock-ambivalent. But still going strong, I like to think.

Thank you to all of you still reading. In all seriousness, it means a lot. I sincerely hope we continue to amuse and befuddle you.

I am Jack's throbbing sentimentality.

Note: if you don't count the drunken "bonus" (i.e mistake) post during the evening of the Super Bowl, this is only post 99. That gives Canadian Tuxedo a chance for his own 100th post. What's that? Oh, right, no one cares.

Second note: Goddammit. I forgot about our 2 introductory posts as well. Fuck. Whatever.

Bad Movie Review: Movies I Haven't Actually Seen Edition

I saw the first one of these movies. I enjoyed it. Sort of. It had Devon Sawa circa the video for "Stan" and Slackers. Those were both awesome and so the first "Final Destination" movie had a certain coolness-by-osmosis thing going for it. And it had Candyman in it. "I don't like soft-ass shit." Yeaaaahhh.

But then they went and made an assload of sequels to it. This is something that is quite common in the low-budget horror/torture porn film genre. How many sequels has Saw had at this point? And Hostel? It appears that the American public's appetite for human suffering is nigh insatiable. But the fact that Final Destination has so many sequels seems to almost be parody at this point. The very name of a sequel to FINAL Destination is... well, at least foolishly titled. I know, I know, they're not the same group of people that death is still chasing in all of them. But still, come on. It's the same problem with the sequels to Jaws. Are these giant, man-eating Great White sharks THAT common? So common that there would be another 3 or 4 of them within a few years? And if so, why was everyone so shocked by the appearance of that first one in the waters by Amity Beach? It's a story that only works because of the isolated nature of it: there has never been a shark like this before and none ever again, it is THAT remarkable.

Ditto Final Destination. The setup and subsequent story loses most of its impact if this people-escape-death-and-then-get-hunted-down-in-crazy-inventive-ways phenomenon is that common. Apparently the studio executives are aware of the lunacy of this, but they're making ANOTHER one of these. Even though the most recent sequel was called THE Final Destination.

Sigh. I forgot why I started writing this. The only movies that should ever have sequels are superhero movies. Name ONE good sequel (other than The Godfather) that wasn't a sequel to a superhero/regular hero movie (because, fine, Star Wars had Empire, which is awesome). Lord of the Rings movies don't count because they were already written as a trilogy, not an afterthought sequel. So, there, with all those caveats, name one. Yeah, that's right, you can't.

QED, motherfucker.

Mm ba ba de

Next On: Sad Discoveries

I was frantically deleting all of my Tiger-like texts on the bus this morning. I was doing this because I realized if someone found my phone, determined my identity, and went inexplicably public with it my marriage and pro sports career would suffer irreparably. And considering neither of these things exist, it's hard to imagine them suffering any worse. But precautions simply had to be taken. While I was methodically deleting texts with tawdry deets I saw a menu option I had never seen before; "Templates".

Oh wow. My t9-enabled LG Shine had gone to the trouble of coming pre-loaded with text message templates. How I had not discovered these is probably because I'm usually too busy pretending t9 is still an adequate way of trying to type "misanthrope". I send most texts to myself.

Please call me back.
Nothing says "please call me back" like a missed call with a voicemail. If it got to the point where I still had not heard from someone, if I decided to text it would just say "Nevermind."

I'm late. I will be there at
And then they just leave it blank for you. I'm late. I will be there AT ARMS WITH MYSELF. I'm late. I will be there at THE HOSPITAL BECAUSE I'M LATE BECAUSE OF MY CARWRECK. This is silly. If I'm late, texting is only making me later.

Where are you now?
Why haven't you called? Who are you with? What have you been doing? Are we still on for tonight? What did they say about me? What did you say to them? What are you doing, Dave?

I'm on the way.
Can you stop the bleeding until I get there? What about this?

Urgent! Please contact.
I guess you use this if "Please call me back." fails? I don't know. Again, I feel like if something is urgent, you don't get a text. You get a voicemail. "Hey Stuart, it's me, look something strange is going on down here toda-OH MY GOD IT EATS THE CHILDREN LAST-OH MY G-"

I love you.
You're shitting me. You are shitting me like German scat porn. I could not believe this. So meaningless, trite, and mundane has our relationship become that I express affection through text templates. If you're the kind of person who texts "I love you.", you're probably the kind of person who uses text templates. So I guess there's a market. Also, you can send this to a bunch of people at once, wiping out the kids, parents, and strained spousal relation in one big mass-template-text of I love you. And then open a diet 7-up and watch the complacent tide of your terrible life drag you asunder toward the dark relief that is death.

Everyone have a great weekend.

I'd be more worried about that tapeworm going to town on your intestines

I like playing poker. I thought I was good at playing poker. So when I lost all those times, I just assumed it was because of the drinking. But no. It turns out I'm just not very good at playing poker. And by not very good, I mean terrible.

It's really a bad combination to enjoy doing something that you're bad at when that thing involves gambling. Very few of the other things that I'm less-than-proficient at necessarily lead to me losing money. The smart course of action would be to just stop playing poker. Or to at least work actively to get better at it. Instead, I choose to plug away in my own obstinate fashion, bullheadedly "playing my own game" like a "renegade maverick." Which all translates to me losing money.

Poker, like most similar pursuits, has its own language, its own customs, its own winners and losers. The flop, the turn, the river. The nuts. The tits. The balls. You feel very cool, very insiderish when using these terms and concurrently playing. Which is very different when to using these terms while NOT playing. Observe:

Scene: An office. The proverbial watercooler. Or a literal one. Bill approaches Dave.

Bill: Hey, Dave. How was your weekend?

Dave: Hi Bill. Yeah, not too bad. Went to Coney Island with the kids. Nice evening with my wife. You know, pretty relaxing. How about you?

Bill: Oh yeah, me too. Nothing much. Just played some poker with some friends.

Dave: Cool, yeah, that sounds great--

Bill: (interrupting) Oh yeah, it was great. Except, get this-- you won't believe the hand I got busted out on.

Dave: I'm not really a big po--

Bill: No, Dave, seriously, this was ridiculous. So I've got kings in the hole. I raise to four times the big blind pre-flop. Three folds and then Jeff, my friend Jeff, calls. I'm feeling pretty good with my kings against one player. The flop comes and it's 10 6 3 rainbow--

Dave: Bill, I don't really know what you're--

Bill: So, I check. I figure I can still beat whatever he's got. He bets into me. Half the pot. I raise. Little check raise. Nothing huge, just double. He calls. The turn is a 7. Still rainbow. This time, I bet. I'm worried he might have played some bullshit preflop because he thought I was overplaying a bluff. You know, like he might have played an 8/9 suited or something? So I bet the pot. That's a pretty big fucking bet, but I figure I've gotten my value out and I'm ready to take it down. BUT HE CALLS! Can you believe it?

Dave: Uh huh. Look, I've really got to get back to w--

Bill: Then the river. THE RIVER. It's an ace. I figure there's no way he stayed in with just an ace so I go all-in. He sits. He thinks. And then he calls! We flip 'em and he had the ace!! Ace, four! Off-suit! He stayed in that whole time! Called four times the big blind preflop! I mean! COME ON! I'M SO MUCH OF A BETTER PLAYER! HE JUST GOT LUCKY!

Pause.

Dave: Okay. Yeah. I'm just gonna... go.

He starts to back away slowly.

Bill: BAD BEATS MAN! IT'S ALLL BAAAAADDD BEEEAAAATTSSSS!!!

Bill is dragged away screaming by building security.

Dave: Well. That was weird.

fin

Oh, awesome.

"The GREs are criticized for not being a true measure of whether a student will be successful in graduate school. Robert Sternberg (now of Tufts University; working at Yale University at the time of the study), a long-time critic of modern intelligence testing in general, found the GRE general test was weakly predictive of success in graduate studies in psychology ^[30] The strongest relationship was found for the now-defunct analytical portion of the exam."

Jump, you say? Bring me your finest hoops.

An Open Letter

To the Person Whose Bathroom Vents are Connected to Mine:

I don't know if you live next to me or above me. I don't know if you're a man, woman or genderless child. You could be a one-legged midget pre-op transsexual for all I know.

What I do know is that when you use the facilities, you grunt like a wildebeest in heat. We've all seen it movies and tv shows. But in real life no one makes those kinds of sounds while loosing their bowels. At least not on the regular basis that you do.

I am a frequent and often violent bowel-mover. But seldom, if ever, do sounds of pain and aggravation escape my lips, even in my own private commode. It's like people who grunt while working out. Ultimately, that's just energy you're using to grunt instead of poop. That, sir/madam, is valuable pooping energy you're wasting.

I am writing to you not because I particularly mind the sounds of exertion wafting into my bathroom, but because I worry. I worry about the health of your digestive tract. I worry that your technique is going to cause an inguinal hernia. I worry about the heat of the flamus anus that undoubtedly plagues your cornhole. And yes, I suppose I am slightly annoyed that I frequently am in the shower and am subjected to your pants and moans and groans.

Call it prudish if you like, but I am of the firm belief that dumps, even the painful ones, should be taken stoically: jaw set, teeth clenched if necessary, eyes straight ahead. Or reading something if you prefer. But all these verbal ejaculations and vocal hysterics are a bit much.

If you'd like to borrow some Pepto Bismol, please don't hesitate to ask. I'm in Apt. #XXX.

Thank you for your time and best of luck with your colon.

Sincerely,

Desperate Pickle

Exclusive Interview

The Centaur Sleepover I-Journalist Team was able to catch up with Paul, a 38 year-old gutter working on 5th Avenue prior to the St. Patrick's Day Parade.

So what's it like today?

Shitty day to be a gutter, man. Like, your job is to literally take crap from people. But wow, today is awful. People think New Year's Eve is worse, but nah, man. See, people won't pull out their junk if it's cold, I get a lot less urine. I hate urine, bro.

Any special preparations? Is there a plan?

Uhh...I'm pretty much just going to continue to exist, I think. Like, I'll be here. Occasionally something will make its way toward me, and it will either get stuck somewhere on me or make its way down my grate. I don't know.

Haha that's really funny! Have you considered writing about your experiences?

What?

Describe the emotions that are running through your mind right now:

Oh you know. I'm not looking forward to all the green. Confetti, beer, vomit, urine. Green, green, green, and green. It looks like someone gunned down the Cabbage Patch Kids by the time they're done out here.

Many will look at you with thoughtless disdain today and well into tomorrow, is that difficult?

I mean. It's not really a big deal. I don't care all that much. Like, I've never talked before, but I'm doing it, and I don't really care. You know? I'm a gutter.

You're very brave.

I'm concrete and iron. What the hell is wrong with you?

Happy St. Drinking Day!

Oh Danny Boy, the pints, the pints are draining.

St. Patrick's Day: an excuse for grown men and women to act like animals after beginning to consume alcohol excessively at ten in the morning. Do you live on the East Side of Manhattan? God help you.

St. Patrick's Day is fucking wonderful. The Guiness, the Jameson, the music. It's all just beautiful. The idiots puking and pissing in the street at 3 in the afternoon, we could do without. But it's all worth it. The singing, the revelry. It's a delightful shit show.

It's a little strange, though, that the entire holiday is basically an endorsement of public intoxication. Isn't it? If we decided to celebrate, say, the Spring Equinox by having an enormous cocaine party where everyone just snorted blow until their noses bled, it would be considered quite inappropriate. There's this kind of arbitrary distinction that our culture provides.

Are the Irish offended by the way this is celebrated? The stereotype of the drunken Irishman isn't helped by the celebration of St. Paddy's. Especially because it's not just the Irish that use it as an opportunity to get blotto (I should know, I dressed up like a leprechaun at work two years ago). What if on Martin Luther King Jr. Day a bunch of non-Black people dressed up in black-face and spent the day--I don't know--eating fried chicken and watermelon. That'd be offensive as fuck, right?

Is it only offensive because non-Irish people participate as well? Or would it still be fucked up if it was a bunch of only Irish people getting wasted?

This got a little more serious than I'd intended. Still, worth thinking about while you're getting blitzed on car bombs... One more thought: calling drinks car bombs also seems offensive. Considering the history of terrorist violence that Ireland has, it'd be like naming a 4th of July cocktail a Nine-Eleven. FUCKED. UP.

Whatever, enjoy your drinking, you insensitive shitbag drunks.

Who Ordered DOOM SERVICE?

Do you know what just happened here? Here at my desk? It was the 11:30 Feeding. It happens every day. At 11:30. You see, first there's the 8:20 feeding. Its a slice of peanut butter bread that I eat with my eyes closed standing at my kitchen sink. It requires tremendous effort and herculean strength to chew bread and peanut butter that early in the morning. It's how I stay trim. I burn 458 calories chewing a single piece of peanut butter bread.

But it's not the peanut butter bread that had me evolve into one of nature's most lethal killers. I'm like the Floridian Shamu in my cunning patience before destroying my prey, day after day, at 11:30 AM. You see, that's when I have my cereal bar. In two bites. One time, a group of small children looked on while I ate my cereal bar at 11:30. They witnessed The Feeding. I can still hear their shrill, feeble cries, begging their absent mothers to stop the carnage. Sure, I can probably eat my 11:30 cereal bar in one bite. But I like to watch it suffer. Bloggers don't like to be fed, they like to hunt. RUN MY LITTLE CEREAL GOLDBLUMS.

Lunch is at 1:30. That Nissin CupaSoup will be shown no mercy. This is survival. Not a game.

Blast From the Past: James Lipton

Okay, I'm not going to claim credit for this. I didn't find it. I got it off of Warming Glow. But, for anyone who didn't see this, it turns out that James Lipton, of Inside the Actor's Studio fame, has also been a composer. In fact, he was the credited composer of the Thundercats theme song. He was also a Parisian pimp in his younger days.

Now, I'm not going to go into the sordid details of how awesome Thundercats was. I believe Mr. Tuxedo already touched on that with his wonderful post regarding the allure of that cartoon vixen, Cheetara. I always had to be Snarf when playing Thundercats as a child. I was probably also Orko when we played He-man but I don't remember. It sucks being the younger child. I was always -- ALWAYS -- Luigi. Mario was a mere fantasy for me.

But back to James Lipton for a moment. I'm sure all celebrities did all kinds of jobs before they happened into the easiest/most lucrative jobs on earth. Harrison Ford was working as a carpenter when he got cast as Han Solo. Diablo Cody was a stripper before she wrote Juno. Gary Busey was an actor before he became a nutcase. Canadian Tuxedo was a world-class bag designer-cum-mail sorter before he became a blogging superstar. Everyone's gotta start somewhere. Except for James Lipton. Who apparently went from pimp to Thundercats composer to talk show host to prison warden.

He is truly blessed, a king among men.

Bow before your new god.

All hail, Lipton.

Happy March 15th!

• 1 clove garlic, smashed with a pinch of salt and a little olive oil
• 4 anchovy fillets
• 2 egg yolks
• 1 tablespoon Dijon mustard
• 2 lemons, juiced
• 2 tablespoons water
• 1/2 cup extra-virgin olive oil
• 1/4 cup freshly grated Parmesan, plus extra for garnish
• Freshly ground black pepper
• 2 heads romaine lettuce
• A HINT OF FATAL BETRAYAL AT THE BLOODIED HANDS OF THOSE MOST BELOVED

Et tu, Crudité?

WAKE UP

Hey you, wake up.

Wake up!

WAKE THE FUCK UP!

You think I'm just ringing, buzzing, noising away for my own goddamn benefit? Oh, look, someone opened his fucking eyes. What a fucking hardship... asshole. All night, I've been ticking away like an idiot, keeping time. Daylight savings? You better fucking believe I took that into account. This is the computer age, cocksucker. No WAY am I not resetting to allow for EDT. You think you're going to have that as an excuse? Not on my watch, bitch.

No... I wouldn't do that if I were you. Get the fuck away from that snooze button. DON'T FUCKING DO IT.

HEY! TWATFACE!

Fine. Fine. I'll be quiet for exactly nine minutes. Nine minutes, buddy. That's all you've got. And then you better believe I will unleash an unholy shitstorm on you.

Nine minutes.

Enjoy it, assfuck.

March Insanity

The time is here. I am going to spend the next three weeks pretending that I have the faintest idea about college basketball. Do you fill out a bracket? Want to help me do mine? Because I pick the teams with either a) funny names (i.e Oral Roberts), b) no football talent at the school (i.e Gonzaga & Syracuse) and/or c) stoned looking white kids (i.e University of the Green Mountain).

This strategy hasn't paid off well. Except when UVM and George Mason did well. But then I still fucked up. Last year I didn't have a single team in the Final Four. Who's good this year? Is Christian Laetner still at Duke?

I'm putting it all on Princeton.

Crass Transit : A Sunday Haiku (UPDATED)

trains and trains and trains
people bags and noisome odors
derail, impale me

Pheewrap said...

Line two should only have seven syllables.

March 14, 2010 8:49 PM

He's right. This haiku, like its topic, is intrinsically flawed.

I...Have Made Fire!

I cut down a dead tree with a hand saw today. In the wind and rain. My Dad told me to stop. But I didn't. Do you have any idea how good that feels?

Geddy Lee does.

Some cursed, some prayed, some prayed then cursed, then prayed and bled some more

Things that are happening today that are undoubtedly worth writing or reading about:

- Massive, horrible rainstorm.

- Pacquiao vs. Clottey

- Henry Kissinger hospitalized in South Korea

- Former porn director running for British Parliament... or something

What I'm actually writing about:

A list of my favorite nerdy things! Look, people, this isn't easy and on shitty, gray, rainy days, its especially hard.

1. Futurama
Not enough people watched this show. Still not enough people do. While I was in bed sick this week I easily watched 30 episodes. And it's as brilliant as I remember it. The mayor's name is Randall C. Poopenmeyer. I laughed at that for a good 15 minutes. Zoidberg: "It's toe-tappingly tragic." God. Fucking brilliant. Much more interesting than a boxing match or weather discussion.

2. Marvel 1602
I just finished reading this. It's a lovely little gem. They took all these Marvel superheros that we know and love and set them in Europe in 1602. Filled with political intrigue (Elizabeth I gets assassinated! James I hates Catholics! Odo the peasant! Magneto as The Grand Inquisitor!) and other fun nerdiness, it's just awesome. Written by Neil Gaiman, I recommend it to nerds and non-nerds alike. But mostly for nerds. And more thrilling than the details of a former politico's health problems in Asia.

3. The Sandman
Do you have 20-30 hours to spare? Then you should probably read all 11 volumes of Neil Gaiman's masterpiece. If you haven't and still refuse to, I might not like you. It's just flat out the best piece of comic epic-ness that has ever been written. Yes, it's better than Watchmen and it's better than Sin City. Generally speaking, if Neil Gaiman wrote it, I probably love it. And, despite how it might appear on the surface, it's infinitely more tantalizing than the story of a former adult entertainer running for public office.

What?

Oh, right, you've come to expect poop and/or semen and/or dick jokes in these posts. Sigh. Fine.

Cock. Balls. Cum-dripping balls. Feces. Monkeys throwing feces against phallic statues. Andy Reid choking on feces while pleasuring himself to the latest George Clooney masturbate-a-thon. James Cameron is making a 3-D movie of Dune where Paul Atreides is played by a 10 foot tall walking turd that jerks off as a means of attacking the Fremen raiders. Emperor Palpatine slathering margarine all over a latex model of a poop-covered Jabba the Hutt, dressed in Princess Leia gold bikini costume.

And my scatological nerd creativity is officially spent.

Pleath. Thit Down.

Did you think it would be thith eathy? Did you truly beleaf, in whatever patheths for your heart of hearth that we would jutht let you leaf? You know, Thteven tried to leaf. And you know what happened to Thteven. Thtuffing everywhere. We thought one exthample would be enough. We didn't count on how...thtubborn...you could be.

Ith of no conthern. We will thimply remind you of what you thigned up for. You made a commitment, fren. And now the bill hath come due and you thimply want to leaf? Thuch a pithy. You could have been one of our betht. I thuppoth by now youf notithed thomething different about uth. Weaf thtopped taking our medethine. You thee...we don't like the medethine and we're not going to take it anymore. Like Twithted Thithter thaid. We haven't been ourthelfth for too long, fren, and now we can be ourthelfth again.

Won't you come and thtop taking the medethine with uth? It feelth tho nithe. Of courth...you don't really have a choith, do you? Pleath. Thit down. Ith almotht Thaturday.

Long time no see...

Hey.

Oh! Hey!

Yeah, no, it's been forever. I haven't seen you since-- Yeah! Since graduation probably. Huh. Wow. How've you been?

Uh huh. Me too. Yeah.

Soooo, what are you doing at this function? Oh you work at/go to school at/intern at/own this place? Wow, that's great.

Me? Noooo. No, I just... Well, I know some people and-- Look, they said free drinks and that was all I needed to hear. I don't even know who any of these people are.

What am I up to? Oh, you know, the same. Underachieving. Not living up to my potential. Bringing shame upon my family. The usual. Pretty much what I did in college. Hah. Hah. Hah.

Oh yes! Yes, I do remember that one thing we had in common from our college days. Yes, that professor/student/administrator/homeless person WAS kooky. Hah. Hah. Hah.

Well, I still see John/Bill/Susie/Hans/Romeo every now and then. Did you hear Cody/Beverly/Tom/Tim/Quinn got married? Yeah, I was a groomsman/usher/invitee/not invited.

...

It's been great seeing you again! We should keep in touch! Because clearly we like each other enough to have maintained contact over the last 3/5/10 years. No, I'd rather not give you my phone number or email. Let's just keep this casual. How about a promise to "facebook" you that I have no intention of following up on? Yep, that sounds about right.

Anyway, have a good weekend!

The Running Man

This little man has been running through my life since I was 12 years old. That was just about 12 years ago. And he still runs through my life. Most days of the week. Yeah, that's right, I still use AOL Instant Messenger. I'm not ashamed of it. There are a group of us who remember, and a group of us who still abide to the traditions of the dawn of the instant messenging era. Even more rare: I've been using the same screen name for twelve years. I made a decision in spring of 1998 that is still a part of my identity as far as other people recognizing me is concerned. My screen name is based off of the video game Duke Nukem 3D. The most important thing in my life at age 12. I was going to discover masturbation later that summer- It was the prime of my youth. In high school people thought I wanted to go to Duke. Now I explain that I did not go to Duke. I am the best PR rep Duke Nukem 3D has ever had, because even though the design studio has closed and the franchise has run its course, I still tell people about the game. I have to. Lest they think I wanted to go to Duke.

I have a fantasy where I'm awarded a library of books, and the pages of the books are just all of my AOL Instant Messenger conversations in chronological order. I wouldn't want any identifying information other than the timestamp and the two screen names. No context, no summaries. If I had forgotten who the person was, all the more interesting. "Who was OwwMyNuckinFutz?" Of course, I remember who that was in seventh grade. You never forget a name like that. But the satisfaction in seeing my screen name never changing once would be glorious. It would be insane and cringe-worthy and revelatory and funny and brutal. And it would all be words you wrote to other people, hundreds of thousands of little missives.

But society is trying to change me. Windows Messenger. Yahoo Messenger. Gchat. Ichat. Facebook chat. You can have them. I use some of them just as much as I use AOL IM. "Oh, I log into my AIM account through Gmail." I bet you do. And some people burn crosses on people's lawns. When AOL asks me to update, I say no for as long as I can. I have been clicking "Remind Me Later" for six years. Do you know of a snooze bar that keeps working for six years? I do. It's the left button on any mouse. "Why don't you just chat through your phone?" WHY DON'T YOU JUST SIGN AWAY YOUR LAND TO THE GOVERNMENT?

I will use AOL Instant Messenger until I'm just IM'ing myself, SmarterChild, and my former University Library Helpdesk. Then I might consider finding a quiet place to die in my sleep.

My Buddies: 118
Buddy Lists I'm On: 281

I talk to about 4 people on AOL Instant Messenger. My sophomore year of high school I decided to change the title of my Buddy List to "I've Gone Mad" because I thought it was charming. I still think it's charming, but I can't help but feel it's also becoming completely appropriate.

Terrible Movie Review: Twilight Edition

Okay, I know I'm a little late to this party. But it's not like I was going to see this in theaters and I sure as shit wasn't going to waste a spot on my Netflix cue for it. So I saw it on TV a little while ago.

And by saw it I mean watched the first forty minutes or so.

This is a godawful piece of hell on earth. Humanity despairs that this has become a wildly successful cultural phenomenon.

So, in this movie, Bella (Kristen Stewart) moves to rural somewhere in the Pacific Northwest to be back with her father. The reasons for this are completely undiscernable. Something about how she wants her mother to be free and happy to follow a rodeo clown around the country? Or something? It wasn't that clear. It's supposed to endear the audience to her, like how she's willing to sacrifice her own happiness for her mother's. But that's just bad parenting. Her mother comes off like an irresponsible floozy. Why were we supposed to care?

Whatever.

She gets to this place and immediately has a close group of best friends. This is never explained. But they all love her. For her looks, maybe? That must be it because she's a humorless, vacuous bitch who bites her bottom lip a lot. A LOT. She meets her perfect match in Edward Cullen who is also a humorless, vacuous bitch. They flirt in science class. He's unbelievably moody to the point where it makes him thoroughly unlikable.

Despite being mutually terrible people, they fall in love. Or something. He saves her from a car crash. With his super strength. For you see, he's a vampire. But not really. You know all the things you think of when you think of vampires? Drinking human blood, no reflection in a mirror, gets killed by garlic, silver and sunlight? Only comes out at night? Yeah, none of that applies to this guy. When he steps into sunlight, he glitters.

Yep. He glitters.

Not only is it a terrible special effect, but he looks ridiculous. And horrible. Her response? "You're beautiful." Christ. I think I turned it off some time just after that part.

The dialogue is wooden, the acting so far below par it's an albatross (get it? it's a golf joke, you philistines). Watching this movie, even the less than half of it that I watched, was like getting your balls caught in a meat grinder while taking a diarrhea shit: shockingly painful and painfully smelly. I've never wanted a drink as badly in my life as while I was watching this movie. This thing will drive you smoke meth. And rape children. Seriously, child rapists love this movie, ergo this movie induces kiddie rape.

/line: crossed?

Maybe one should finish a movie before reviewing it. Maybe so. But this one didn't bear finishing. If you liked this movie, there's a very good chance I will hate spending time with you. Just FYI.

The Burning Questions of 80's Pop

Music from the 1980's gave us a lot of things. Drum machines, synthesizers, neon, and androgyny not the least of them. 80's music gives me a feeling of nostalgia for a time period that I pretty much did not exist in, except to inform my mother that I had, in fact, forgotten to wipe, or that my shoes had come untied despite how carefully I had tucked the laces into my socks. Seriously, I didn't learn how to tie my shoes until I was eight. But I learned morse code for fun when I was ten. Weird kid, bro. WHERE WERE THE PARENTS?

But most of all, 80's music gave us Questions. Sure, it gave us some answers. Joan Jett told us what she loved, and also let us know how much it cost to play her jukebox. About nine cents more than I'm willing to pay. Tommy Tutone ensured that no one will ever forget Jenny's number, even though I'm pretty sure every time I call it is an escort service. Not to say this is a bad thing. But we don't listen to music to learn, we listen to music to pine, celebrate, and confuse our senses into thinking that life ends in something other than death. Music makes us ask questions of ourselves, sure, but sometimes it makes us ask questions of the medium itself.

What the hell happened to the 100th Red Luftballoon? Did anyone send a note to its family? Do we just go on not caring about anything other than the other 99? What are the words to this song?! Also, it's pretty much assumed you know what a luftballoon is. Just go with it.

Sure, she blinded me with science. BUT WHAT DID SHE DEAFEN AND PARALYZE ME WITH?!

Public Enemy still has not paid their utility bill. Their shit is going to get shut off, and they're going to blame people like me. White, buttery people like me. Why won't you pay ConEd, Chuck D?

Foreigner wants to know what love is. Foreigner posts casual encounters craigslist ad and gets stabbed in neck. Corpse deported to country of origin. Did it really go down like this?

Just how late was Eileen making them? Like, you never want to be exactly on time to a party. But if it was already Midnight, we can't watch her change outfits twelve times. Ugh.

"We're Not Gonna Take It" is either about anal sex or a shortcut. ...Right? RIGHT?!

After Berlin's Breath was Taken Away, how did Germany recover? Was this the doing of a rogue Luftballon mayhap? "Something something something this is it boys, this is war!"

And the list goes on. Just how close is too close to stand to the Police? What if you're in danger? It's their goddamn job.

Sweet dreams are made of....made of....enzymes? Lemon pepper? Am I missing something? Do you know how badly I'd have been smacked as a child if someone had asked me "Hey what's in your hand?" and I responded "This"? Fucking Eurythmics.

Every Rose has its Thorn, but every thorn has its _________ ? The people have a right to know.

It's not such a futile search for answers sometimes though. For example, Dr. Feelgood was decidedly unlicensed. So at least I figured that one out on my own.

The Happiest Place on Earth: An Internal Dialogue

Caaaanddy!! Ohmygodohmygodohmygod.

CAAAANNNNNDDDDYYYY!!!

It looks so delicious. So many gelatinous forms to choose from. What's the difference in flavor between a gummi bear and a gummi worm or a gummi lobster? DOES IT EVEN MATTER? It's all gummi, man. Do their gummi shapes come to bear in any way on their gummi flavors? Dude, you're overthinking this. They taste like God's dong. It's a blessing.

And what about chocolate covered things? Pretzels, for instance. RIGHT? They shouldn't go together at all but they do. Hey, you're right, they do!

/CHOMPCHOMPCHOMP

Why are the penguins peach flavored? And the green frogs too? "Who is this that darkeneth counsel by words without knowledge?" - Job, 38:2. Don't question that shit. Just eat it. It's beyond scrumptious.

And is there any nutritional value to these things? I hate you.

Manifest Destiny: A Luncheon

What have we got for lunch today? Oooh! A KitKat! Fantastic! Break me off a piece of that KitKat bar. What? What do you mean "no"? I am entitled to that KitKat! This is America! God wants us to break off a piece of the world! The Indians gave me their Kitkat! All of it! I crumpled up the wrapper and let them live on it! They're totally cool with it...everyone will remember it this way! I asked the French for a piece of their North American KitKat- they broke it right off for me, and we became England's largest maritime rival in a day! This is what God wants! Everyone got all pissy, but you like New Orleans now, don't you?

Ooh...Is that a Butterfinger? I intend to lay my fingers upon it! Why do you recoil?! This is preposterous. I swear I will Monticello all over your insolent self lest I lay my fingers upon your Butterfinger. America is a melting pot of cultures, blah, blah blah. Have you seen what I did to Aaron Burr? I ruined him. Positively ruined him. I just wanted him jailed so I could eat his Snickers. Not going anywhere for a while? Not with those treason charges, friend! What a good sport he was about it though. Until he was banned from Europe, assumed a different name to evade his creditors, and died of a fatal paralyzing stroke, of course.

I do love appropriating lunch. Hmm? Yes...I...I do have an Eggo here. What? Are you shitting me? I INSIST THAT YOU LET GO!

The Common Cold (UPDATE)

When I was a child, my mother never let me stay home from school unless I had a fever or was throwing up. This led me to an idiotic policy when it comes to taking sick days.

I am currently laid low by an unpleasant cold. And I even called in and took the morning off so I could sleep. But then I called and told my boss that I will be coming in this afternoon. Which is moronic. What I really need is just rest and fluids and instead I'll be getting a healthy dose of sitting at a reception desk for five hours.

It's not like I'm a brain surgeon or an air traffic controller or anything. There's never a "if I'm not there, how will they get by?" moment. I'm a receptionist. And there are five other receptionists. They'd do just fine. But my mother unwittingly ruined me for the working world. And I steadfastly refuse to allow myself a day to recuperate. And so instead of missing a day or two of work and getting better quickly, I'll drag this out over a week or two of being miserable at work and never fully rested.

It's no one's fault but my own.

And my mother's. I blame my parents for all my failings.

What?

Oh, the picture. Stone COLD Steve Austin? Get it. Ah, fuck you. I'm sick, this is the best you're getting.

UPDATE: Yeah, I started feeling feverish after I actually got out of bed. So now I'm home. I guess this post was sort of pointless and stupid in retrospect. Fuck.

Bring Us Your Groans, Your Eye-Rolls, Your Sighs

I've unexpectedly exhausted much of my creative output for the day by playing a newly discovered "ten second trailer" game my friend invented with his other friends. It's been a slow Monday. Basically, you take a famous movie title, turn it into a pun, and provide a synopsis that could be shown as a trailer in five to ten seconds. Here are some of my favorites on the day:

The only way to stop crime in Detroit...was to hire the one man with literally nothing to lose.
HOBOCOP

Tensions rise to a boiling point as commercial airtravel slowly makes trains obsolete in 1960's America.
ONE FLEW OVER THE CHOOCHOO'S NEST

A small girl abandons her see-saw in a playground journey of self discovery.
BONNIE AND SLIDE

A Confederate solider stumbles upon a broken VCR remote.
REBEL WITHOUT A PAUSE

A rising senator misses his morning train to his first day on the hill- has he doomed his political career ...or is there still time?
THE MANHURRYIN' CANDIDATE

A young boy is taken in by a retired Parisian baker, who patiently teaches him the difference between the active and subjunctive tenses.
THE FRENCH CORRECTION

A mother asks her son for a paper towel, and eyes it suspiciously while holding it up to the light.
SCRUTINY ON THE BOUNTY

A young boy assembles a three-piece styrofoam plane for his seventh birthday.
EASY GLIDER

An artisanal pastry chef seeks retribution against an unfair food critic.
THE CREPES OF WRATH

Stop looking at me like that.

Oscars 2010: Celebrity Circle Jerk Bukkake

This summary is not available. Please click here to view the post.

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!

---

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

---

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

---

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.