Brothers don't shake hands...

Brothers hug. My brother is currently rolling into Penn Station and after cleaning the apartment to appear that I don't live in squalor, I offer a brief story.

My brother and I saw Brokeback Mountain together when it came out. I actually wore a shearling jacket. That's how oblivious I am.

We both enjoyed the movie. On the way out of it, we couldn't help but remark on how many pairs of brothers had gone to see Brokeback Mountain, just like us.

Zip.

Hardcover books are the new slide rule

Yes, I'm well aware that's an abacus and not a slide rule. But slide rules don't look as ancient and obsolete. And "abacus" doesn't sound as good in the title. Okay, fine, I'm not a good writer. You and every ex-girlfriend I've ever had are right, I'll never amount to anything. Yes. Congratulations. Pick on the guy writing the meaningless blog. It's not like I'm in bed, in my pajamas listening to "Welcome to the Machine" over and over again or anything. I totally slip in "Have a Cigar" every third time through or so.

That didn't go how I wanted it to at all. I think we got off on the wrong foot. I'm sorry. Can we start over? Hi! I'm Desperate Pickle. What's your name? Really? What a strange name... What do you do for a living "Bill"? Really? A publisher, you say?

/kicks Bill in the crotch

Why did I kick you, Bill?

/drops curling stone on Bill's now prone crotch

Why did I just drop a 42 lb (I watch Real Sports with Bryant Gumble!!) piece of sports paraphernalia on your junk, Bill?

/breaks Bill's cell phone to eliminate the possibility of 911 call

Because you make hardcover books you bungling twat-monkey. What hardcover books do is hurt the biggest fans of the author the most. They're the people who want to buy the books first, immediately when they come out, and they pay 2 or 3 or 4 times as much for this heavy beast of a tome that is ungainly and irritating to carry around. I bought Under The Dome by Stephen King right when it came out. I bought it in hardcover. Why I'm just getting around to reading it now is the fault of a little (not actually little at all) book called Infinite Jest that I'm still only 100 pages into but have to take a break from. But at least my copy of that book is paperback. It's a huge monster of awesomely funny, densely worded narrative and extraneous footnotes but at least it has a soft, papery cover.

My copy of Under The Dome weighs approximately 27 lbs and is nearly impossible to read on the subway. By the time I pry the front cover open, I have dislodged and possibly injured nine other passengers. Not to mention the weight of the thing causes my knees to buckle when it's in my bag, causing disruption to the natural flow of human beings on an narrow, underground means of conveyance.

In this age of Kindles and other "e-readers" (note: we should stop naming high tech things just "e-" or "i-" whatever they low-tech version of them is. We don't call hybrids "e-cars." We don't call lights "e-fires." Please, let's end this stupidness) it should be absolutely unthinkable not just to sell a book that takes up more resources and space on this already crowded and depleted planet of ours, but to charge MORE for it. I have an idea. Why not charge more for the paperback? They're infinitely better and more convenient.

What? Oh, sorry Bill, I forgot you were still down there.

/beats him to death with a Kindle 2.0

Motherfucker.

You're Late.

Where the hell have you been? You smell like Play-Doh. Have you been hanging out with Play-Doh again? I CAN SEE IT UNDER YOUR NAILS. You know, I looked the other way when it snowed earlier this week and you wanted to spend time outside. Sure. Fine. Boys will be boys. Go and make your little snow fairies.

But when you're done pretending that misshapen lump by the driveway is Parson Brown, you are supposed to get your ass back inside and spend time with me. I MADE CUPCAKES. Is this going to eat itself? No. My mouth is sewn shut, you prick. Do you think I bake for my health?

Oh? What? You don't eat plush cupcakes? Since when? Too good for plush, I bet. You know who wasn't too good to risk their stuffed life for you? Me. When I lit this candle. For the cupcake I made you. Not real fire? The fuck it's not, you son of a bitch.

How were cartoons? Good? Did you like how they ended? Were all of the problems solved in the 22 minutes like yesterday? Ohmahgosh! They WERE?! Wow, well gorry boss I guess we'll just hafta tune in tomorrow, too. Wouldn't want to miss that plot again. You really are an idiot, you know that? I wear this hat to make you look smarter, but I don't think it's working. I could wear a Klan robe and a cockring next to you and you'd still look dumber.

Wait- where are you going? YOU SIT ON THIS BED WITH ME. IT'S CUPCAKE FRIDAY GODDAMMIT! WE ARE A FAMILY! I'M YOUR GODDAMN BEAR, JONES!

Well, this can't be good

I went to the eye doctor this morning.

I've been going a lot since my LASIK surgery. I have 20/10 vision now but apparently I also have dry eyes.

I've gotten all kind of drops and ointments (that word makes me a little uncomfortable) and such.

The doctor has determined that I probably sleep with my eyes open.

...

...

WHAT?

I "sleep with my eyes open"??? How the hell is this possible?? And more importantly, how has no one noticed before? I have a mother. She's seen me sleep. I have a girlfriend. I sleep with her on a fairly regular basis. And NO ONE has ever been said to me "when you sleep, your eyes are open. It's weird." Or has no one told me because it freaks them out that much? Like when someone has a crazy scar on their face and all you want to do is ask them how they got it but instead you pretend you can't see it. Imagine the scene:

INT. NIGHT. A small bedroom in a Soho apartment. Desperate Pickle and his special lady are in bed.

DESPERATE PICKLE

Good night, baby.

SPECIAL LADY

Good night.

DESPERATE PICKLE

Love you.

SPECIAL LADY

Love you too.

He turns over to his side and begins to fall asleep. It takes her longer. They lie there for a few minutes, him asleep, her awake. After a while, he rolls over, still asleep. She looks down and gazes into his OPEN EYES. He is still asleep. Too petrified to scream, she merely gasps, breathlessly, mouth agape as the camera zooms towards her.

CUT TO:

INT. DAY. The kitchen. A small table. Desperate Pickle's special lady is having cereal and coffee. He enters the room, pulling a sweater over his head.

DESPERATE PICKLE

Hey honey. How did you sleep?

SPECIAL LADY

Uhhh...

DESPERATE PICKLE

Is something wrong? What happened?

SPECIAL LADY

(almost too cheerily)

Nothing! Nothing at all! Want some breakfast?

DISSOLVE TO:

TITLES:

THE END??

Fox just called me to option this spec script.

I Would Eat This And So Much More

Look at that. Look at that delicious meal. Look at the meat, the vegetables. The subtle garnish at the end of the tear-drop dish. But this isn't for you. No, it's for cats. For as long as I can remember, I have been salivating at pet food. Commercial after commercial of tender, juicy lumps of meat being poured into a bowl or dish, ready to be lapped up without the use of utensils. Heaven.

When I was young I did my Christmas shopping at the dollar store. They sold canned dog food once. I couldn't afford to not buy it. I ate a lump of it at home, and it tasted only okay. But it smelled delicious and looked like cubed beef in gravy. I was disappointed. I later convinced myself that it was merely because I bought dollar-store dog food that it was not the sumptuous delight I had conditioned myself to expect. Any name brand food-Alpo, FancyFeast- those HAD to be as good as they looked.

Also, I would periodically ask my parents if it was okay for me to eat like a dog at the table. About once every two years, they would let me, and I would use my face to eat spaghetti or something. I didn't bark or anything, I just let my arms hang at my sides while I ate some of my food like a dog. I'm pretty sure this was their idea of a compromise for not letting us have any pets in the house. Did you ever have to pretend to be your own pet? No, I didn't think so.

I should've just read a book

I saw this movie last night.

I wish I hadn't.

It's not just that it wasn't particularly funny or particularly scary, one or both of which was presumably the goal. It's that it was one of the most irritating movies I've ever seen. I think I need to revise my movie watching ethos. Right now, I'll pretty much watch anything. I just like movies, period. So I'll watch almost anything with a moving picture. But this movie just flat out irritated me. I think I hate Megan Fox. Which is point one.

She's a terrible actress. At no point in this movie does she seem remotely desirable to me. It really bothers me in movies or plays when people keep talking about how x, y or z someone is but then their actions don't show them to be x, y or z. Like, in Big Daddy, how Adam Sandler is supposed to be all "down-on-his-luck" and a tollbooth operator, but he lives in this enormous loft apartment in New York City. I know, I know, he won some kind of lawsuit, but seriously? That apartment in New York? His closet is the size of some peoples' apartments. Only I live in that nice of a place.

It's like that. The main character (nicknamed "Needy"... wait, quick sidebar. Her nickname is NEEDY. And she kind of embraces this. Her BOYFRIEND calls her Needy. Everyone other than her mother calls her "Needy." How the fuck do you let this happen to yourself? At some point on your way through life, aren't you like, "hey could you guys, stop calling me Needy? My name is Cordelia" or whatever? Seriously, it made me hate her right from the start) is always saying how Jennifer is her best friend, but she seems like a really terrible friend right from the start. And other than being physically attractive, Jennifer has exactly zero redeeming qualities. I hated her from the minute she walked on the screen. And maybe that's the point. But that makes for a shitty movie if that is the point.

From a storytelling point of view the whole movie is framed in this completely unnecessary flashback with voiceover. Unless voiceover is a distinct stylistic choice (i.e Memento, Goodfellas), it's just really lazy writing... Oh, right, the writing... Okay, I liked Juno, it's a likable movie. Filled with likable people. And really strong performances from likable actors. That Diablo Cody wrote both of these movies is making me think that Jason Reitman is a genius for making Juno so good and casting it so well. As you know if you've seen that movie, Diablo Cody writes really "quirky" dialogue. Y'know, how people don't really talk? That's not necessarily a knock on her. A lot of stylized dialogue can be interesting. And in the right hands, Diablo Cody's is no different. Ellen Page and company carry it off nicely. Okay, it's a little too indie and quirky for me at some points (the hamburger phone? kind of unnecessary, right?) but in general in works.

When Megan Fox uses the same kind of dialogue, it just makes me want to punch something. This is an actual line from the movie: "You're just jello. You're so lime green jello and you don't even know it." (This means jealous) And while I kind of appreciate the reference to the green-eyed monster, that line... Woof. I REALLY almost turned the movie off then. But I didn't because I'm an idiot who likes to waste his own time. The bottom line is if you had friends who talked like the people in this movie, you would be punching your own friends in the crotch. A lot.

Remember right after Swingers came out but before everyone realized it was actually a terrible movie? And all these morons were walking around saying shit like "you're so money. You're so money and you don't even know it"? Yeah, that was awful. Thank God not enough people saw this movie for that to happen. Because that would suck. I need to stop watching shit like this. There are too much good writing and movies and tv shows and plays and puppet shows and pornography out there for anyone to watch this bullshit.

Oh, and if you're a 13 year old boy (or a brah) and your response is "Dude, Megan Fox is HOT," you should still not watch this movie. You should turn off the TV, go in your room, shut the door, turn on the computer and google "Porn." Whack away, dear friends. Whack away. Just please don't watch this movie.

Taco! Get in here!

This is Rex Ryan. Rex Ryan coaches the New York Jets. Rex Ryan is the son of Buddy Ryan, former Philadelphia Eagles head coach. Rex Ryan was wearing a Philadelphia Flyers jersey last night. At a Carolina Hurricanes game. The Hurricanes were playing the Florida Panthers last night. Not the Philadelphia Flyers. Rex Ryan is ridiculous and I love hockey. Rex Ryan and I are Flyers Fans who work in New York. I am Rex Ryan.

You call this a blizzard?

You call this a blizzard?

Why, in my day, we didn't even call it snow until there were eight, ten, twelve inches on the ground! What is this? TWO? Maybe THREE inches?

Fuck that.

If you can walk through it, it's not a snowstorm. Hell, if there isn't even enough on the ground for a friendly, bone-crushing game of snow football, I don't even want to hear about it.

Half of the people in my office are either "out sick" or "working from home" which is code for "Gigantic pussies." Society can't simply stop every time there's a little snow. Look at Minnesota! Or Canada! Or Iceland!

This isn't shit.

This is barely enough snow to get my dander up. I almost went outside in shorts. And sandals. With nothing but a bowl of chili to warm my hands and inflame my innards. Now, aught-nine, that was a blizzard! Why, the Death Bowl was so intense the next day, we broke a poor fella's rib. Yessiree. That was some good yellow snow.

Schools are closed. People are calling in sick. The B train has been preemptively offline since last night due to "inclement weather." Shouldn't we be waiting to see if the weather is actually inclement?

This is hardly even bad enough conditions for Canadian Tuxedo's father to teach him a much needed lesson in snow-driving humility. You couldn't flip a car in this if you tried. I know because I tried this morning. Admittedly, I wasn't driving so much as throwing molotov cocktails at the rear windshield of an SUV. Don't worry, it didn't flip. It just caught on fire for a little bit. No big deal.

Now this was a snowstorm. "Snow Day," featuring a stoned Mark Webber, and bizarre performances by an aging, but still sexy, Pam Grier and an aging but still sexy Chevy Chase. It's a terrible movie. "Entourage" fans will recognize one of the first major appearances by Emmanuelle Chriqui, aka Sloane. Brah. Dude, she's hot, brah. E like totally needs to get over her, brah. Can't be tied down by one chick, brah. Vinny Chase, brah.

This got rambling in a hurry.

Sorry, must be all the snow.

Something That Blew My Mind

So I was on a wikipedia excursion recently, where I start by reading about something I'm interested in and then end up jumping around via hyperlinks to articles and articles about more and more extraneous topics until I always end up at the enormous list of paraphilias. No matter what I begin searching for, I invariably end up confronted with the cold truth of my life as a Peodeiktophile.

But anyway, en route to my shameful personal revelation I was reading about Hitchcock and his films, and I ended up reading Grace Kelly's page. Without saying anything else, most people probably know Grace Kelly was a talented and beautiful actress. Many will probably know that she was the Princess of Monaco by marriage. One could logically assume that she could have had her pick of men from around the world, and perhaps she did just that.

But that's not what blew my mind. No, not that she was really only in 11 movies her whole career, which I think is a pretty small number for her iconic status. Unless you're River Phoenix, there's no excuse for that.

What blew my mind is that

SHE PAID A $2,000,000 DOWRY TO HER HUSBAND.

IN 1956.

You could pay me 2 million dollars to do almost anything. I have no concept of how much or little money that is, when people say "a million" I am like a child and I think its all of anything I would ever need. 2 million? You might as well say double gazillionfinity. I will stuff a sick toddler in a suitcase and throw it in front of an Amtrak train for $2,000,000.

"Oh, will you marry me, beloved and gorgeous American woman? Am I already fabulously wealthy and the ruler of a European country? Have I not been courting you this whole time, and came to your country to ask you to quit making films and to come live with me? That will run you two million of your beloved and gorgeous American dollars."

And she paid it. I must know more about this Prince Rainier. I must own a part of him.

Hello there little child? Would you like some ice cream?

This was on the front page of the New York Times' website today:

Americans
Jailed in Haiti Plead for Help From U.S.

Being a concerned citizen (read: I relish in the plight of others) I read this article. You might expect some tragic tale of miscarried justice leading to the unfair imprisonment of innocent Americans. That's where you'd be wrong:

PORT-AU-PRINCE, Haiti — The 10 American Baptists detained in Port-au-Prince on child trafficking charges are pleading for the United States government to do more on their behalf and for the news media to focus on them less.

Now, my attention span waned after a few paragraphs but here's the gist: these Baptist pseudo-missionaries tried to take these Haitian "orphans" across the border to the Dominican Republic after the earthquake. Unfortunately, these "orphans" had "parents" who weren't pleased when their "children" were "abducted."

Why is it always some religious people who this shit happens to? And how fucking creepily paternalistic is it to just take people's children? Jesus. I don't even know if this is funny. It's definitely disgusting. I hope if these people are guilty that we leave them to rot in Haitian prison. Creepy-ass Baptists.

Oh dear god

I feel pretty much the same as Tuxedo. Only worse. It's a good thing that I don't have a physically or mentally taxing job. If I was an air traffic controller... hoo boy. That would be a problem.

I should go to the gym but that would almost certainly cause me to projectile vomit. Sitting upright and breathing is a chore at this point.

I'm never drinking again.

UUuuunnnggghhhhhh

Seeing the bonus post from last night is like seeing your mistakes written down and posted on the internet. Maybe because that's exactly what it is. I usually leave the bitching about hangovers to DP, but I can barely delete spam emails right now. The only thing that makes me feel better is the freezing air of outside, so I periodically go to the end of the hall at my office and hang out of the fire exit door. I want to live out there right now. I want to put a cot there and have emails printed and handed to me, so I can dictate my replies and have them sent by the pigeons which shall roost in the shadow of my fire escape cot. And ice water. That would be the ideal existence for me right now.

It feels like my brain is swollen and on fire and on trial for crimes it did commit.

BONUS POST

Hi!

It's DesperatePickle!

And Canadian Tuxedo!

Desperate Pickle is writing this now. I can't believe the Saints won. It's so fun. I'm so happy!

But mostly I'm just happy we're watching the puppy bowl at this point. I was briefly upset because I was pissed off that we were about to post more than once in a single day. This is a betrayal of the grandest scale.

Okay, I don't care in the slightest. Welcome to alcoholism.

Here's Canadian Tuxedo:

I too am drunk. I was told to move furniture. I was fed whiskey. I have been weaned on the teat of super bowl excess. I blame Desperate Pickle. His needy, briney self hath drawn me in one more time. Fie on thee, cruel fate, but I'm glad the saints won. I liked the google commercial and no one else did. It was sad and awkward. "That's like, six years of google we were watching!" I said. And they were all bastards. Except for Desperate Pickels girlfriend. She agreed with me. Bourbon is good. Freedom is Slavery. War is Peace.

Hey.

I'm back.

This is Desperate Pickle.

If you're listening to this, you are the resistance.

Did you ever KNOW that you were the less talented half of a pair? That you were the McCartney to a Lennon? That you were a Daltry to a Townshed? That you were a Lesh to a Garcia? I feel that daily to Canadian Tuxedo.

But I exhibit profanity without parallel.

What makes a chili?

10 lbs of ground beef
5 cans of kidney beans
5 cans of black beans
5 cans of diced tomatoes
15 shallots, diced
5 jalapeño peppers, diced
an assload of cheese
2 big pots
Assorted spices

And that's not counting my secret ingredient.*

The secret of chili is keeping it simple and cooking it slowly. Really, really slowly. But for fucking hours. With this much chili, I will probably let it cook for nearly 4 hours. Which means I really need to get this fucker going.

Enjoy the game. If you're not watching it (presumably because you're too secure in your sexuality), then I almost certainly don't like you.

The only Colts fan I know has food poisoning. That must be upsetting. Feel better, Kobi.

Oh, what the hell, for old time's sake:



For the morning-after-chili symptoms, I recommend Pepto Bismol, ginger ale and starchy foods. Bananas sometimes help as well. Also, drinking in moderation. But we know you're not going to do that. What is this Russia?

*It's Slurm.

Craigslist Matchmaker: Miami Super Bowl Edition

Helpful matchmaking comments in lavenderish.

An anti-Super Bowl date - 50 (Broward) Tell me about your Bro ward, brah.

---

Well...it's that time of year again. Taxes? THE HARVEST!? My values just don't align with grown men making large sums of money because people will pay large sums of money to watch them play with a leather ball. My values align with run-on sentences. It's like fake boobs. NOW I UNDERSTAND. Ooops! I'm not suppose to say that. Mother will be sew, sew miffed.

Me? I'm 5'7" and 155 lbs. I run and exercise, but doubt that makes as much difference as the genes that I inherited. I don't even HAVE to work out to stay 5'7". I'm not gay, but I like things clean and I like conversation...and I like closure. Butt closure. You might even see me wearing a pink shirt...but that's because I'm secure enough in my masculinity that I don't give a damn. I'm so secure I typed "I'm not gay" to start my last sentence. I'm a cowboy who hates boots and hats, and would rather spend the day sunning in the nude. I AM SECURE AND SANS HAT OR BOOTS! I'm told that many of my parts are perfect (particularly my turn as Lady MacBeth), but I still seem to take a path that is perpetually uphill. FOR THE CARDIO. NOT THAT I NEED IT!

Why a CL ad for an anti-Super Bowl date? Because I live in America and can. And I have no date tonight.

What do I seek? Intelligence. Humility. Genuineness. Sexy looks are great, but if you don't have the brains to back it up, then it just doesn't work for me. The ratio of sexy looks to backing-up brains must be at least 3 : 1. Besides, all of the hotties without brains are watching the Super Bowl with the men who like hotties without brains. Zombies will starve tonight due to the paucity of brains. Just sayin' Mother will be sew, sew miffed if I don't bring her a prize brained beauty!

Introduce yourself, please. Hello. The name is Lonely, Quite Lonely. You may call me Claire.

AND HIS MATCH:

Stunning blonde wants to attend Superbowl - 38 (Miami) Diary of a retired cheerleader.

---

I WILL ONLY RESPOND TO EMAILS WITH A PHOTO OF YOUR TICKETS ATTACHED, SINCE I'VE RECEIVED MANY BS EMAILS. Oooh yeah show me your ticket stub you dirty boy.

I'm hot, fun, funny, smart, loves sports and having a fantastic time!! I'm loves other things, too!

*If you're looking for sex in exchange for a ticket or want to verbally abuse a woman on CL, call a HOOKER* Because you really only pay them for their time.

• Location: Miami (bienvenido a Miami)
  
• it's NOT ok to contact this poster with services or other commercial interests Unless your commercial interest involves the unlawful transaction of Super Bowl tickets.
  

Enjoy the Game. At least you're not these people.

Looking Back, That Was Really Kind of Fucked Up

It's your saucy Saturday Evening post. That where this blog and similarities to The Saturday Evening Post end. Norman Rockwell declined to comment. I got a VCR for my fourteenth birthday. I went halfsies with the parents on an old Panasonic job so I could tape Flyers games while I was at practice or doing homework. This was important, because this was also the year we got cable and I had resolved to watch every single game of the season, although logistically I needed to tape some of them.

So my older brother got me some blank tapes and a Metallica concert VHS. There was very little different between me at 14 in 2000 and a 14 year-old in 1988. But what will always stand out is my sister's gift. It was Wild Things on tape. I had never seen Wild Things, but it had achieved a Holy Grail type of reverence for 14 year olds, as it was technically a full-length feature film, but only 5 minutes of the movie was talked about. But those 5 minutes, the use of slow motion, and the ability to rewind made an adolescent boy feel like God. Or Satan, depending on your upbringing. I still do not know what the plot of Wild Things is.

I never asked why my sister, then 20 years old, got me Wild Things. We had never discussed it, I had never asked for it, I had never been caught leering at it in Blockbuster, and I certainly wasn't about to interrogate her. I maintain that this was the nicest thing my sister ever did for me. She would probably scoff at that, but that just means she didn't know the gravity of her gift, the ushering in of an era only marked by the *snick* sound of a locked bedroom door. I should really send her a thank-you note. Because, you know, that wouldn't be creepy.

Fuck you, Bradley Cooper

This is Bradley Cooper.

Something for our female (or gay male) readers today.

But this is Bradley Cooper. As I woke up with a hangover this morning I wanted to write about why I didn't like The Hangover. But that movie came out a while ago and I didn't know if it was still relevant.

So I asked my friend Damien and his response, via text, was (sic'd): "Haha I haven't actually seen that yet. Although I love anything that spits in Bradley cooper's face"

Look at that smug, handsome bastard. Just glaring at you. As if to say, look at me, I'm handsome and charming and funny and everyone loves my movies. He was also Sack in Wedding Crashers, the greatest movie of all time, so we'll give him a little credit.

Okay, I don't really have a problem with Bradley Cooper. My problem was just with The Hangover. If you drink (or have ever drunk or ever been as drunk) as much as I have, you know that that movie isn't a comedy, it's a tragedy. If I'm as drunk/roofied as the guys in that movie, it's not really fun and hijinks trying to remember what happened. It's like "shit, we just ruined this guy's marriage and most of our own lives."

HAHAHA WE HAVE A NAKED ASIAN MAN IN THE TRUNK OF OUR CAR HAHAHAHA.

Eat shit.

The movie takes a series of really disturbing situations, never addresses them as disturbing and then assumes that we'll just laugh at them. In Wedding Crashers, it's stated, almost right from the start, that what these guys do is kind of fucked up and irresponsible. It recognizes that. And the comedy seldom comes from like "HAHAHA WE'RE LYING TO STRANGERS AND USING THEM FOR SEX." In The Hangover, so much of the comedy is derived from "MAN WE WERE SO DRUNK AND I FEEL SO SHITTY NOW." I just don't find that that funny. Having been really hungover, really regretting shit the next day, I don't really want to laugh at other people in that situation.

I sound like an uptight schoolmarm.

Nevermind, it's probably just my hangover talking.

But seriously, I didn't like that movie. And everyone who thinks its the funniest movie they've ever seen needs to see more movies. And drink fewer Jager bombs. It's a movie for bros. It's the cinematic spiritual cousin of Entourage. Douchebags love this shit.


Now THAT is funny.

Fuck you, Bradley Cooper. Get bent.

The Social Awkwardness Turbine

Have you seen these around? They're incredible! Revolving doors are essentially humiliating toll booths for me. I don't pay with money, I pay with red-faced embarrassment as I stutter-step my way through them. I was never taught how to properly use this carousel of miserable shame.

I will, without fail, slightly mess up the timing of entering a revolving door and be forced to stand, waiting for a chance to jump into a glass-walled wedge that allows me to gain access to alternative spaces. The only way to politely hold a revolving door for an older person or woman is to stand dumbly next to it. And I have to make that terrible "you first" gesture. "By all means, have at it! I will occupy the revolving compartment that follows yours!" I am convinced I am going to lop some lady in half with my enthusiastic usage of the revolving door.

Also, no one has ever fallen in love in a revolving door compartment. If you lock eyes with the one destiny has selected for you, you will either go in an endless circle of walking, divided by glass and metal pushbars, or you will forever be on the opposite sides of some building wall looking at each other. The only remedy would be for the person to wait outside until you revolve yourself around. But then you'd be asking for someone to wait for you. And true love waits for no one.

I leave you with a single horrific visual- what if revolving door panels weren't made of glass, but with metal. It would be like spending a second inside a coffin every time you used one. Plus, they're are just a huge fire hazard.

The Kool-Aid Man had the right idea all along.

TGIF OMG!!!11!!1!

I thought this week would never end.

I woke up with this song in my head:





It's a pretty kickass way to start your morning.

God, this week has been interminable.

All week long, I've just been looking forward to the Super Bowl. It has made these 5 days unbelievably long. And now there's still two morning days to go. But those days are weekend days. Glorious, glorious weekend days. Days when I can drink too much knowing that I can sleep in the next morning and not have to feel like I'm going to throw up on my desk. Days when I can play video games and watch movies till 3 or 4 in the morning. Days when I can not put on real pants until 8 or 9 at night, without fear of reprisal.

Until I was something like 15, I had Sunday school on Sunday mornings. As you can imagine, this was just about the worst thing ever. It was made better by the fact that I wasn't drinking heavily at that age and so it wasn't like I was hungover. But having to be at synagogue for "religious education" at 9 am every Sunday was brutal. I had visions of happy little atheist children snuggly tucked in their beds. They were warm, cozy, Nietzschian bundles of happiness. They knew, of course, that God is dead. And that waking up early on a Sunday was proof of it. The only reasons a person should ever be up early on a Sunday:

1. Football game watching
2. A subset of which is football game attending
3. Baseball game watching (it's okay to fall back asleep during the game)
4. Baseball game attending (only if its nice outside)
5. Sex
6. Masturbation to stave off hangover, promptly followed by the roll-over-back-to-sleep combo
7. Non-office related cool job (like film actor or secret agent or pirate)
8. Puking if seriously hungover, only if followed immediately by back to sleep

So, as you can see in this highly scientific, well-researched analysis, going to Sunday school is not an approved Sunday morning activity. I'm totally making my kids go.

Okay, one more song to get you ready for the weekend. Is this the most metal band with the most metal video ever? Maybe. It's definitely one of my favorite albums of the last five years. I heard of this band on one of Drew Magary's blogs. If you don't know, he's the funniest blogger out there. He writes a weekly column on Deadspin during the NFL season called the Jamboroo and he also has a weekly mailbag on there on Tuesdays. Also, he writes on Kissing Suzy Kolber. What's that you say? You're completely uninterested in what blogs I read or who I find funny? Well-played, clerks.

Play me out, Mastodon.

Craigslist Matchmaker, Kansas City Edition

Matchmaking comments in blue.

One more try.... - 24 (kc area) This is it. One Last Chance at Love. It's now or never. or Tomorrow. Or the next day. Or the rest of my twenties, thirties, forties...etc.

Date: 2010-02-04, 6:52AM CST Wow.

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Ok ok one more try before I stop trying so hard to find love, by doing things like posting on craigslist ! Good woman looking for a good man. Not looking for games (looking for good man- see previous). I'm interested in meeting a man who wants to be friends first and see if it can go anywhere (out of Kansas City? THE MOON?). I'm an independent chick, I don't need a man to take care of me. Need a man to love and for him to love me back (but don't you try to take care of me- I DON'T NEED IT). Want to grow old w someone. I have never been married and I do not have any kids. Want both someday w the right man. Love is never having to spell "with". Please do not be over the age of 30- true love tops out at 30 Unless you're 24. Then the last chance is at 24. No games nessasary (LEAVE THE JENGA AT HOME, PLAYA)....so please don't waste my time and I won't waste yours!!! If your interested...talk at me : ) Communication is important.

AND HER MATCH:

TALL RESPECTABLE WHITE MAN!!!!!!:):):) JACKPOT

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Date: 2010-02-04, 9:45AM CST A civil hour. Not too desperate. During Regis and Kelly.

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i LOVE TO be hugged. It just feels so good to be tightly squeezed and feel like you are loved once and a while. I was loved by a garlic press once. I also love to interact with people (I hug people that aren't me, too!) and be social. I make most of my friends laugh everytime they see me and i dont even try to. Uhh... I am just me. Well a little bit about me i am 6 foot 3 and white hazel (Like witch hazel- But WASPIER) eyes black hair and weight like 155 i guess. Friend laughter explained. I am looking to meet a variety of people on here. Um bareback with me this is my first time. FIRST TIME, MEET LAST CHANCE. I just want some (?) who wants to live life to the fullest and enjoy it and be besty's you know forever and ever. Jesus Fucking Christ. It hurts when ladies say there are not any nice people out there of guys. Almost as much as when I attempt complex sentence structure. I got news for you ladies (BREAKING AT SIX ON FOX) um me I am a gentleman and a scholor. We hold certain truths to be self-evident. If you want to lets text and maybe im yahoo. My pic gets yours.::::)))))))


AND THEN HE ADDED THESE CUTE PICTORIAL ALLUSIONS TO DATERAPE!

• it's NOT ok to contact this poster with services or other commercial interests Sure it is.
  

My work here is done.