Wednesday, December 24, 2003

Out of Office Reply

Worker #3116 will be out of the office from Wednesday, Dec. 24, to Monday, Jan. 5. If you need assistance with anything, please talk to the hand, because I am not listening to you.





Happy Holidays, Cunt Faces!

Nothing says "Merry Christmas" quite like an inter-office memo reminding everyone that even though today we have the luxury of leaving at THREE p.m., it is still a workday, and should be used productively and effectively to meet the goals of the company's mission statement.

Thanks cocks, your coal is in the mail.

Tuesday, December 23, 2003


Oh my god, I am so sorry about that fat joke I just made. It was really inappropriate, and I hope it didn't hurt any fat people's feelings. I know it's hard enough just being superfat.

Pop(corn shrimp) Quiz

This is a question for all you morbidly obese people out there:

Which is worse, the terrible embarrassment over your physical appearance, or the interior wasteland of someone utterly unloved?

Just curious. Thanks.

Lenny Bruce Is Still Dead

Um, did you see this?

"Pataki Pardons Lenny Bruce Posthumously"
(taken from the New York Times)

Was it that slow of a news day in Albany or what?

I mean, if this isn't just a pandering ploy to garner media attention, if it is an honest to God apology, then Mr. Pataki could at least have granted Mr. Bruce a "fucking" pardon, posthumously. Give the man the honors he deserves.

"'I truly believe my father's soul can rest in peace with this,' Kitty Bruce said at the time."
Are you sure, Kitty? Do you think that your father's soul gives a shit? Honestly? Honestly? You are a liar, Kitty, and a whore.

This whole thing is just fucking depressing. No one in the whole article even uses the word cunt. Poor Lenny, you failed, you failed miserably, you fucking cunt.

Vote "No" on Proposition H in 2008

It is pretty clear to me that everyone involved with livejournal is completely talentless, but I would like to tell you a story anyway and maybe you can empathize.

I was working at Victoria's Secret Corporate Headquarters as a temp once, and my job was quite simple: call every single store in the United States and make sure that they had received their Christmas decorations. Their decorations were listed in a ten page, eight-point-font, legal-sized document listing specific light bulbs, bustiers, stars, glitter packages, wall mounts, etc. This took forever. Now, my desk is always very messy for the simple reason that I do not give a FUCK about what I am doing on any given day at any given job. I was working with another temp named Brooke Fox, a cross eyed albino who plays folk music (Brooke Fox is so HOTTTT!). Brooke Fox worked very hard and was meticulous and neat, and she made me look like a real shithead. So one day my supervisor came over and asked me why Brooke's area was so clean and mine was so messy. "Because I'm an artist" I told her. This, to me, was hilarious. This, to her, was kinship. "Oh, me too!" she squealed (you know you're a squealer, Crystal) and then "I'm an artist too, yeah, I'm totally a creative person."

I am recounting all this because the absolute worst thing you can be in an office is the "creative guy". Why? Because everyone wants to help you out by giving you "creative" jobs to do so that you can really "express yourself." In the case of Crystal at Victoria's Secret Corporate Headquarters, one morning she handed me two binders. One was labeled "Fiscal Reports 2000-2001" and the other was labelled "Travel Receipts 2000-2001". As she handed them over she gave me a wink. "I want you to make new labels for these for the 2001-2002 fiscal year. But these are just for me, so do whatever you want with the labels, really get creative." I made them exactly the same. She honestly seemed heartbroken.

Now I have once again been pinpointed as the "creative guy" (I volunteered to write the holiday-themed poem for the staff-card to the head of the office, knowing full well that the worse it was the more they would like it). I am now responsible for highlighting the office in the upcoming edition of the hospital's newsletter. I have been told that the writing is often very dry in this newsletter and that I should try and make it fun, just really get creative. Well, let me ask you this, are the words "cum-draining" and "titty-tastic" indicative of fun and creativity, because this February's edition of the Communiqué is going to be full of them.

Vote "No" on Proposition H in 2008

Everyone keeps speculating on whether or not Hillary Clinton will run for President in the 2008 election. Honestly people, a woman in the white house? You've got to be fucking kidding me. What are we supposed to do, shut down the country once a month while the Commandette in Chief is on the rag? GET REAL!! This is about as likely as the foreskin magically regrowing on my penis.

Holiday Travel

"Cat Rides 150 Miles in Car's Engine, OK"
(taken from the New York Times)

OK? Do you mean Totally Awesome? "Cat Rides 150 Miles in Car's Engine, Totally Awesome" makes more sense.

The cat's name is Tracker. Apparently this trip cost him "a life or two", either that or the reporter assigned to this story puts too much faith in old wives' tales. According to officials who know about the feline capacities for engine travel, "he probably survived the 150-mile trip in the Chevrolet Tracker because the woman did not stop." Right, you noticed that the article lists the cat's name as Tracker and then refers to a Chevrolet Tracker. We will never know who rode whom. Um, also, why did he survive because she didn't stop? Never mind, I guess there's absolutely no reason to qualify this otherwise unsustained claim.

"'It's been a bigger year for kittens and cats particularly,' Verduin said as she pointed to a sign on one of the shelter's walls stating that one cat and its offspring can produce 420,000 cats in seven years."

I think that the figure on this poster applies to cats in any SEVEN YEAR PERIOD, based on regressive statistical models, but according to this super genius (who also uses the Biologist's term "intense kitty-crying" elsewhere in the article) it only goes further to prove her point that 2003 was the Year of the Cat!

Ugh, just forget it.


At long last, Justin Timberlake has sold his memoirs (to Doug Young at Transworld, way to go Doug), for publication in fall 2004.

I've always wanted to read about a white trash kid who just wouldn't quit until he was the biggest star in the world! Way to go, JT! You've rocked my body, now I'm ready for you to rock my mind!

Monday, December 22, 2003


I thought that the computer I was working on was old (see entry: OS G), but today I had definitive proof when I was blown away by the fact that (slightly) newer PCs come with Hearts already installed. When free card game software is your definition of advanced technology, you are living in a cave*, a sad, lonely, cold ass** cave where no one likes you and you eat lunch alone.

*In this entry, cave is used as a metaphor for work, or job.
**In this entry, cold ass is a metaphor for underpaid.






Job Opportunity

This weekend's New York Times Sunday Magazine article on identity theft proposed a very interesting career move:

''All you need is some idiot, some young kid working at a hospital or bank who's not happy with his job, who's not making enough money. He'll sell you Social Security numbers."

Who's buying? I will hook your ass UP! Asian chicks, black dudes, whatever you want!

I Am the Future!

Today's Corporate Casual Headline of the Day is a dream come true for many of us. At long last, the promise of computers will be borne out in its benevolent fullness:

"Software Lets You Be in Office but Not"
(taken from the New York Times)

Does this mean I will never have to work again? No. Does it mean that I will be able to surf the internet and make it look like I am simply formatting a spreadsheet from the comfort of my own home? YES!

"The screen changed to the screen of my office computer. All the applications, from Lotus Notes to Microsoft Office and some homebrew software were there and worked exactly as though I were in AP headquarters -- but I wasn't. I was 26 miles west."

26 miles! The internet is amazing! I had never even conceived of this type of mobility. Imagine, one computer being able to talk to another computer over a 26-mile land distance! Incredible! Has anyone ever thought of investing in this kind of space-age technology? I bet you could make a bundle. Um, also, what is "homebrew software"? Because my guess is that this guy is not a hacker, just some dweeb at the A.P. who gets boring technology assignments. My guess is that the homebrew software to which he refers is a shareware flight simulator he downloaded on Kazza, or a Pit Fall emulator.

Holiday Ha Ha

Got a Christmas joke for you idiots.

Q: Why don't the Jews celebrate Christmas?
A: Because they don't believe in Jesus Christ as their saviour.

For legal purposes, I will admit that I did not make this joke up, but what would you do about it if I said I did, L? Huh? That's what I thought.

Alien Vs. Predator Vs. Frodo Vs. Terminator Vs. Having Friends Because You Are Not Such a Loser

I am sure that over 7,000,000,000 nerds have already blown their LOTR load all over their blogs. I am sure that over 15,000,000,000 nerds have gone to sleep this week thinking "I can now die happy, safe in the knowledge that Frodo accomplished his task as the Ring Bearer." I am sure that 20,000,000,000 nerds whispered sweet nothings in Elvish as they stroked their wangs to the image of Liv Tyler crying.

Nevertheless, I would like to say that LOTR rulez!

Also, I would like to thank PartyPooper Jesus for the question he asked me on the phone last night: "So, was it better than the Terminators?"

Wake Up Sleepies!

I have this recurring dream.

In the dream I awake and it is eight a.m., the time I should be arriving at work. Somehow, my alarm (made of gold) has not gone off (I did not hear the customary "RISE FROM YOUR GRAVE" morning greeting). But now, and here's where it gets weird, instead of calling the office frantically to apologize for being late and assure them that I will be in as soon as possible, instead, because this is a dream, I don't do anything. I simply lie in bed as three nubile princesses bring me eggs and coffee, and I get to work when I damn well fucking feel like it, because I'm in charge.


But then I woke up and almost fucking cried, I was so late to my job that I would hate so much to lose because I love it.

(NOTE: This is my 200th entry. I am so awesome. It is incredible how awesome I am, and a lot of times I think about it. AWESOME!)

Friday, December 19, 2003


How come rap stars are the only ones who form musical "gangs"? You never see Belle and Sebastian taking the stage with a guttural cry of TERROR SQUAD! And how come non-rap artists don't get into murderous feuds? For Christmas, I want to hear that Stephen Malkmus and The Jicks pulled a drive-by on Pedro The Lion's crew and blew the shit out of their proselytizing asses. I'm just sayin', those bitches in Bright Eyes better watch their backs cuz those faggots is next!

Holiday Wish

All I want for Christmas is my two front teeth to be insured, along with the rest of my body, against injury, and to be paid for vacation and sickness, and to get a retirement account, so that when I am old I don't have to go through garbage cans looking for scrap metal to sell at three cents per pound in order to buy cat food for my one hundred thousand cats.

"Merry" Christmas, So to Speak

Ask me about my third holiday lunch of the week, this time with all of the medical school administration departments.

Did they turn the colors of Christmas into an Italian theme?

In order to really flesh out the "Italian" theme, did they decorate the otherwise bare tables with boxes of pasta and bottles of olive oil?

Did they have someone sing arias in Italian to piano accompaniment?

While she was singing, did you see a man pressing his hands against his ears?

Did they have recovering alcoholics speak about less fortunate Christmases past?
Yes. In a side note: recovering alcoholics are always talking about giving back. "I want to give back to those who have helped me." "I want to give back to my community." How about giving me back the time that I had to listen to you talk about your problems?

Did someone make a joke about liking brownies with nuts in them?

Did you think to yourself "that's not the only thing you like with nuts in them"?

I know I shouldn't complain about a free lunch, but God help me if I didn't end up paying for it anyhow. Also, to the lady in the homemade sweater with a Santa and his Sleigh made of yarn, what I meant to say was "No, you can't sit next to me."

I Am One Out of 11.9 Million People Who Prefer Stupid Sluts to President Bush

I lied!

I am a liar!

More Simple Life news in today's CCHOD:

"Paris Hilton Bigger TV Draw Than Bush"
(taken from

While this headline is admirable for its clever play on words, causing the reader to exclaim: Impossible! Was it shaved?, more importantly it is a comment inside the article which really boosted the headline up to winner status. I know PartyPooper Jesus will probably tell me that the contest should be renamed Corporate Casual Article of the Day, to make it semantically proper, but my command that he suck a D still stands, and will be reiterated every time he tries to poop on my party.

"Bush can console himself with the knowledge that he was more popular than a "Whoopi" rerun, which had 7.3 million people watching on NBC."

Leaving aside the infuriating fact that Whoopi has somehow not yet been cancelled, I think this is about as smarmy as the A.P. is allowed to get. Moreover, who were these 7.3 million people? My guess is that most of them were illegal immigrants who don't understand English, could only get one station to come in on their jerry-rigged coat-hanger antenna, and whose TVs' power buttons were broken so that they couldn't turn the TV off even if they wanted to, which they did, because Whoopi is the shittiest of shits.


Is everyone aware that the new skyscraper they are going to build on the site of the World Trade Center is called The Freedom Tower?


It is a much more fitting name for an attraction in the 9/11 section of Epcot Center than a memorial to the people who died. Still, I suppose it is better than the other names they were thinking about:

The Anti-Terrorism Central Command Post
The Freedom Fun-Zone
The America is the Greatest Country on Earth Tower of Peace
ESPN Sports Center Memorial to the Victims of 9/11

Guess how tall it's going to be. Just guess. Did you guess 1776 feet tall? Aha, now it makes sense, The Freedom (from imperial British rule) Tower. I wasn't reading the subtext.

Shared Moment

I really wish I had had this journal back in 2000, when I worked for Starlight Entertainment, and the head of the company called me into his office and had a total nervous breakdown. Have you ever seen a grown man not only cry, but have thick, glutinous snot run down his face and fall onto his DKNY turtleneck as he explained how his estranged wife had just told him that she had stolen his life's savings, was dissolving their business, and divorcing him? I have seen it, but unfortunately I did not have a forum in which to write about it, and so its nuances are lost.

If you used to own Starlight Entertainment, and you called me into your office to have a nervous breakdown, and then afterwards you went home and wrote about it in your diary, please, PLEASE get in touch with me, John, I would love to get a copy of your entry for that day. Thanks.

I'm not a Temp, not Yet a Full-Time

I arrived at work to receive the second of my holiday gift certificates to a here-unspecified superchain strip-mall store. At this point, though, I can honestly say that I've almost received as much holiday cheer from these fools as from my boss (whom I loved) at a real job I used to have in a major foreign-owned American company in a really really big city. Considering that this boss (whom I loved, and whose nickname was Boss for I told her that she could never be replaced) earned a five-digit bonus on top of her salary, it seems distressing to me now, in comparison, to realize what a fucking cheapskate she was (especially since I had two bosses and they went in together on my holiday present).

Am I the only one who finds it kind of disturbing that Tim Burton and Helena-Bonham Carter are having a baby together? She is the closest living approximate to Edward Scissorhands. She's more like Edward Scissorhands than Johnny Depp is. To understand my disgust, it's kind of like if Picasso slept with a woman whose three-dimensionality had been rendered into two dimensions, or if some weed-smoking drop-out from Heavy Metal magazine somehow found a woman who wanted to sleep with him, but more than that, she had gigantic size ZZZ ta-tas and wore metal armor.

By the way, and this may be my last comment about The Simple Life for awhile because I know I talk about it too much, but seriously, could someone just cave their heads in with the business end of an axe, or a Ferrari, and have it done with. They are using up valuable oxygen that could be going to some other living creature, like a blade of grass or the scientists who are working to get Christopher Reeve out of the wheelchair so that he no longer scares children (you better wrap it up with that paralysis, B).

Thursday, December 18, 2003

Out of Office Reply

I will be off-site for the rest of the afternoon. Please refer all of your office-related queries and Xeroxing requests to the trash folder of my email account.

P.S. Just because I would fuck Paris Hilton doesn't mean I respect her as a human being.

You Know Who You Are

If you are my boss, and your nickname is Lambchop, I fucking hate you, dude.

Dude got too drunk last night. Jesus. I can only break down so many ounces of Camo in a twenty-four hour period, asshole. What am I, chopped liver? I've been secreting serum bilirubin into the blood stream for days, and I fear he's coming down with Gilbert's Syndrome. Soon I'm going to have to put a sign up, "Your mother doesn't work here, so clean up your own blood after yourself!"

My On-Line Diary Brings All the Boys to the Yard, and They're Like, It's Better Than Yours

In light of this morning's earlier discussion of black astronauts (aka blastronauts), it raises a similar question: are there any black people with on-line diaries?

Judging by the number of people who list The OC and Third Eye Blind in their interests, it's rather doubtful. If one million white people write that they are bored, and post it on the internet, does anyone read it?

I'm no philosopher, but I'm white, and therefore I delude myself into thinking anyone could possibly care what I have to say.

Objection. Sustained.

Because radio news, t.v. news, and newspapers are traditionally followed in the morning, I would like to award the Corporate Casual Headline of the Day honors as early as possible. That way you can turn to this journal for all of your important news first thing, before the Jews who control the liberal, biased media can feed you their propaganda.

"Bank Robber Loses 'Stupidity' Appeal"
(taken from

It was only a matter of time before someone used stupidity as a defense for criminal action. I'm surprised idiots haven't tried it sooner. Here is the basic outline of the man's argument:

"Hernandez, 57, argued in his failed appeal that trying to rob the same teller who, moments earlier, had refused to cash his check was stupid enough to show he was inebriated."

Okay. I didn't know that simple stupidity was proof that one was inebriated, I thought blood-alcohol levels proved that. I see stupid sober people all day long. Moreover, from the text of the article it doesn't appear that Hernandez ever tried to prove he was inebriated in the initial trial. It seems, the more you learn about him, that is in fact his appeal that proves his stupidity.

"Hernandez also argued on appeal that there was no robbery since he made no threat."

Now, I'm no lawyer. And apparently, neither is the guy who wore a suit and sat next to Hernandez in the courtroom. Shouldn't you stick to one defense? "Your honor, I was clearly drunk when I robbed the bank, as proven by the stupidity of my actions. But more importantly, I am totally innocent. You better wrap it up with that gavel, B."

Technically, I think he should have won his "stupidity" appeal, because if anyone proved beyond a reasonable doubt that he was a super-duper retard it was this fucking idiot.

Cleaning Up Eddie Murphy's Mess

There was a short interview with Buzz Aldrin this morning on NPR (which will stand for National Pretentious-a-holes Radio until they stop boasting Veuve Cliquot Champagnes as a proud sponsor), and thought about how Buzz is an amazing name for a space-fighter. Then I thought it had been turned kind of gay by Toy Story, because toys are gay and there is a toy named Buzz Lightyear, which is a gay name for a space-fighter even if it wasn't a gay toy, which it is. Then this got me thinking about John Glenn, and how somehow that name, too, in its simplicity, denotes a certain white, upper-middle-class heroism to it. So, now, I must ask the question: has a black man ever been on the moon?

You know, white people, eventually we are going to have to realize that we cannot hold an entire race of people responsible for Pluto Nash. Moreover, we cannot assume that this is how black people will act in space. It's just unfair.

Also, would someone please tell Eddie Murphy that comparing the old, funny Eddie Murphy to the new, what-the-fuck-was-his-agent-thinking Eddie Murphy is a lot like comparing the old, black Michael Jackson to the new, scary-alien-white, childfucker Michael Jackson. Sad, and not funny. Indeed, if the funniest thing you've done in the past 10 years is provide the voice for a computer-generated donkey, then perhaps it's time to call it quits, Old Man River! He's liable to break a hip with his tired ass jokes. (Also, for those of you who are wondering where I got the ten-year figure, that is assuming that the last funny movie Eddie Murphy made was Beverly Hills Cop III, a specious claim at best.)

Anyway. Today we have the office holiday potluck. I brought tortilla chips. Two bags! I'm very excited, because my particular department forms part of a larger office, and it is this greater conglomerate of socially inept dropouts that will be gathering together for lunch. I'm just so curious to see what it will be like. My guess: rip-your-balls-off-put-them-in-the-freezer-overnight-and-use-them-as-novelty-icecubes-uncomfortable. The thing about working in the administrative offices of a medical school is that all day long you are dealing with people who are younger and more accomplished than you are, who are working towards careers in saving lives, and overcharging insurance providers. So all of the people here are like nerds at the cool kids party, trying to prove that somehow having a mint-condition Captain America #2 makes you a worthwhile person, while everyone else is too busy getting laid to notice. To make matters worse, med-school students are actually nerds, so it's like being the kid that even the nerds don't want to hang out with, and there's only one kind of kid like that: the smelly kid. An office of smelly kids, getting together to eat pasta salad and drink Tab. My god, I don't think I can wait.

Seriously, though, write to NASA and tell them to put a black man on the moon. I want to see what soft-shoe looks like in zero gravity.

Wednesday, December 17, 2003

Meat's Up!


"Soybeans Increase, Grains Fall; Meats Up"
(taken from the New York Times)

I tend to avoid business reporting because it's not my business, but look out Robert Frost. You may be dead, but the Associated Press is still going to kick your ass. Meats Up! Pure poetry.

Just to give you a taste of the kind of thing that certain people in the world read with great interest:

"Wheat for March delivery fell 3 1/2 cents to $3.86 a bushel; March corn fell 1/2 cent to $2.51 1/2 a bushel; March oats rose 1/4 cent to $1.47 3/4 a bushel; January soybeans rose 4 1/4 cents to $7.68 1/2 a bushel."

Grains, unfortunately, have fallen, much like my interest in this entry.


I just saw a pop-up ad for a website called Diversity Inc which asked the eternal question: "Was Beethoven Black?"

Although I continued to scroll-down to the animated jpegs of Asian teens peeing, it was one of the few times I almost followed one of these internet advertising campaigns. I have been wondering if Beethoven was black for years. He sounds black, but it's so hard to tell from his woodcuts.

Jingle Bell Cock

So, today we had our DCDO holiday luncheon at a fancy seafood restaurant. Every time that the staff gets together I learn something new about the ways in which people can be awkward around each other, and just flat out balls-to-the-wall cukoo-pants.

Shaft's Cousin declared that he wasn't impressed with the pirated copy of Eddie Murphy's Haunted Mansion, which he saw at the barbershop.

Gramms kept touching me, and at one point asked: "are you my boy or what?" I think this was motivated by my expressing that I might order the same dessert as she.

Lambchop just kept talking about how maybe she would get a salad because she was going out to dinner tonight, too. As if the rest of us were skipping dinner and going to bed after a game of shuffleboard while she lived out whatever kind of crazy afterhours party life a socially inept woman in her mid-thirties with a middle manager husband can live.

Crazy Aunt, a tangential figure in the office who I have not yet mentioned, but who earns her nickname primarily from her large collection of batiked silk vests, bragged to everyone that she would try anything once. This was said in reference to riding a horse (or eating a giant steak, it was hard to tell which she thought was more impressive), but I'm sure it also applies to anal-fisting.

Phylicia Rashad, a.ka. Ghost Lover, declared her disgust that Tiger Woods (who is engaged to a nanny) would marry below him, and then authoritatively exclaimed that "Michael Jackson pissed off the wrong person. That's what's going on." She then went on to brag that her best friend's husband produced The Cat in the Hat, the most unneeded self-promotion since Stephen Hawking declared he was single again and "looking for some young poon."

Afterwards the office traded their secret Santa gifts which included two rice cookers, a fruitcake sampler, a gift certificate to TGIFridays, and a travel mug.

I have to poop.

When Two Nerds Fall in Love

Conversation overheard in the atrium:

Girl: So the bad guys want the ring?
Boy: Right.
Girl: Why do they want the ring?
Boy: Because they are under the rule of Sauron.

Hillers Is da Bomb, Says Mother

I spoke with Brother Russia on the phone last night. He asked how things were going and I told him it was a good thing they'd finished building the new Whole Foods, because people were getting really tired of talking about Hiller's.

By the way, when Mother refers to a grocery store as "da bomb," you know that another slang term has officially died.

I Am INformed, You Are MALformed

I was also reading the New York Times this weekend, because if there's one thing I love to do it is read the news. Anyhow, there was an article about this scientist who outfitted a teeter-totter with pistons so that while the children played it captured the energy they were creating. This energy could power the entire school for a day after just one hour of play! (I did not fact-check this statistic, Party Jesus, so don't crawl up my ass and die.)

So, my question: how long will it take before a kid is used to power my Walkman? Also, what about all those assholes at the gym who run and bike in place? Couldn't they be exploited to power the entertainment and snacking appliances of the lazy?

Margin of Error of +/- 100%

There is an article in this morning's New York Times indicating that President Bush's approval ratings have shot up since the capture of Saddam Hussein. While this does not surprise me, it does make me wonder just what it is that President Bush did that earned him this renewed vote of confidence? If I remember correctly, he was in Washington at the time of SH's capture, and had been in Washington for quite some time. Did he ferret out a major lead in the case? Was he responsible for breaking the will of much-needed informants?

Giving him credit for SH's capture is a lot like giving Ronald McDonald an employee of the month award for the stunning sales numbers at the drive-thru window at McDonald's #12,499. While Ronald McDonald has been known to do some representation work for McD #12,499's parent organization, he's just a guy in a suit, who's never manned a fryer.


Wow! One-liner day was a tremendous success, I can't wait until next year. The response has been overwhelming, and to all of you who wrote me congratulatory is you who should be congratulated, for just being who you are.

Today is the 100th anniversary of the Wright Brothers pioneer flight in Kitty Hawk, NC. Just in time for their new conjoined twins comedy, Stuck on You. Do you think Orville was allowed to take nail clippers on the glider with him?

Finally, I would like to begin today's journal with an epigraph from the immortal poet, Governor-elect of California and lifetime member of the Hitler Youth, Arnold Schwarzenneger:

"As much as when you see a blonde with great tits and a great ass, you say to yourself, 'Hey, she must be stupid or must have nothing else to offer,' which maybe is the case many times. But then again there is the one that is as smart as her breasts look, great as her face looks, beautiful as her whole body looks gorgeous, you know, so people are shocked."

Amen brother, a-fucking-men.

Tuesday, December 16, 2003


A Priest, A Rabbi, and a Lawyer walk into a bar and the bartender says "We're closed cocksuckers."


Only 13 minutes until One-liner Day is officially over.

Corporate Casual Headline of the One-liner Day (taken from

"Clark Describes Milosevic as Stubborn"


Statistically speaking, I'm funnier and smarter than you are, but if you want to argue with hard data, be my guest, idiot.

Informed Voter

If more than one presidential candidate uses the word Horsecock in an equal number of campaign ads (i.e. any candidate who uses it twice will, by default, beat the candidate who uses it only once, but both remain in the running if they match each other Horsecock for Horsecock), then a run-off election will be held, in which I decide who used it with the most feeling.

Non-Partisan #3116

In a clear nod to yesterday's entry (see: Here I Go Again on My Own), I vow to vote for any presidential candidate, democratic or incumbent, who uses the word Horsecock in a campaign ad.


Am I wrong in finding that most independent rock music these days is easily categorized as either derivative garage rock or bouncy ear-candy for prancing fairies?

Miss Manners

Apparently, and I learned this one the hard way, it can be too late to say "I'm sorry" if you say it in an e-card.


This is just a hunch, but I bet that some nerd's resumé has either Klingon, Elvish, or both, listed under Languages.


And the bank manager says, "he's crying because yesterday I bet him a hundred thousand dollars that I could have your balls in my hand by noon."


Only 2 hours and 45 minutes until one-liner day is officially over.


You can learn a lot from a pirate with an eye patch, a wooden peg leg, and a parrot on his shoulder, if by 'learn a lot' you mean 'get scurvy'.


Do you hate me because I'm Jewish, or because it's one-liner day?


Do you think the mentally handicapped community is getting kind of tired with being limited to the Special Olympics as their one major event, and that maybe they'd like to have a mentally handicapped Iron Chef, or a mentally handicapped Vibe Awards?


If I had a hammer, I would NOT hammer in the morning, I might hammer in the evening, but I'd probably do most of my hammering at home because I'm not a big fan of travel.


Do you think Jack White tried to use the pick-up line "you're pretty good looking, for a girl," on Renée Zellweger?

That Last One Was So Good, I Had to Do It Again

"You had me at Hello Operator."

Ha Ha Ha Ha

"You had me at Hello Operator."


Jack White beat up the singer of the Von Bondies in Detroit this weekend, probably because the guy teased him about going out with Renée Zellweger.


I don't care what hippies and social workers say, I like to think that porn stars are the happiest people on earth.

Family Helps Family

Maybe Strom Thurmond's legitimate, blond-haired, blue-eyed son (Jimmy-boy Thurmond) will give his newly discovered half-sister a job in the kitchens, but I doubt it.

Tales from the Cryb

This may not be fair to her (Ellie May Georgia Washington Thurmond III or whatever her name is), but because I always imagined ST as the Crypt Keeper, now I have a new mental image of a female mixed-race Crypt Keeper and it is hilarious.

Voters' Rights

Who do you think she voted for in the 1948 presidential campaign in which her daddy ran on a Dixiecrat segregationist platform?


Did you hear about Strom Thurmond's illegitimate mixed-race daughter that he had at 22 with a 16 year old housemaid on his parents' estate?

Reader Reaction Two

One-liner day is the worst day of the whole year.

Reader Reaction

I hate one-liner day.


If the last entry is indicative of anything, it is that most likely these lines will simply bore you.


Sometimes these lines will make you laugh so hard you lose control of your bowels, while others will present you with such profound truths that you will weep like a woman.


All entries will be one line long.


Today is one-liner day.

Monday, December 15, 2003

Re: Get a Job Hippie!

In light of today's earlier entry (see: Good News is Good News) I have decided to award all of these headlines the prestigious Corporate Casual Headline of the Day award. In the spirit of this competition, which is so often maligned in this very journal, I will focus my commentary on the headline itself, rather than using the text of the referred article to bolster my supremely powerful witistry. (NOTE: all headlines taken from the New York Times):

"'Peter Pan' Seems Awfully Grown Up in New Movie"
In addition to this being the most useless piece of information I have heard since McDonald's began advertising the McLean Deluxe, I particularly like the "seems awfully", as if the filmmakers had tried to slip something by us, rather than just miscasting the shit out of an already crappy piece of supercrap.

"'Free Willy' Whale Buried in Norway"
Actually, I have been thinking a lot about whales lately, so this headline strikes me as important. Free Willy as you may or may not remember, was a movie about a little boy with no friends befriending a whale because he thought he might have more luck with a creature that couldn't understand the stupid things he said. Then he saves the whale from something, and the whale jumps over him while a Michael Jackson song plays in the background. What strikes me as interesting is how no one really cares about whales anymore. At the time that Free Willy came out, whales were all over all the fashion magazines as the thing hippies least wanted to kill. But now, nothing. I haven't heard about "saving the whales" in years. By burying Willy I feel like we are burying part of our past, the past when we cared about whales, and little boys who befriended, and got jumped over by, them. I also liked that he was buried. What the fuck? Don't most whales that die just get eaten by sharks? If you're going to bury him, the next thing you're going to have to do is give him a star on the Hollywood Walk of Fame and Has-Beens.

"Saddam's Farmhouse Hideaway Very Messy"
There is no way you could convince me that this journalist was not drunk when he phoned this one in last night. Shouldn't this be in, like, In Style, or Maxim, some magazine where 90% of the readership is illiterate anyway?

"Organization Names Best Country Doctor"
My only problem with this headline is its incompleteness. It should more appropriately read "Organization Names Best Country Doctor From Five Possible Candidates."

"Shoe Plant Gives Big Holiday Bonuses"
Awesome. This is just like the time the New York Times reported "Temporary Employee Receives Paycheck One Day Earlier Than Expected."



The rubber-band that turns the wooden gears inside my computer just broke. I had to go outside and hand crank the power-generator, which pushed a bowling ball down a ramp into a chicken, forcing her to lay an egg, which tipped the spoon to strike a match to light a candle, which burned the string, which sent the shoe-on-a-stick kicking into the side of the computer all the way up here on five and got it going again.

Phew. Now if I could just get the little guy who lives in the copy machine to stop cropping my documents.

Ja Vol!

As someone who spends most of his workday "not" surfing the internet, and "not" wishing he were at home or dead, it often seems strange to me that I am so thoroughly disgusted with the unprofessionalism of my colleagues. But, I think that in my heart of hearts I am a good, productive worker, and if you don't buy that then maybe you'll grant me the very minimal credit of at least knowing what a good, productive worker looks like. T-Boz gets more personal phone calls in a half hour on the job than I do in a month of free time. This frustration with the inability of others to be better paragons of business/office practice than I even extends to my bosses, whose every failure to conduct themselves according to the highest standards of parliamentary procedure only makes me less inclined to do anything other than "not" shop for dream houses on the internet and "not" write emails to an imaginary pen-pal named Hans who lives in a modern condo on the Rödingsmarkt in Hamburg, Germany.

What every employer I have ever had has failed to realize is that I am not shiftless and lazy, nor am I a spoiled debutante, I simply don't understand why I have to wake up early if I'm not going to actually do anything before eleven, and why I have to stay until five when I'm clearly not going to do any work after three p.m.

Oh, Hans just im'ed me about a totally sweet Rammstein video they just played on MTV Europe. Got to go.

Rite of Passage

There comes a time in every man's life when he has to ask himself the question Could I kill another man using only my mind?

My answer to that question, now, finally, is a resounding YES!

Good News Is Good News

This entry comes as a precursor to today's Corporate Casual Headline of the Day. I encountered an anomaly of such uniqueness and wonder that I felt compelled to report it. The listing of the Associated Press's top headlines are all so good that they could each and every one qualify as finalists for today's contest. So, in an effort to give you the same sense of awe that I felt myself upon encountering the World's Most Important News Stories of the Day, I will reproduce them here, exactly as found (all taken from the New York Times):

"'Peter Pan' Seems Awfully Grown Up in New Movie"

"'Free Willy' Whale Buried in Norway"

"Saddam's Farmhouse Hideaway Very Messy"

"Organization Names Best Country Doctor"

"Shoe Plant Gives Big Holiday Bonuses"

Rather than give my own interpretations of these events, I will allow you to use the format of the comment-posting function to offer your own reactions/interpretations.

Poetic Justice

Two suggested punishments for the recently captured Saddam Hussein, given by Iraqi citizens and reported by NPR's Morning Edition.

"I think Saddam Hussein should be forced to ride a donkey all over [Iraq]."

"I think U.S. Forces should lock Saddam Hussein in a cage and let everyone spit on him until he drowns."

I would just like to note that the only way this drowning plan will work is if it is a Plexiglass cage, and you spit on him from above.

Here I Go Again on My Own

We have a lot to do today, so let's just get started.

If you live in a hole in the ground, then you are either unaware that Saddam Hussein was captured by American forces this weekend, or you are Saddam Hussein himself. Katie Couric declared the capture a "tremendous political victory for the President" on this morning's Today Show. Is it just me, or does the great political failure of attacking Iraq and letting SH go to ground totally outweigh the success of his capture? And did the two suicide bombers who attacked Baghdad this morning put even the slightest damper on the celebrations? If they didn't, do you think maybe they should have?

It was also reported on this morning's Today Show, in the little news ticker that my local Channel 4 provider plugs in along the bottom of the screen, that "some retail experts expect the capture of [SH] will give holiday sales a must needed boost." Are there that many people out there who made a pledge not to buy an X-Box until SH was in US custody?

In my last Today Show report of the morning, when Katie Couric was interviewing General Norman Schwarzkopf, H thought she called him General Horsecock. Somehow that seemed both relevant and important. I think it denotes a "tremendous political victory" for people who want to see Horsecock used with more regularity in the mainstream media.

I also saw Matrix Revolutions this weekend. Why didn't any of you tell me that my time could have been better spent watching reruns of Good Morning Miami with the sound turned off?

Friday, December 12, 2003



Love Thy Neighbor

If there's one thing you know about me, it is that I hate talking bad about people. But the "Sandwich Artist" on Main Street is a fucking retard. And I don't mean that as a euphemism. I'm just lucky that the peach-fuzz moustache on his man-child upper-lip caught the snot dribbling from his nose before it leaked all over my sandwich. Wait, did I say sandwich? I meant cold-cut salad in a bread bowl with mayonnaise and mustard dressing. This is the only time in my experience of ordering Subway sandwiches that I have had to go over a "Sandwich Artist"'s head and complain to management because I honestly thought that the chaos he had shoved into a bag with napkins would explode in my backpack on the way back to work. I'm sure he keeps his room clean and is kind to others at the Halfway House, but that doesn't mean I want him preparing my food.

And to the 20 year old white guy I passed on my way back to work who was wearing a leather jacket and a doo-rag, what, did they have like a totally wicked ahsome sale at the outlet mall?

life imitating blog imitating life


Strangle Holders

How come Christians are the only ones with their own genre of Rock?

Let's go, Jews, I want to start hearing some Heeb-mo on the radio!!


And how come no one ever wants to go ISlam-Dancing?

You will, you will, rock me! ROCK ME!


Often I like to wait until the afternoon to grant the highly coveted CCHOD award. It's not always obvious that a headline is going to be the front-runner by the end of the day, because what if something even more interesting happens? Like, maybe you see a headline in the morning that reads "Woman Cannot Find Keys For Hours" and that's pretty fascinating, but if you wait until the afternoon you might find "Planters Forced to Apologize for 'You'll Love Sucking Our Nuts' Campaign" and the choice is obvious.

Today, though, the Corporate Casual Headline of the Day came early, and it came with authority. Even with the most obvious winner, there is always the fear that it will be overshadowed by the afternoon's events. Not this time, my friends:

"Pregnant Debra Messing Craves Everything"
(taken from the New York Times)

I'm not even going to comment on this one, lest I tarnish its perfection.

The Lessons of Philosophy

As if I needed further proof that I am trapped in the panopticon!!

There is no one in the office, just me, Gramms, and T-Boz.

But rather than do something cool about it, like have a foam party, we will sit around pretending like the boss is going to walk in at any moment. It's bad enough when she's here, why does it have to suck when she's gone, too?

Foucault was pretty smart, for a homo.

Thursday, December 11, 2003

Smooth Operator

I think I would be a good car salesman. I don't go for the hard sell the way some of these slick characters do. I let the customer get comfortable, bring them into my confidence, and then I say one sentence. That's all it takes, one sentence and they'll sign anything I tell them to. I could sell water to a drowning man, which is not an easy thing to do because they are drowning and it would seem that water is the last thing they need, but I could! Bucketfuls! Have a seat. They sit. You like that car? They nod, but then indicate that it's a bit pricey for them. I'm sure we can work something out. They hesitate. There is hesitation in their eyes. I give them my pitch:

"Buy this car, or everyone will know that you are a faggot."

If they are a lady:

"Buy this car, and I promise you will be engaged to a Jewish doctor within six months."

I'm moving cars off the lot like a diarrhetic moving bowels.

Flu Season

If I didn't know better, I would think that no one had ever had the flu before. Every five minutes some journalist is reporting that there is a bad case of the flu going around and NOT ENOUGH VACCINE!!! Isn't it called flu season because it happens every year? Like winter? No one's like, winter is coming and it's ALREADY COLD OUTSIDE!!!

Apparently, if you haven't gotten your flu shot yet you are a dead man.
I will miss you.

Tom Jones

Who can afford to throw a perfectly good pair of underwear at a singer?

Certainly no one I know.

Ladies, if you really want to show him you care, throw a new pair of Fruit Of The Loom boxer-briefs that he can actually wear. He'll thank you for it, and your panties won't end up on ebay selling for a paltry $1.75 plus shipping.

Photo Finish

Today we have a tie for the Corporate Casual Headline of the Day.

"Hall and Oates Deemed 'Heroes' of Music"
(taken from

My only comment is ha ha ha h-h-ha ha ha cough ha ha ha.

"Postal Service Denounces Mad TV Sketch"
(taken from

Why bother? Does anybody even watch Mad TV?

And, for one day only, I would like to present the Corporate Casual Religious News Headline of the Day. Here, too, we have a tie:

"Priest Told to Stop Giving Out Pamphlets"
(taken from

If you need more, the priest was ordered by the diocese to stop passing out anti-gay pamphlets because they bordered on the pornographic. Read: "Priest Told to Stop Passing Out Copies of Blue Boy."

That was fun, but a tie is a tie:

"Boston Archdiocese Mortgages Cathedral"
(taken from

Do you think the mortgage broker felt just a little bit guilty about gouging the shit out of the Roman Catholic Church on the 15 year variable rate for their Cathedral? It's kind of a damned if you do damned if you do situation, no?

Spell-Checka Deck

I know that before they were famous, a lot of rap stars couldn't afford a computer because they were poor and living in the ghetto, so I would like to offer my services as a spell-checker. The following is a list of the corrected names of your favorite hip-hop stars.

Big Boy
The Brat
Buster Rhymes
DJ Enough
Easy E
Erika Badu
50 Cents
Fabulous Five Freddy
Ice Tea
Inspector Deck
Jeru the Damager
Killer Priest
Criss Cross
Little Bow Wow
Little Cease
Little Kim
Little Romeo
Master Killer
Memphis Bleak
Michelle Ndegeocello
Most Deaf
Old Dirty Bastard
Pepper (of Salt and Pepper)
Sanitary Swab (Q-Tip is a registered trademark, sir)
Snoop Doggy Dog
Sticky Fingers
Young Bloods

There you go fellas (and ladies). I think you'll find rap is even more fun when it is grammatically correct!

Racism and Weddings

As I mentioned yesterday (see entry: A Message to Sotheby's), my copy of Ghettopoly did arrive in the mail. Now, although I stand by my claim that it makes no sense to ban something just because it represents a point of view or a stereotype that you don't like, this game is racist as shit. I'm not sure if it's having a crack pipe as a game piece, or purchasing properties such as Creme of Sum Yung Gui in "Chinatown" or "Paco's Loco Burrito" in "Wetbacktown". Granted, I think there is a hillbilly on one of the squares, so it's not like they don't insult the most obviously insultable of the Caucasian race in addition to niggaz, chinks, and spics.

While we are talking about offensive things, I somehow managed to get sucked in to watching Ryan and Trista's wedding on ABC last night. I'm not sure that I could do the terribleness of this show justice. It was the worst piece of crap that I have ever seen in my entire life, and that includes the pilot episode of Whoopi and that movie about retards, Powder (which I have seen three times, I fuck with you not). The best way to describe the pain of watching Trista and Ryan's wedding would be like having sex with an eighty year old demented cripple and your mom walks in on you two seconds before orgasm.

No Difference at All

3000 years ago, when the movie Kids was out in theaters, I was hanging out with some friends of mine in front of a downtown movie theater when a homosexual man came up to us. In addition to being doomed to an eternity of suffering for the sin of sodomy, he was also friends with one of my friends, and so he started talking to us. He pointed to the picture of a young, stoned Chloë Sevigny on the movie poster:

Did you see this movie man? Chloë Sevigny, she's got AIDS and shit, right, and she gets all high on ecstasy cuz she had to do something to take her mind off that shit. She was lookin all good with her makeup runnin' down her face and all sweaty and shit.

This sentiment is interesting to keep in mind in light of the realization I had this morning, with stunning clarity, that if I was Bobby Brown, I would take crack. Shit. He's gotta' do something to take his mind off the fact that he's Bobby Brown.

Wednesday, December 10, 2003

Science Wednesday

Today's CCHOD is dedicated to all of you nerds out there, which is all of you. Just as a little preface to today's headline, I would like you to know, now that you are adults, that when your parents told you that people only tease you to make themselves feel better because they have low self-esteem, they were lying. This is what parents tell losers. In reality people make fun of you because you are a miserable failure at life. No one likes you.

"Student Finds Largest Known Prime Number"
(taken from the New York Times)

A more appropriate wording of this headline would be "Something Happens That No One Cares About." The number here referred to is 2 to the 20,996,011th power minus 1. I especially like the "minus 1" part. That's what makes this event meaningful to the guy who discovered the number, and his mom, who thinks everything her boy does is just really, really special.

From the article: "As for [the biggest nerd ever]'s own standing in the world of mathematics, 'I don't think I'm going to be recognized as I go down the street or anything like that.'"

Wow, somebody call the Theater of the Obvious. I don't think this guy will even need to audition.

The truly tragic aspect of this nerd's already morbid existence is that he didn't discover anything. He simply connected to a network developed by real scientists and allowed his computer to be used in conjunction with 19,999 other computers to search for the number. It's like if someone got credit for running that flying toasters screensaver on their computer.

In closing, I would like to offer one last rewriting of today's headline:
"Student Finds Himself Alone All the Time."

Ghost Writer

Here are some ideas for novels that I think a novelist should write:

* A man is the sole survivor of a plane crash in the Andes mountains. Confronted with both the dangers of starvation and the horror of solitude, he eats his own arm, which he believes to be the arm of a seventeen foot tall Hindu god that constantly mocks him. When he is finally rescued and returns to society he becomes the drummer for a popular Def Leppard cover band, appropriately named Sugar.

* A teenage vampire discovers that the taste of human blood is not so sweet when it pulses in the veins of Jack, the dreamy captain of the football team. She will learn the meaning of responsibility and remorse when she has to spend prom night dateless and under the scrutinous eye of Detective Jaspers, a lone wolf on an otherwise corrupt police force. Both exposes the contradictions beneath the veneer of modern suburban life and accurately depicts the mental and emotional life of midwestern teenage vampires.

* Three law students make a pact that they will kill themselves on their fortieth birthdays. Now, the men are successful, with families and enviable careers, the suicide pact all but forgotten. So, it comes as a real surprise to two of the friends when they learn that Ian, the most affable, popular, and seemingly content of the three is found dead from a self inflicted gunshot wound to the face on the morning of his fortieth birthday. They must now decide whether to fulfill their ends of the bargain, or to hunt down the buried treasure that Ian hinted at in his suicide note.

* Two lesbians who really just need a good man in their lives spend days and days passionately fucking each other just the way I like, until one of them hires a well-built gardener named Orpheus. (Possibly a novella).

* A writer is murdered in his Upper West Side duplex. He finds, though, that he is much more successful as a ghost writer than he ever was freelancing and teaching correspondence courses at CUNY.

* Worker #3116 wastes his youth in a cubicle, working for people he does not respect, for laughable wages, as his looks and wits leave him like so much sand in an hourglass. With comedy and tragedy, his life becomes a parable for us all about the beauty that can be discovered in hating everything about your life. To be based loosely on the real life escapades of Worker #3116.


It is amazing what not listening to NPR all day can do to lift your mood.

You Never Write

Want to know how many times you can refresh your Yahoo email account hoping that a message has just arrived in the two seconds since you last refreshed your Yahoo email account?

Soooo mannnyyy tiiiiiiiiiimmmmmmesssssss

A Message to Sotheby's

I got a confirmation email today that my copy of Ghettopoly will be arriving soon. This is the game made famous by idiots who successfully lobbied the banning of the game due to perceived racist content. Never mind the deleterious nature of most music videos on MTV, or all of the programming on BET, or the hit TV show Cops, or your local news carrier. Apparently a gag gift carried by Urban Outfitters is spreading the seeds of low-self-esteem among black youths, disallowing them to realize their full potential.

Before I am lambasted for ordering this game, I will say that I would not have bought Ghettopoly on the merits of its ability to make my life more fun. I suppose I'll play it at least once, but the game is more importantly a strong addition to my collection of Banned Toys. When it arrives, I will have two items in my collection. The other is called Forward Command Post. A maker of doll houses decided they wanted to make a doll house that could be marketed to boys, and so Forward Command Post was born. It is a regular looking doll house, except for the holes left in the walls by bullet strafing, and the two soldiers (one black, one white, a real United Colors of Benetton moment) poring over maps in the dining room and setting up surface to air missile launchers in the peonies. This is an awesome toy, perhaps the most awesome toy ever created. One day, I will not live in a tiny one-bedroom apartment, and will actually be able to set it up and play with it.

In addition to receiving my confirmation email from the makers of Ghettopoly, there was an article in the New York Times today about a New York based outcry against the Playstation 2 game Grand Theft Auto: Vice City. Apparently, there is a section in the game in which you are instructed to "kill all the Haitians." Now the Haitians are angry, and demand that Rockstar Games change it or remove the product from stores. Rockstar Games has allegedly agreed to take out the "kill the Haitians" section in future printings, so now I have to go buy Grand Theft Auto: Vice City for my collection. I will not spend too much time on the subject, but I would like to mention that if the section of the game said "kill all the white people" there would not be any problem.

There is one other toy that I know of that belongs in my collection. It is the Midge doll, produced by the makers of Barbie (Mattel?). Midge is with child. The toy has been banned in America, most likely at the request of people who want little girls to know that being pregnant is the very worst possible thing that could ever happen in a woman's life. But Midge is still sold in Canada (sells quite well, I hear), so I'll have to figure out a way to order it. I have found no evidence that Midge is married, although I think there is some sort of male counterpart who comes with a baby stroller. He's probably named Stephen, a homosexual friend of Midge's who shares her passion for mohair and sex-on-the-beaches.

If you know of any banned toys, please let me know. Also, if you take my idea and start a collection of Banned Toys of your own, I will hunt you down and kill you, and then I will kill your family, and blow up their house, Forward Command Post style.


Is it just me, or does Howard Dean look like a life-sized Weeble Wobble?

It's 9 a.m. and All Is Well

My alarm didn't go off, so I woke up ten minutes before I was supposed to be at work.
Then I got to ride my bicycle in the rain.

So my attitude this morning is pretty well summed up in the expression "I'm sorry, did you get in my fucking way?" followed by an Ox Jaw to the neck.

Tuesday, December 09, 2003

Name Change

I suppose that if the current trend continues, I will probably have to change the title of my awards ceremony to either the Corporate Casual Headline of the Day Sponsored by, or the Corporate Casual Associated Press Headline of the Day. But I'm not ready for all of the fiscal responsibilities that would come with such a change, so for now we will let sleeping dogs (and by sleeping dogs I mean the title of Corporate Casual Headline of the Day, as it has always been) lie.

"Dog Rescued from 40 Tons of Waste"
(taken from

Although this headline is funny, which is usually what makes a headline a winner on this blog ready by ones, literally ones of people, it is also sad. Don't you think? It was a pretty slow news day, to be honest, but let's take a look inside, shall we:

"A dog from Middlesex County is probably feeling like a lucky pooch -- though she smelled like trash, after being rescued from among 40 tons of household waste in the back of a garbage trailer."

This is the opening paragraph and it just screams WRONG WRONG WRONG. It's bad enough that the writer used the word "pooch," which I thought had gone out of style right about the time Jimmy Cagney's teenage son first told him he was a "square". Then she goes on to describe the dog as feeling lucky, an emotion that dogs CANNOT feel (as a canine scientist I know this for a fact), despite smelling like trash!!!! What is this, fucking Animal Farm? Was this "pooch" a diplomat from the animal kingdom, here to learn about our biped ways? No. Dogs do not mind smelling like trash, and if they could feel lucky, which we have already confirmed they cannot, it would not be in spite of smelling like trash but because of it.

(NOTE: I am also assuming that she was using the word trash as a synonym for garbage, rather than as a simple descriptive of her own cheap perfume.)

"A landfill worker who found the dog described seeing it in 5 feet of garbage at the back edge of the truck and moments from being dropped 7 feet into the dump."

Really? Don't be surprised if I feel a bit skeptical that a sanitation worker, after a long day on the job, estimated the number of feet of trash the dog was buried in as compared to the number of feet it would be dropped. "The dog was fuckin' in there, and then it like, woulda fuckin' fell the fuck out if I hadn'ta stopped that shit."

"The pooch is leery of people, but she has taken to one resident of the kennel: a one-eyed pit bull."

There's that goddamned 'pooch' again. And I have never seen a more blatant case of doggy discrimination in the press. What is so surprising about befriending a one-eyed pit bull? Especially if you're another dog? And don't go telling me that it couldn't possibly have been discrimination because you have a friend who's a one-eyed pit bull.

"Blumig said it's too early to tell when the dog will be available for adoption. Anyone who is interested can put their name on a waiting list, she said."

A waiting list! What's the point of a waiting list for one dog? Like, if you're not the first person on the list you'll have to wait for the rescue of another trash dog? I fear this--to borrow a phrase--pooch's life is going to be turned into a party gag. "Check it out man, I adopted that trash dog from the newspaper. Yeah man, this dog was up to its ass in trash, and now it's here, in my fuckin' house, I can't barely even fuckin' believe it man."


For those of you who subscribe to Seventeen magazine, you might remember a popular feature titled "Trauma-rama" in which readers sent in letters describing embarrassing moments. Usually it was their unexpected heavy-flow period staining their new white bikini with deep red polka-dots right in front of their totally secret superhot crush. Mine is a bit more adult, and, I think, a bit more original, since I suspect that most months it was up to the staff of Seventeen to come up with fake embarrassing moments for an otherwise slow mail-month.

So, in the spirit of Trauma-rama, this entry will be written as a letter to you, the fictional Trauma-rama editor at Seventeen.

Dear Seventeen,

When I was in my 20's, I was working in an office as a temp for, like, no money, and it was totally lame-o! The people were nice enough, for the most part, but they were booooring. Mostly I just sat at my desk and pretended to be doing something other than nothing, which is what I was actually doing, all day long.

One day, everyone was laughing and joking together on the other side of my cubicle wall as if I couldn't totally hear them. Finally, someone came over and said they wanted me in the conference room for a staff photo. On the one hand, I was, like, super totally embarrassed, because I didn't know they would be taking a photo of me on that day and I, like, totally wore a maroon button-down shirt and had just shaved so my face was all way superpale and I had a zit on my forehead that looked like a mean third eye and so it was totally not a good day for a picture, like at all. But on the other hand, it was nice to feel included, and my heart felt happy because I thought that maybe they would give me a real job, and me and the boy of my dreams, Health Insurance, would finally be together. They took a couple pictures in the conference room, which I'm, like, totally sure will be so ugly I'll die. Then, and here's the part that makes me want to curl up in bed with a copy of your magazine (wink wink) and a box of tissues and just totally like cry. They took another group photo just without me!!! OMG can you believe it!!! What was the point of taking a group photo with me? Was it just for my benefit? Were they going to send me that one with the negatives so I could remember my shitty job there, while they showed everybody else the one without me and put it on their website? Would me and my dream date, Health Insurance, remain separated like the two greatest lovers of all time, Romeo and Juliet? They kept laughing like it was the most fun in the world, and then I went back to my desk, which wasn't even mine, because I was a temp.

I was like, so pissed.

Worker #3116
(subscriber since 1993, on my *fifteenth* birthday, wink wink, I was always mature for my age, lol)

Job Description

I guess it would be accurate to say that right now I am being paid not to quit in frustration and go home to bed.

Politics Are Fun(ny)

I would just like to say that I am a big fan of Al Gore's public endorsement of Howard Dean. Personally, I'm not sure what I think about Dean, he might be too much of an under-biter to be President of the United States of America, the Greatest Country on Earth. But I do know what I think about Joseph Lieberman, and what I think is that he is a disgusting muppet, left on the cutting room floor when Dark Crystal entered post-production. His wife is named Hadassah! Hadassah! A Jew! I'm sure their penurious ways could help cure our fiscal troubles, but do you really want to have a tour of the White House by menorah-light? Are we supposed to shut down the country on Friday at sundown?

Also, everyone is always talking about how General Wesley Clark is a republican in democrat clothing. But Lieberman is a self-righteous republican in humble Gollum clothing! He's almost as far right as you can get in the Democratic party (not to mention Middle Earth), with the possible exception of Texas' congressional democrats whose only liberal belief is that fags and pregnant teenagers is goin' to hell.

Thank you, Mr. Gore, for making Mr. Lieberman, a.k.a. Felty, almost cry on this morning's Today Show.


I would like to draw your attention once more to kutebutpsyko03, who, despite herself, is a mad genius. Her most recent post is a list of things that she hates, including but not limited to:

"I hate how you're conceited because your disgusting"

Her livejournal is a constant source of wisdom and grammatical errors.

*Highly Recommended*

Monday, December 08, 2003


The complexity of the contradictions in today's Corporate Casual Headline of the Day are truly astounding.

"Government Launching a $3.4 Million Anti-bullying Effort"
(taken from

Not only is it just plain silly that a government as militarily focussed as our own thinks that "bullying" is a problem worthy of their attention, but, as is the way with all good intentioned ideas, this is going to go terribly, horribly wrong. Did I mention that one of the bedrock aspects of the initiative will involve creating "friendship teams" in which three students will voluntarily get the living shit beat out of them. If anything this is going to increase bullying, when the sissies and nerds are easily identified by their federally-issued pink,silk sashes reading "Let's Be Friends" in gold lamé.

A Correction

This week a member of the local yellow press has published a holiday issue featuring a biographical essay, also known as a personal essay, so riddled with errors, errors for which I am not to blame, that I feel compelled to use this small, unread forum to post a corrected version of this essay. I ask you all to note that, indeed, I am an amazing person, that I have lived through many hard times only to come out stronger (some say I am stronger than steel). Fuck The Paper, they are fucking fuck-ups.

The Time(s) My Father Ruined My Life: a Christmas Tale

As a youth I developed a keen ability for conducting psy-ops on my father during the holidays. Far be it from me to come right out and ask for what I wanted, I would simply leave magazines opened to ads for the ULTIMATE PRESENT on the sofa, or write out lists and "accidentally" forget them on the kitchen counter. "YOU KNOW WHAT I don't WANT FOR CHRISTMAS, A SEGA MASTER SYSTEM. Those things are so stupid, not AWESOME at all, ALL THE KIDS WILL not LIKE ME." Day and night I waged a silent war against my father's subconscious.

After the tragedy of '88, I knew that it would require shock and awe to bend him to my will. That horrible, horrible winter, I was lit with anticipation. As the days ticked down, I knew that the knee-high robot that served drinks would be mine. I pictured myself sitting in a chair in the living room, wishing for an ice cold Coca-Cola, only to hear Robby the Robot™ knowingly humming his way from the kitchen to my seat, tray obediently outstretched, the ice only partially melted in the five minutes it took him to avoid carpeting and end tables. Two days before Christmas, with the oyster of the world begging me to crack it open, my father asked me for help in the kitchen. "You know," he said, "I was thinking about your present the other day, and I know you want that robot." My father, I realized at that moment, is a great man. For he sees into the heart not with a simplistic love (like my mother), but with a knowing that is wiser than his many, many, uncountable years. He sagely went on, "And I could get it for you, I could afford that robot that you want." Quite suddenly, as if he were imitating a scene from Flowers For Algernon, his mind left him, cold and dumb. "But then I realized that it was better to get you something that we could do together." And with that he let the salad spinner come to the end of its last cycle, and instilled in me the knowledge that even oysters can cause hot diarrhea. Robby the Robot had winked his red eye at me, turned his back, and hummed away, my Cola destined for someone else's lips.

Worse still, my father didn't tell me what the worst-present-in-the-world was. For that he would allow me to stew in anticipation of the moment, Christmas morning, when I ripped the paper away, heavy with the knowledge that fake happiness was required. As it turned out, this wündergift, this tool to bring fathers and sons closer than they had ever been before, was a set of Legos with a little motor, so that you could build things like an escalator, and a power drill with interchangeable bits. It was a gift of such obvious wrongness that I remember quite distinctly snorting in derision before throwing it as hard as I could against the wall.

The winter of '89 was to be different, and I led an all out assault. The Sega Genesis had been unleashed upon the world, and only I could tame it. I meticulously clipped photos of the Genesis and magneted them to the refrigerator. Sega became a multi-use word around the house.
"Could you pass the Sega?"
"How was your Sega today?"

Christmas morning came, and I felt confident that the easily influenced pudding that was now my father's mind had congealed around the truth. He may have withstood the "Why Sega is Good For Your Kid(s)" pamphlets that someone put on his windshield, but there was no way to resist the subconscious influence of a looped audio tape playing over and over during REM sleep.

The gifts under the tree were well arranged and described a certain bounty, but it required only a cursory glance to know that a Sega Genesis was not there. I had a good idea of what the specifications for a box of that type would be. After we had unwrapped all the gifts it was even more painfully clear that my father had not managed to purchase a rare, beta-tester model of an ultra-slim Sega Genesis that would fit into a tie-box.

"Oh, I think there's still something for you somewhere," he said.

I sat smiling, safe in the knowledge that a father, like a minor drug offender, can only suffer so many mis-steps before his life is irrevocably changed for the worse. He had one strike against him, and certainly would not dance so calmly on the razor's edge by swinging wide twice.

He returned, his hands saddled with paper-handled shopping bags, none of which were of the capacity for a Sega Genesis. Closing my eyes, I imagined that he had emptied the contents of the system's box, camouflaging the ULTIMATE PRESENT to make for the MOST AWESOMEST SURPRISE. I opened my eyes slowly and let out a weary sigh, like a poor circuit court judge faced with his own wayward nephew's MIP.

The fact that he gave an eleven year old child hardcover copies of such books as Anna Karenina, Bleak House, and Les Misérables, would have been enough to ruin any Christmas. But it was the added insult of giving them unwrapped that made the tragedy of '89 eclipse the tragedy of '88 in almost every way. The Sega Genesis was out there, people in the world were happy.

"I had already read all these books by the time I was your age," my father lied. "I decided you had enough toys, and that it was time you tried to expand yourself a little."

He had decided? Who did he think he was, a magic eight ball? I was ready to expand him with my fists. But he was my father. I loved him. Maybe the Sega Genesis was buried under the books. Maybe, just maybe, my father was not trying to tell me how little he cared for my happiness. Maybe all those times he told me he loved me were not simple empty signifiers!

No. The bags were filled with books. Big, crappy books.
This year I'm asking for cash.

Stocking Stuffer

Is it just me, or does it seem kind of SUPERFUCKING FUCKED UP that Al Roker, a man once so fat he had to have an invasive surgical procedure to staple his stomach shut, has a new holiday cookbook out?

Isn't it like Rush Limbaugh hosting a special hour of radio on how to pick a pharmacist?

Hit Me Once, Shame on Me...

This weekend I saw Master and Commander. So now I am here to repent. I am not ashamed of having seen this film, but I am embarrassed by my motivations. You see, from the beginning, I suspected that Master and Commander would be a historically accurate shit storm. Not to mention the star-turn of Russell "I'll punch you if you call me a bad actor" Crowe. But then, surprisingly, it got rave reviews throughout the mainstream media. Respected film critics were calling it a return to the sweeping magnificence of David Lean, etc, etc. A similar thing happened upon the release of Pirates of the Caribbean: Curse of the Black Pearl, which I saw the day it came out. In this instance I was pleasantly surprised by a film I anticipated to make me purchase a ticket to Paris in order to stab Johnny Depp in the eye, and found soon after that the reviewers were also pleased. So when Master and Commander garnered the approval of these same reviewers I thought maybe they were on to something.

High on something is more like it.

I like a good pirate movie, and I also like war movies, and I also like movies in which young children have arms amputated, and if you have read much of this journal then you know that I hate the French [(who are just jealous that we live in the Greatest Country on Earth, the United States of America, while they are forced to live in France), (see entry: France C'est L'ennemi Number One)] but this movie was reminiscent of the time I tasted shampoo at the food co-op because I thought it was the bulk honey dispenser. I threw up onto others, and then I went home and threw up by myself.

How could someone as sophisticated and singularly intelligent as myself have been so easily bamboozled by anyone with dreadlocks named Elvis (you hear me Genius Times? get that fucker a haircut)? How could I possibly think that a man from a country founded by convicts could do anything but rob me of two precious hours of my life? Do not punch me Russell Crowe, but you are the king of schlock. Even Hugh Grant thinks you're kind of a putz. And he left his hot fiance to sleep with whores.

Anyhow, I just wanted to express my extreme disappointment in myself, and apologize for having seen a Russell Crowe vehicle. To think I could have given that money to charity, or used it to buy razor blades to kill myself. To think that The Cat in the Hat was playing in the very same cineplex!

Misty Coleman, I Love You

I would just like to give a special Corporate Casual THANK YOU to Misty Coleman for putting my mobile phone back in working order. You are a special lady, Misty, and Cingular Wireless is lucky to have you.

My mother would also like to thank you, as it has been very rough on her not being able to get in touch with her baby boy at any and all hours of the day and night.

Thanks, Misty, and God bless you. You will be in my heart and in my text messages in the coming days.

I Kill in Ecstasy

Something is wrong with my mobile phone. If you try and call me it says that it is not a working number. But don't worry, Mom, I'm talking to the customer service people right now and will probably be able to let you know about dinner sometime this afternoon.

I got an e-mail this morning from the office manager that included an "excellent job description." Is she trying to give me a hint?

I am having lunch with the CEO today so I am wearing a tie. I should wear a tie more often. Even being caught playing minesweeper looks more professional if you get caught with a nice tie on.

I Kill in Ecstasy! (boop boop badoodadoodoop boop boop badoodadoodoop)

Friday, December 05, 2003

Smell This Fig That I Throw Atcha'

You can always read the New York Times (aka the Genius Times) Sunday Magazine online by Friday afternoon, well before it's Sunday morning release date. I just wanted to give you a quick heads up on an article so fatuous, so glaringly offensive that it is almost laughable.

Headline: Kebabing Along
Subject Line: Even amid the ravages of war, Afghans enjoy wonderful food.

Really? REALLY? A table for two, and please, don't seat us in the middle of the mine field like you did last time. I think what she really meant was "Even amid the ravages of war, Western Journalists manage to eat wonderful food in front of desperately poor Afghans who are dying of hunger." The end of the article features a recipe for a traditional Afghan dish, Buranee Banjan, which the writer suggests making with "three or four ounces of diced prosciutto", an ingredient that would no doubt cost an Afghan three months' salary.

Someone should hang for this. And then they should be eaten, I think that's fitting. Skewered and eaten, by Afghans, who even amid the ravages of war manage to enjoy the human flesh of assholes.

Arthur Rimbaud, aka Death Hammer

I broke the big toe on my right foot during my lunch break.

Contrary to what you might think, this is a good thing. I find it much easier to obsess about and then overcome physical pain than I do emotional. I am not alone in this capacity, which is why many of history's most sensitive poets and profound thinkers were also Ultimate Fighting Champions.

Then I came back to work with a broken foot and got in trouble for being gone for so long, so I feel uncomfortable about putting ice on it because I'm already in trouble and don't want to get in more trouble for doing something "strange."

Speaking of awesome fighters, in Russia there were posters up advertising the World Championship of Fighting Without Rules. I urged my brother to get tickets and go see it. I hope he takes my advice, otherwise I'll have to show him myself what fighting without rules is like.

Only a Matter of Time

Only 21,780 seconds until I can go home.

Only a Matter of Time

Only 22,860 seconds until I can go home.

Sinter Klaus and Black Pete...So Gay?

In the Netherlands the Dutch eagerly await December 5th for it is on
this day that they celebrate the coming of Sinter Klaus Avond whose
legends of generosity and kindness are well known. He has a helper
named Zwarte Piet (Black Pete) who gets dirty by crawling through the
chimneys bringing gifts to children. On the eve of December 5th, the
families often celebrate Sinter Klaus with each other. Children put
their wooden shoes close to the fireplace, the windowsill or near the
doors before they go to bed and also set out some hay and water and
sometimes a carrot for the horse. In the night, while the children
sleep, Sinter Klaus places gifts such as chocolate coins, poems about
themselves and other little presents in their shoes.

Proving conclusively that the Dutch are even stupider than we thought! If Santa ever gave me a poem about myself I'd kick his gay ass. I do wish he had a helper named Black Pete, though. Every holiday needs a helper named Black Pete. More importantly, every jolly fat man needs a helper named Black Pete.

Lesson Number One

I know that everyone must make their own mistakes in life, but sometimes a piece of advice comes along that truly can save a lot of painful false steps.

In the morning, do NOT drink, like, three cups of coffee and then go ride your bike around for "awhile."

Regret is the bitterest of poisons!

Thursday, December 04, 2003

Ground Floor

I have a great idea for free-market entrepreneurship that will fit in perfectly with the recent invention of the information superhighway: an on-line salvation army store. Much like any e-retailer you can browse through our wide selection of broken-in jeans, corduroy sport coats, and ironic DARE t-shirts, all for reasonable prices. There will be a small selection of costume jewelry and old Comic Relief cassettes as well.

But then, and here's where I really am a genius that it just hurts to be around me I'm so smart and full of money-making know-how, there will be a button in the upper right-hand corner for One-Click Shopping. This feature is for poor people who want to shop for used clothing but cannot afford gas for their dad's old pick-up (also: homeless people can access our website from the library, no bus fare!). Simply click on the One-Click Shopping Tab, pay three dollars, and we will send you a lumpy winter coat, a pair of ink-stained chinos, and a No-Fear/or/Kools/or/Comerica t-shirt. This way we can reduce our inventory, and also get the hard-begged dollars of street people. It is almost uncanny in its perfection.

To make matters better, all the clothing will be donated, so we'll be making money like sucking milk straight from a cow's tit. To improve customer traffic, there will also be porn on the website and it will be called!

No News Is Good News

This may be my latest CCHOD posting ever, but I knew that eventually the Associated Press, bastion of free speech and timely reporting, would come through for me.

"Goodyear Blimp Crashes into Fertilizer Pile, Injures One"
(taken from

The headline fails to mention that before crashing into a fertilizer pile, the Spirit of America, Goodyear's newest blimp, first drifted into a parked truck. My favorite part of this headline, of course, is the casualty rate. For those who planned to send flowers to the family, though, it was only a knee injury. Maybe just a little balloon on a stick would be more appropriate.

Do they have balloons in hospital gift shops that say "You're a pussy, stop crying"?


I think the world would be a better place if I had the power of tele-kinesis. For one thing, if a tree fell on someone, I could carefully lift it off of them using only my mind. Also, if someone was smoking and I found it unpleasant I could shove all the unwanted smoke down their black throats and into their poisoned lungs, or have the smoke spread out and hover over their bodies, never dissipating. If you were talking too much I wouldn't have to tell you, I could just use my power of tele-kinesis to clamp your jaw shut.

There are a lot of ways that the world would be a better place if I only had this one magical power. I would never have to walk to the refrigerator for a soda again, I could simply open the door the refrigerator with my mind and have the soda fly through the apartment to my outstretched hand. If a bus or train was late I could make it be on time. If my mom told me to come over to her house and clean my stuff out of her basement I could make HER clean it out of the basement!

Of course, there are some ways that the world would be a worse place if I had tele-kinesis. Scientists would want to conduct experiments on me, and I hate scientists. Also, I would have to do a lot of radio interviews with morning zoo shock jocks, and this would lose its novelty very quickly and become frustrating. Sure, I could make them stop talking so abrasively, but then how would I promote my awesome power?! Furthermore, some people would fear me, not understanding that my tele-kinesis would be wielded for good rather than evil. Some people might want to put me in jail. I would force these people to sit in uncomfortable chairs with their legs folded under them for hours. Then they'd learn. If they still insisted on imprisoning me on a remote military-controlled island in the south pacific, I would make these people kiss each other. Men would be forced to kiss other men, and women would be forced to kiss women with short hair and leather jackets. Then I would photograph them while they were kissing and send the pictures to all the major media outlets and all my detractors would wind up in divorce court trying to disprove the claim that they were totally gay. This, of course, would be impossible, because there would be photographic evidence. And if the judge thought it was unfair to punish someone just for a photo of them being gay, then I would make the defendant pull down his/her pants and pump their crotch at the judge and they would be held in contempt of court.

Ultimately, though, the world would just be better.

Blowjobs Rule But My Job Blows

Have you watched the new reality television show The Simple Life? Does it make you want to vomit all over your Manolo Blahniks?

Premise: Paris Hilton and Lionel Richie's daughter are sent to live on an Arkansas farm for six weeks and have their lives taped to find out what happens when rich girls stop giving blow jobs and start getting real.

The most common referent for this program is Green Acres, that paragon of 60s ha-ha. But although the pedigree is clear--as is anything produced in Los Angeles where inbreeding is so deeply rooted that people can rarely even come up with an original name for a worn-out idea--the comparison seems inapt. Green Acres was a comedy, where The Simple Life might be more appropriately considered a cringedy. Also, Eva Gabor was enjoyable to watch because her 5th avenue sensibility, although clashing strongly with the bucolic daily happenings of farm life, somehow left her purity intact so that she was a heroine worth rooting for. Ms. Hilton and Ms. Richie, the former being the subject of an internet-circulated amateur porn video, and the latter having been charged with heroin possession two weeks prior to filming, are such nasty sluts that you only wish a horse would kick them in the skull.

Last night's highlight was when Paris spent an hour putting together the perfect outfit with just the right amount of too-much-makeup for a barbecue with her host brother and his friends, only to walk out into the backyard and find everyone standing around in uncomfortable silence. I'm not sure if the joke was on her, exactly, but I was certainly laughing at her expense.

What drives me most crazy about this type of reality programming is the total lack of responsibility and/or repercussions for the sluts involved. You are supposed to chuckle at their inability to perform simple tasks like clocking in to work, and groan lightly when they flick off little children at a Burger King drive-thru, but what about the total lack of respect bitches like these show to people who have to do this stuff for a living every day of their worthless lives? It's not like anything happens to the girls if they fuck up, other than they have to spend an extra hour in the hot-tub to 'unwind' from their 'totally stressful day'. I remember once on the Real World when they were all working at a radio station in Seattle and everybody in the house got free snowboards and outfits and a free day on the slopes and this one guy just decided he was going to stay in bed. When things like this happen on television, when someone not only looks a gift horse in the mouth but begins to criticize that horse and call it a bad horse and tell it that it doesn't even like horses anyway, I always feel like I am slowly wiping their oniony spit from my face. Pee in my mouth, Mr. and Mrs. Reality Television, you could not degrade me or make me feel a sense of worthlessness any deeper than this.

Perhaps The Simple Life will get better. Perhaps the title is foreshadowing something that the viewer cannot know. One day, maybe, on the dairy farm, when Ms. Richie yells "FUCKING MOVE IT YOU COCKSUCKERS!" at the cows like she did last night, they will go into a frenzy and trample her so that the two hemispheres of her brain will separate along the longitudinal cerebral fissure, and she will remain bedridden and "simple" for the remainder of her days, watched over by Ms. Hilton, dressed in a Versace nurse's outfit, who will be heard to exclaim, every time Ms. Richie's bedpan needs changing or skin needs spongebathing, "seriously, I'm going to vomit. I could die."


(to be sung in the key of major-awesome)

If I had a ham--mer
I'd sell it for a dol--lar
I'd buy myself a hot--dog
And eat it real fa--ast

Wednesday, December 03, 2003

Having My Way with Words

I think I would be a good slogan-writer for various lobbying groups and special interest organizations. My most winning characteristic for this type of work is my neutrality on the issues, and my ability to see to the heart of a particular position and elicit the poetry from within. I will give you just a few examples of the types of slogans I would write (for money) if I was a slogan writer. Because these are being posted for free, they are only half as good as the ones I would do for pay. I can't afford to give away genius, not if I want to eat.

Slogan for the oil and gas industries:
"Paving the way for future generation!"

Slogan for pro-life activists:
"I didn't cum in your vagina, so don't cry on my shoulder."

Slogan for the meat and dairy farmers association of America:
"Hey vegetarians, eat me!"

Slogan for the Christian Coalition:
"We rule the world so Jews don't have to."

These are awesome. I am the greatest man in the universe.

Neilgene Meredith Jr.

I know someone who uses the same bathroom at school every day, and day in and day out saw a Nalgene bottle (the preferred drinking receptacle of hippies everywhere) on a shelf near the urinals. After months of eyeing this bottle jealously (Jerry Bears dancing in his head), he finally decided that no one was going to claim it, and took it for his own.

My point in telling you this story is to posit the following conclusion: If you ever feel compelled to make the statement that something you use for eating or drinking "didn't actually have poop on it" then you should throw that item away. And if you feel that it strengthens your argument to assert that "even if it did have poop on it, it would have come off when I washed it," that's just fucked up.

You are sick.

And I Thought You Were Trashy

"With U.S. Busy, China is Romping with Neighbors"
(taken from the New York Times)

China is such a slut.
We should take away her cell phone and cut off her shopping money.

The Flower That Drank the Moon

There are a lot of things that happen in the movies that do not ever happen in real life, and this disjunction makes me extremely depressed. You might think that I am referring to something like hot butt sex with a beautiful woman leading to true, everlasting love, but my desire is more prosaic than all that. What I am talking about is song, dance, and all out megabrawls.

In musicals, it is not uncommon for a man to be sitting on the toilet and suddenly break into song, this song leading to a dance, this dance leading to a chorus line of synchronized dancers, everyone leaping and singing about the beauties of defecation or what have you. Does this ever happen in life? Even in situations that might honestly demand it, such as a successful heart transplant operation, or a funeral? People don't even speak in rhyming verse! Where is the joy in the mundane? What happened to taking pure pleasure in being alive and in love and white and middle class?

More importantly, it would seem that a normal bystander in your average urban setting could encounter any number of all-out karate battles, and/or car chases. Africans, Germans, Asians and other third-world visitors to the United States of America, the greatest country on Earth, are often surprised that the promise of Hollywood does not meet the reality of our totally boring fatherland. For example, have you ever encountered a gang of seventy masked men encircling a guy in a flannel shirt in an alley way and then seen that same lone fighter kick the shit out of all those bitches? Have you ever seen someone jump off the top of a skyscraper wearing a simple business suit, only to discover that there is a parachute hidden in the briefcase handcuffed to their wrist? Have you ever seen what looked like a normal bullet proof Ferrari with tinted windows and a titanium rear spoiler race down the road, crash through the barricade on the bridge, turn into a boat in mid-air, and then speed through the choppy waters to the harbor?

Do people ever break out into song and dance and then smash a dude's head in with a sledgehammer made of solid gold?

Why can't life be more like that? Why is happiness so impossible?

A Philosophical Inquiry

If you fart in a cubicle and there's no one there to smell it, does it stink?

More importantly, though, for our purposes: if I fart in my shared cubicle and HP Turtleneck smells it, can I still blame her? What is the age limit on convincing someone that whoever smelt it dealt it?


I don't come to work hungover very often, but you don't see any inter-office memos going around applauding me for my special achievement. So why should I care that Castanello on the 17th floor is the proud father of (another) baby girl?

Hey Castanello, you fuck, she's just going to grow up to be a slut like your wife. Stop flooding my inbox with your tragedy.

Tuesday, December 02, 2003


I hate my co-workers the way that most people hate fat homeless retards. Sure, you know that they're just human and we are all brothers on this hopeless rock flying through space blah blah blah. But they are still scary and smell bad, and you really, really wish someone would keep them away from you.

I guess I can be grateful that my co-workers don't ask me for change.

Is This What Sartre Meant When He Wrote, "C'est Bullshit"?

Without the paltry promise of a life insurance policy, suicide is an even less lucrative proposition than my current job. It is sad to think that earning 300 dollars a week somehow makes me more valuable alive than dead.

Isn't it kind of depressing to think that John Lennon and Elvis are still making more than you? There is apparently no glass ceiling to the earning potential of dead celebrities.

A True Tale

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