Friday, January 30, 2004

The Adviceicist

Dear Worker #3116,

I've been seeing this guy for about a year. Things were going great until about two months ago. Then he started coming home late or not coming home at all, and he won't return my calls. Our sex life has really gone down hill from being wildly awesome to terrifically okay, and I fear he is seeing someone else. My reason for writing you is I was hoping you could answer what might seem like an obvious question: is it possible to drink so much water at such a rate that you would need to pee constantly, like the water was just running right through you?

Lonely Lover

Dear Lonely Lover,

That would be a lot of water! Good luck!

Worker #3116

Dear Worker #3116,

My mother is an alcoholic. My brother and I have tried, unsuccessfully, to get her to go to treatment on numerous occasions. I think it's only making things worse, because after every intervention she stops talking to us and goes on a month-long bender. When we were just little kids my dad left us, and I don't think she's ever recovered. Do you think that it's kind of ridiculous that saffron costs more per ounce than gold, I mean, it's just a spice, right?

Hopeless Child of an Alcoholic and a Dead Beat Dad

Dear Hopeless,

I've never heard of saffron. Good luck!

Worker #3116

Please send all correspondence to "The Adviceicist" c/o Worker #3116, Cubicle D-489, 5th floor, Bldg. 1.

Who Needs 401k and Health Insurance When You Are Fulfilled and Loving Life!?!

As it turns out, according to my employment agency, temporary positions may last as long as ONE YEAR!

But, I'm a pretty charming guy, and I think I could make an entire career out of it if I just sweet talk the secretaries.

Thursday, January 29, 2004


In further political news:

Polls show that 97% of voters would support an Alien-Predator ticket.

Please direct your donations to

God Made Him Simple, Science Made Him a God, God That Was Fucking Retarded

Remember the movie Lawn Mower Man, in which a retard gets turned into a video game?

What the FUCK was up with that?


I didn't think I was going to write anything today, but look, here I am!!!!!!


Living at your PARENTS' HOUSE is awesome. A lot of people don't know this, because they think they are "adults" and "independent", but I am here to tell you that there is nothing better than living at your PARENTS' HOUSE. Why, if my PARENTS weren't getting ready to kick me out, I would live there FOREVER!

Every morning, when I am leaving my PARENTS' HOUSE, I talk to the dogs. There are two dogs at my PARENTS' HOUSE, they live there too, although my PARENTS are not threatening to kick them out. This is because they love these dogs more than their own child. These dogs will never be forced into "making something of their lives" and "finding their passion." No PARENT will ever say to these dogs "why don't you ever invite us over to your apartment?" or, even worse, "when are you going to get an apartment?"

So, like I was saying, every morning I talk to the two dogs who are living at my PARENTS' HOUSE. My PARENTS trained the dogs, back when they were little dogs, with the phrase "guard the house." This is what you say to the dogs when you are leaving, and this lets them know that you are NOT leaving FOREVER. Without a phrase like this the dogs will think you have given them the house as a present, and they will poop on all your things and then eat them. Of course, you could still leave FOREVER if you wanted, and you could tell them "guard the house," and if their training was successful they would spend the rest of their dogs' lives not pooping on your things and eating them, just waiting and expecting you to come home at any moment. In an effort to lead a more honest life, I would recommend saying nothing if you are planning to leave your PARENTS' HOUSE FOREVER, this way the dogs who live there will know that they are on their own, that you are NEVER COMING BACK.

So, like I was saying, every morning as I am getting ready to leave my PARENTS' HOUSE, WHERE I LIVE, I talk to the two dogs who live there, too, and try to say something nice to them that they will understand. For example, this weekend my PARENTS went to Atlanta, GA, the Second Worst City in the Union. They got back yesterday. So, yesterday, when I was leaving my PARENTS' HOUSE, I told the dogs: "you guys don't realize this, but you're going to have a really big surprise today, and I'm really excited for you!" They did not understand this phrase quite as well as the phrase "guard the house", but I'm sure it all came together when they saw my PARENTS had returned. When that happened these two dogs were thinking to themselves "this must be the 'surprise' he mentioned this morning. Boy, he wasn't kidding, this is BIG!"

This morning, I was the last one to leave my PARENTS' HOUSE, and so it was my responsibility to say "guard the house," to let the dogs know that although they might feel alone in the universe, someday, probably later today, we would return and pet them. "You have to guard the house," I said to them. "Are you up to it? This is a lot of responsibility for you because there's no one else here to do it. If you're not up to it let me know right now, because I'll have to find other dogs. It will be hard since it's the absolute last minute (note: I was going to be late for the bus), but I WILL do it." The dogs seemed ready to guard the house, and so then I spoke in My Movie Preview Voice Over Voice: "Two dogs were chosen to guard a house, but they couldn't know the evil that lurked within its ancient walls." In this case "evil" is a metaphor for "my PARENTS" and "ancient walls" is a metaphor for "ugly 60s modern".


Wednesday, January 28, 2004


I use the King's English.

You know this.

So stop acting all surprised when I say things like "the skinny one amuses me," "do my bidding, knave," and "thy neck shall kiss the blade of the Guillotine on the morrow."


There is a lot of circulating gossip on who would be whose running mate when the primaries are said and done. "Oooh, a Dean-Clark ticket would be good." "Oooh, a Kerry-Edwards ticket would be good." "Oooh, a Kucinich-Sharpton, or better yet, Sharpton-Kucinich ticket, now that would send a message!" are the types of things that people are saying.

And yet, since all we are doing is voicing our IDEAL candidate pairings, how come no one, not one single person, has yet mentioned the totally perfect Alien-Predator ballot? Strong on defense, focused on family values, with balanced foreign policy experience, and a stranglehold on the small but powerful rastafarian constituency.

I've also got the perfect lawn poster:

Alien-Predator in 2004
"We will either eat George W. Bush. or kill him when we self-destruct our thermal-nuclear device."

Imagine the debate! Shortest presidential debate ever!

George W. Bush: I believe this country needs a strong lea--
Alien: Raar!
Tim Russert: It appears Alien has impaled you with his seventeenth row of teeth, Mr. President. How do you explain that to voters?

Imagine the debate! Shortest vice-presidential debate ever!

Jim Lehrer: Mr. Cheney, this next question is for you, since it appears The Predator is running late. An exit poll in the Ohio primaries showed that sixty percent of Americans did not think you had clarified your role in the Enron scandal of 2002. Would you please elaborate?
Cheney: My position is clear. The office of the Vice President maintains its right to seek advice from anonymous sources in an effort to-
(At this point a red laser beam shoots, apparently out of thin air, from the democratic vice-presidential nominee's podium. Something glimmers like water for a moment and then is gone. Dick Cheney falls, Jim Lehrer coughs into his hand.)

Dare to dream people. A vote for Alien-Predator is a vote for America.


Christine Hauser reported in the New York Times this morning that Gen. Wesley Clark and John Edwards "tied for third" with 12 percent of NH primary votes each.

But then there's a graphic that shows that Gen. Wesley Clark earned 27, 254 votes, while John Edwards earned 26, 415 votes. Um, where's the tie? I thought a tie was when two competing parties get the exact same thing.

Here's a thought: why doesn't the New York Times, long held as the "Paper of Record" for the United States of America, the Greatest Country on Earth, put up the twenty dollars it would cost to buy Ms. Hauser a new solar-powered calculator and pocket dictionary. That way she can stop pulling facts and figures out of her bleeding ass!

Also, I am happy to report that Gollum Lieberman did not even break double digits. I believe he is running out of Lambas bread and will have to drop out of the race for the ring of power soon.

There Are Children

Bitch, don't bring your kids to the office! That's what basements are for.

Hello, Cubicle Wall. You Are My Best Friend

This morning I left my house at 7:29:31, which is significant in that yesterday I left my house at 7:28:02 and caught the bus forty-five seconds after arriving at the stop. i.e. when I was leaving my house this morning I was destined to miss the bus by forty-six seconds. So, I walked as fast as I could through the snow, wearing size 120,000 DDD ogre-bearing boots. I walked so fast that I had to wait at the bus stop for minutes, literally minutes, and was convinced that I had still missed it. During this time I had this conversation with myself. One is a lower Appalachian accent, Two is a higher, almost girlish, Appalachian accent.

One: Ah walked so hard, Ah walked like a bloodhound.
Two: Yeah.
One: Ah walked so hard, Ah thought my feets was gonna' fall off.
Two: You're a bloodhound!

When the bus finally did arrive, after minutes, literally minutes of waiting, I realized that I had walked so fast time had stopped. This is the only way to explain being so early for the bus after leaving the house so late. I've done some calculations and come to the conclusion that between the second and fourth blocks of my walk I was travelling at 1.87 times the speed of light.

Last night I was having a Burger Feast with my brother and The The came on the stereo at the Burger Store. When was the last time you heard The The in a public place? If your answer was either "never" or "Feb. 2, 1990," you are correct.

Last night I watched the Tracy Morgan Show. I like shows about black families because the parents always make fun of the kids to the point of crippling psychological and emotional abuse. My guess is that there is a fair amount of crippling psychological and emotional abuse involved in real life when you are raised by Tracy Morgan, Bernie Mack, or Bill Cosby. They're always like, "Hey son, I'm going to use this in my new act, here check this: My son is so fucking stupid and ugly, he couldn't get a date to the prom and then had to lie about it to his friends claiming he was sick. What do you think? See how it's funny, because art is all imitatin' life n' shit. Because you couldn't get a date to the prom, right! RIGHT!?! And you wasn't sick, was you, B!?!"

Finally, in a Patty Potty Patrol update, this morning she unleashed a whole new offensive strategy. She was not sitting at her desk when I came in to work, but had rather taken up a chair in the office common area where she had a perfect view of both the men's bathroom door, AND the door to the stairwell by which I can usually make my way in private to the downstairs bathroom when I need to avoid her ever-watchful evil-eye-of-Sauron gaze. She is a genius. I will kill her before the rising of the new moon!

Tuesday, January 27, 2004

Hello, Cubicle Wall. You Are My Best Friend

I wouldn't say that today is the most boring day of my life, but then I have to wonder if that's only because I have no one to talk to.

The Votes Are In!

Oscar nominations are in, and, as usual, the Hollywood Media Machine has pandered to the highest common denominator:

Best Picture Nominees:
2 Fast 2 Furious
Agent Cody Banks
Boat Trip
Tupac: Resurrection
The Lizzie McGuire Movie

Best Actor Nominees:
John Goodman for The Jungle Book 2
Eddie Murphy for The Haunted Mansion
Jonathan Breck for Jeepers Creepers II
Matthew McConaughey for How to Lose a Guy in 10 Days
Colin Farrell for Daredevil

Best Actress Nominees:
Hillary Duff for The Lizzie McGuire Movie
Kate Hudson for Alex and Emma
Lisa Bonet for Biker Boyz
Alex Vega for Spy Kids 3-D: Game Over
The aboriginal woman who momentarily distracts Captain Jack Aubrey for Master and Commander: Far Side of the World

There were no nominees for Best Director or Best Original Screenplay this year.

Way to go, Hollywood Fat Cats, way to get it all horribly, horribly RIGHT!

The Guy Was Mad Max. MAD MAX!

Since when did Mel Gibson become this paragon of religious strife? Is Sergeant Martin Riggs really the guy to expose the seamy underbelly of age old Judeo-Christian conflicts? Everyone is so scared of his movie, The Passion of the Christ, but honestly, if you go to see a movie at the megaplex by the highway, during which you eat ju-ju-bees, popcorn with extra "butter", and drink diet cola, and afterwards you think to yourself "the Jews killed Jesus, so I'm going to go beat them up," and your hatred doesn't die down, even after passing the welcoming orange-glow windows of Applebee's and Circuit City, then there was probably something already wrong with you.

We should have killed him after What Women Want, now it would only make him a martyr to his holy war.

What a Morning!

So much has already happened today!

It is snowing outside, at the rate of a billion feet an hour. This means that all the schools are closed. This means that the future of America is going to be one day stupider than before.

I realized that I do more for work before I come in (wake up, shower, dress, eat a healthy breakfast, make my lunch, pack my bag, walk to the bus, take the bus, walk to work) than I do when I'm here (sit in a chair, go to the bathroom).

On the bus this morning, which I call the Fat Bus, because of all the Fat Secretaries who ride to work on the #4 line each morning, I thought to myself "I am as close to crapping my pants right now as I have ever been." This is not a thought one hopes for while riding the Fat Bus. I did not even have time to THANK the driver, I was in such a hurry to get inside.

Because of the seven trillion inches of snow that are still falling at a rate of an infinite amount of snow per hour, it is the perfect excuse to be late. So the office is rather quiet. I, however, was out of luck, for my least favorite person in the building, Patty Potty Patrol, was at her desk bright and early, playing Spider Solitaire and teasing her Peggy Bundy hair. Patty Potty Patrol has been employed for the sole purpose of watching the bathroom door like a fucking hawk, and noting every time I enter and leave. She is one of the few forty-million year-olds who keeps a livejournal, in which she notes all the times I have to go to the bathroom and for how long. I DRINK, LIKE, TWO GALLONS OF WATER EVERY DAY, MS. PATROL, FOR MY SKIN! Anyhow, I should have used the downstairs bathroom, which is what any prudent person would do after thinking "I am as close to crapping my pants right now as I have ever been," while riding the Fat Bus. Now I must suffer another online journal entry about my toilet use. Great.

Last week, I saw Patty Potty Patrol wearing this funky beige Newsies hat, like she was fucking Britney Spears or something. It was kind of sad actually, in that old-people-wearing-clothes-from-Hot-Topic-makes-you-want-to-go-get-a-prostate-exam kind of sad.

Now I am finally at my desk and I get this e-mail:

From: "Dollie Wainright"
To: "Worker #3116"
Subject: If you are using brand name impotence pills, you need to try the generic version...
Date: Tue, 27 Jan 2004 04:24:03 -0200

I especially like the added ellipses at the end of the subject line, which incorrigibly beckons READ ON, READ ON! I would imagine the taking of impotence pills to be a very personal, very private matter. It is difficult to picture a user of "brand name" impotence medication getting this e-mail and thinking "I'm always up for a bargain!" But the text of the e-mail is even more disconcerting:

Cheap vi-agra works the same as expensive vi-agra but is from overseas
Each order comes with specific directions for usage.
Pay for your order using any major credit card.
Ericka Perfecto

The e-mail starts out strong, with the hyphenation of vi-agra, a punctuation I've never seen before, but because it is so obviously wrong, it makes me question my own knowledge of the "brand name" pills I've been taking, like a fool, for so long. I've been duped into thinking Viagara was un-hyphenated, but Debbie Wainright is here to set the record straight. Then, I am terribly intrigued by the ever alluring exoticism of "from overseas". But it takes a dangerous turn, first by omitting a period at the end of the first sentence, followed by the vagaries of "Each order comes with specific directions for usage," which implies that each order may contain different "generic" impotence medication, and topped off with an overly blunt outlining of my payment options. But the real kicker, the part of the email that sends me running back to my "brand name" impotence pills like a black man from a police man, is ERICKA FUCKING PERFECTO! PERFECTO? Are you a magician or a blow-job actress? And what happened to Debbie Wainright, the eponymous sender of this e-mail? How can I trust that Ericka Perfecto is going to give me an honest deal on cheap vi-agara when she is clearly stealing her co-worker's e-mail account to write me?!


Monday, January 26, 2004

Bash the Shit out of Neilgene

Bash the Shit Out of Neilgene Meredith Jr. So He'll Read My Online Journal Day is over.

Was it a success? Will Neilgene read my livejournal now that I have spoken shit of him? I do not know.

What I do know: Neilgene Meredith Jr. is a cock.

Neilgene Meredith Jr.

One weekend, when I lived in New York City, and Neilgene Meredith Jr. lived in New York City, he dragged me all over Manhattan and Brooklyn looking for some party that he was sure would be awesome if only he could remember where it was. Oh wait, that was every weekend.

Are you reading yet, dill weed?

"They Call It Green Gold"

The Corporate Casual Headline of the Day is simply wrong!

"Someone is Stealing Avocados, and 'Guac Cops' Are on the Case"
(taken from the New York Times)

This is like saying "Someone is Stealing Cheese, and 'Pizza Cops' Are on the Case."

Moreover, it would be acceptable if there were no other annoyingly clever plays-on-words to choose from. But it is rare that something so knock 'em dead as "Someone is Stealing Avocados, and 'Avo-Cop-Os' Are on the Case" comes along. Get it right, Patricia Leigh Brown. You are a hack journalist, and the public will only accept so many fuck-ups before they burn you to the ground.

But I should give you a break, Patricia Leigh Brown. Not only have I learned that avocados are called "green gold" and have their own criminal underworld, but your hard-hitting journalism has left us with some of the Greatest Quotes of All Time:

"'When the Super Bowl comes, there is going to be thievery,' Mr. Luce said. 'People want guacamole.'"

"'It's like identity theft,' Lieutenant Kodadek said. 'The problem is, when God made avocados, he didn't put serial numbers on them.'"

"'It is a rare instance when someone who steals avocados doesn't go to jail,' said Tom Connors, senior deputy district attorney for Ventura County."

"'It's a frustration, dang it. You feel violated.'"

People steal avocados because they want guacamole so bad.

The problem, apparently, is that God didn't put serial numbers on avocados the way he did with everything else.

Everyone who steals avocados goes to jail forever, having committed the most atrocious crime in the world.

Someone in the world still says "dang it," right before crying into his vagina.

Neilgene Meredith Jr. is a douche bag.

Bash Neilgene Day!

"The Worst Weekend Ever, Almost" was a great success. It was both boring and annoying. The highlight was on the Thursday preceding "The Worst Weekend Ever, Almost" when I watched Chris Rock make jokes about black people and white people and the differences between black people and white people. Does it seem indicative of the nature of race relations in this day and age that the foundation for most black comedians is racial jokes and the foundation for most white comedians is television and airplane jokes? You never see some white guy on stage going "the problem with black people is..."

I did learn something over the course of "The Worst Weekend Ever, Almost," and that is that my "friend" Neilgene Meredith Jr. hates livejournal and never reads it unless someone posts shit about him. Then he reads it like it's some boring architecture journal from Princeton University Press. (Get it, Neilgene? You read boring architecture journals ALL THE TIME! My dissing of you is spot on.) So, today is officially Bash The Shit Out of Neilgene Meredith Jr. So He'll Read My Online Journal Day!

Neilgene likes to drink poop. He also likes to drink pee. Neilgene Meredith Jr. is a jerk!

Friday, January 23, 2004

Weighing My Option

Today has been a bad day, because today I have realized that I will never become a doctor.

I don't even want to be a doctor, but kids--at least non-poor white kids--are always told from the day they are born that "you can be anything you want, doctor..." The list always starts with doctor and goes from there, usually ending in "even President of the United States!"

But that life is closed to me now. I can still be a lawyer, or a folk balladeer, or a fireman, or a deadbeat dad, but I will never be a doctor. What if I was wrong? What if in ten years I realize that I don't want to spend my life as a temporary employee? What if I find that I really do like people and want to help them with medicines? What, I just shouldn't be allowed to use my privilege as an upper-middle-class white man to condescendingly "better" the lives of those less fortunate than myself through pharmaceutical and surgical means because as a kid I said that "science" and "caring about people" was for "nerds" and "gaywads"?

The whole thing would be a little easier to deal with if there were some other job opportunities still open to me that promised to give me a God Complex.

A Is for Victory

As many of you hopefully don't know, I have had a lot of problems in my personal life lately. In fact, I have had problems in almost every area of my personal life, including love, family, and playstation 2.

On the other hand, my public life has been going great. I cannot think of one aspect of my public life that has not been a stunning victory, and a crushing upset to my opponents. So, you can imagine how concerned I am by the two giant zits on my face. They look like a spider bit me on the cheek and left two gaping wounds filled with pus. Pollsters tell me that this is a terrible setback to my otherwise meteoric public life, and these two simple, blatant, and totally unwelcome blemishes threaten to blow the whole thing up like a giant bomb. What is particularly upsetting about this turn of events is that my public life is threatened not by a potentially damaging battle of wits with a supergenius foe, but by the rebellion of my own pores.

Thus, I plan to take the only action left to me: I will scar my face with acid. While some of you may think that this is an extreme measure, my closest advisers tell me that scarring my face with acid will not only eliminate acne problems for the rest of my natural life, but a scar-faced man will garner sympathy and admiration where a zit-faced man will garner only pity and derisory chuckling. A man my age cannot live respectably with the facial disturbances of a masturbatory fifteen year old, but he can live in pride with a face scarred by acid. Indeed, statistics show that most people confronted by a man with a face scarred by acid will refer to said man as "tough," "tough as nails," or "supertough." These same people, rigorous polling has shown, will refer to a man with zits as "loserish," "adolescent," and "unlikable."

So, when you see me and my totally wicked scars, know that I have done it for you, and by you I mean Scarlett Johansson.

A Is for Victory

Last night was Three Beer Thursday, which inadvertently makes this Fucked Up Friday. I know that three beers is not that many, but when you come into a job like mine, one that requires nine hours facing a computer pretending like you are not shopping for elvish clothing, then you really want to be at your peak performance. Also, M***y Street 'Mo's, if you persisted in drinking Icehouse because it was the cheapest beer you could find, I would accept that. But that you honestly like it, a beer that was cold-filtered through a vomit-lined garbage can and never watered-down, except by the added water, so that only the rancid taste of re-used hops from a previous batch of Blatz was left, it is shameful. You are shamed. Thanks for the Icehouse, though.

So McCullen and I finished watching Kaho Naa...Pyaar Hai, and we both decided at the end of the film that it was time we got our lives on track and moved to Bollywood, Califindia to pursue our dreams. There were a couple white people in the movie, one played the captain of the cruise ship and his only line was "I'm sorry, the ship must leave on schedule," and I'm sure they were each paid at least a million dollars for their work. McCullen has been passing for white all his life, so I'm sure the two of us could land some sweet roles. Also, Bollywood movies are moralistic, and that's something I can appreciate. The moral of Kaho Naa...Pyaar Hai was that it is all fine and good to fall in love with a poor musician, but it is even better to fall in love with a super rich guy who looks just like the poor musician (who is now dead, due to your father's role as leader of a drug cartel) and also happens to be as good if not better a musician than the poor dead guy you used to love (but never kissed, not ever), and is also an ultimate fighting champion when it comes time to confront your father and his criminal cohort.

Finally, the theme of the day is mutual dislike.
For example:
You say potato.
I say potato.
You say tomato.
I say tomato.
So fuck you.

Thursday, January 22, 2004

"End of an Era," or, "Too Little, Too Late"

I am so fucking OVER robots. And the only thing I am more over than robots is motherfucking DINOSAURS!

Robots are done. Dinosaurs are done. Get that through your tiny fifteen year old brains. I'm done talking about who would win in a battle between a robot and a dinosaur. I'm done writing short stories in which a robot and dinosaur, formerly best friends, are forced to do battle-to-the-death in a world-televised Ultimate Fighting Championship, because it is totally gay, and it is totally done and over.

There are 241 livejournal communities and over 500 individual members who list "robots" as one of their interests. There are 82 livejournal communities and over 500 individual members who list "dinosaurs" as one of their interests. They should also list "being totally gay" and "being totally lame" and "being totally twelve years old" as their interests.

I am so embarrassed. I would like to apologize to anyone who has, in the past, suffered me talking about, thinking about, looking at pictures of, drawing pictures of, singing songs about, writing in my dream journal about, making up band names featuring, making up series of historical novels featuring, renting movies featuring, talking about movies I wanted to make featuring, wearing t-shirts featuring, designing t-shirts featuring, naming things after, creating nicknames for people based on, and ever mentioning in the first place, robots and/or dinosaurs.

The end.

It Was Professor Plum in the Hallway with Candlestick

Sometimes, not often, but sometimes I feel completely removed from "the world of men." For example, my father did not teach me how to shave, and as a teenager I did not sit around in a group of dudes and exchange stroke mags, pointing out the particularly "useful" dog-eared and stuck-together pages (although Partyjesus and the rest of his gay roommates are trying to make up for lost time. Seriously, there are more sperm released in your guys' house than at a Tokyo Love Hotel. If anyone forced the twee term "wanker" into the American lexicon it would be you homos.)

So it was today, when I was sitting in the common area at work and a group of construction workers were there and one of them talked about how he had bought an underwater video camera to go looking for his snowmobile. Apparently the snowmobile in question had fallen through a hole in the ice on an unnamed body of water, and he knew right where it was, but had bought the camera in order to definitively locate it. And everyone around this man seemed to understand his predicament.

Okay, now, first of all, I don't know shit about snowmobiles other than they are totally sweet and that I used to have a black Yamaha t-shirt featuring a dude on a snowmobile bursting through some snow with a hot pink grid behind him, which I gave to Brother Russia. But it seems to me that a snowmobile, much like a car, or a walkman, or a human being, is virtually useless after falling through a hole in some ice and spending an indeterminate period of time in freezing cold water. So, that being said, the rest of the conversation was a complete mystery to me. I clearly was not at the Meeting of the World of Men when they covered "Snowmobiles: Their Use and Rescue."

I did like, however, when he described the snowmobile's descent through the ice as being "like an old man easing into a warm tub." I am sure, absolutely sure, that right after he said it, this man was thinking "I am a poet, and I didn't even know it." The guy sitting closest to me, with four missing teeth and a handlebar moustache filled with bits of french fry also liked the analogy. Didn't you, Smiley?!

Bloody Eyewash

Last night McCullen and I watched the first half of the Bollywood classic, Kaho Naa...Pyaar Hai. How long is KN...PH? Three hours. How good is KN...PH? So good. Thus far the best line of the film has been "why don't you boil your newspaper down to noodles." Other potential best lines were "I'm boozing," "bloody eyewash," and "There are certain compulsions, like mine, so I have not paid your auntie any money."

But KN...PH got me thinking about food. I think that everyone has the same image in their head of American actors standing around the catering table complaining about the stale Entenmann's donuts and the slightly rotted cold cuts. Do you think there is a similar trend in Bollywood? Do you think Hrithik Roshan, Bollywood heartthrob sans-pareil, is ever overheard to exclaim "If I have to see one more dish of lamb rogan josh I am going to kill someone. And don't think that some cold dal paneer is going to make up for it!!"

Also, how come the two main characters kept saying "I love you" in English? Is there no way to say "I love you" in Hindi? Do you think teenagers ever find themselves looking at each other and saying (in Hindi) "I know you're having trouble in English class this semester, but I really hope you can translate this, because it's the only way I know how to say what I feel..."?

Fake It Til You Make It

Here is an ad I saw this morning:

A group of pretty young women sit around a table at a restaurant/café. All the attention is focused on one dark haired beauty in a black Calvin Klein top. We will call her Woman One, and the other women will be numbered at random.

Woman Two: Oh my god, you're glowing.
Woman One: No I'm not.
Woman Three: Yes you are, who is he?
Woman One: There is no he.
Woman Five: There has to be, look at you, look how happy you are, are you guys getting married? You've fallen in love.
Woman One: Guys, there's no one. I am not in love, I swear. I'm not even seeing anybody.

Now it cuts away to close ups of the product for which this ad has been made: Crest White Strips. Here is why I love this commercial: I am used to being told that drinking Disaronno Amaretto will get me laid by non-English speaking Mediterranean nymphs. I am also used to being told that if I smoke Kool brand mentholated cigarettes I will spend the rest of my life in a damp pair of boxer-swim trunks on a secluded beach with a woman who won't stop laughing. I am used to being told, in general, that such and such a product will make me more handsome, more desirable to the opposite sex, more intelligent, and a better human being overall. Here, though, the advertisers have really struck a particular chord: Crest White Strips, they are telling me, will not necessarily get you laid, they will not necessarily make you more desirable to the opposite sex, we're not even promising (like our lying competitors) that they will make you a better human being (although we think they will), but they will make it seem like you are all these things, and that is at least as, if not more, important than the real thing. Because let's face it, if you are more attractive and successful and desirable and an overall better human being but no one can tell then what's the point? You may remain lonely, spending the cold nights curled up with your cat, but you'll look better to the friends who spend one afternoon a month with you because, in reality, none of you can stand each others' company, and that's what's really important.

Message of the day: If you can't find love, at least hide it well.

Wednesday, January 21, 2004

Honest Surprise, You

I am working on some fact-sheets for middle school students about different types of jobs in the health and science professions. One of the fact-sheets is about doctors, and it had this to say:

"If you want to be a doctor, you should like to heal sick people."

Dude, if you want to be a doctor, you should want to heal/be interested in healing sick people. If you already like to heal sick people, then you are already a doctor, or a shaman, therefore well versed in the ancient art of healing through the use of sacred stones and spiritual crystals.

It also had this to say:

"Of all jobs, doctors earn the most money."

Not true! A career in being J-Lo or President of the World Bank will totally earn you more money than being a stupid doctor. From what I gather in US magazine it is also a lot more fun than having to look at cripples and sick people all day. When did we stop teaching our kids the value and earning-power of celebrity?

Honest Surprise, You

I am honestly surprised that I don't know anyone who has named their pet "Chester Copperpot." Maybe they're saving it for their future children.

I Am a Man of Reaction

Granted, I have been known to complain about the blatant rudeness of most of the people I've ever seen or met. But I would now like to take a moment to complain about the bourgeois politesse of the working class in this town. Every morning, they THANK the bus driver. So now, I have to THANK the bus driver unless I want to appear as the only asshole on all of route 4. THANK him for what? THANK you, sir, for giving me the privilege of paying you a fucking dollar for this short-ass ride, especially since I have noticed that every other cunt on this bus has a bus pass and doesn't pay shit. It's easy to thank someone when they do something for free. From me, on the other hand, you get the best of both worlds: cash money and eternal gratitude. Seriously, though, people, THANKING the bus driver?

Meanwhile, I have figured out who I am going to vote for. George W. Bush. He is a man of action. Also, he makes the same smug fucking faces that I make when I am winning a board game. My God, I am sorry that anyone has ever had to play with me ever, because now I know what I look like and I want to smack the shit out of me. Still, I feel that this facial connection obligates me to vote for him. Plus, I can't wait to see a monkey on Mars.

What is this new American obsession with having a "man of action" in charge? Haven't we had enough action for awhile? Maybe we need a man of inaction for a little while to just sort of sit around and think about stuff. With Schwartz in the California, and The Bush in the WH, it's only a matter of time before Sly Stallone is elected King of the World (to be followed by the endless reign of His Majesty The Rock.)

Finally, I have noticed that George W. Bush, a name synonymous with ACTION, has a tendency in his bigger speeches to suddenly start talking about the craziest shit. Like, when he was giving his address to the General Assembly at the UN about the war in Iraq and all of a sudden he started railing against teenage prostitution in the third world, and how it was America's goal to rid the third world of teenage prostitution. He actually said something like "Americans do not travel abroad to sleep with teenage prostitutes, and you shouldn't either." I'm paraphrasing a little bit, but this is the same man who once said, in reference to his AIDS initiative: "we are going to use any means to get these people medicine, sometimes even travelling by motorcycle...and bicycle!" So it's not that much of a stretch, unless by stretch you mean "subject coming out of nowhere and making no sense to anyone." Hey, I'm fine with abolishing teenage prostitution as long as we don't ban super-hot barely-legal cum-draining my-18th birthday-is-in-three-days prostitution, but the only way I can imagine Mr. Action taking up this fight is after getting the herps from some 14 year old Laotian man-child with a peach fuzz moustache. And the UN does not want to know about Mr. Action's peccadilloes. I can just see Kofi Annan, sort of dozing off during the Muppet-in-Chief's speech, and then all of a sudden his head snaps up and he turns to his translator and is like Check your dictionary bitch, I think you translated that wrong. WHAT THE FUCK IS HE TALKING ABOUT? So now, last night, he's going on and on about the State of the Union, which he continuously fails to recognize as Very Bad, and then, out of nowhere, he starts talking about how we need to fight against the use of anabolic steroids and other performance enhancing drugs in professional sports. Wha? Wha? Ay-ay-ay! It's like he glanced quickly at the cover of this weekend's New York Times Magazine and thought, "Oh Shit, I'm gonna' talk about that shit right there. Using steroids and other performance enhancing drugs, that's just fucked up. I vow that there will be no performance enhancing drugs on Mars when my monkey gets there."

Tuesday, January 20, 2004

God's Work

I was just in Lambchop's office and I saw daylight!!

Hold on, I'm still crying.

Best Band of 2004

Officially, the Best Band of 2004 is:

You Will Know Us By The Belle and Super Furry Neutral Chunk Milk Deathcab For The Unicorns Look Good To Apples in Stereolab.

Congratulations guys, you rock, and only sound a little bit gay.

The Point at which Celebrity Endorsements Cease to Matter

"On the flight, Dr. Dean took a brief nap and then had a long chat with his pollster and his campaign manager, standing over them in the first-class cabin. Flying with him was Joan Jett, whose keyboardist handed out free CDs to the reporters, photographers and lower-level political aides in coach."
(taken from the New York Times)

Joan Jett? JOAN JETT? Does anyone care what she has to say about anything, much less politics? If there is even one person out there who gives a damn who Joan Jett is going to vote for, then I will delete this entry. If my hunch is correct, this entry will remain in this journal forever.

Now Pat Benetar, there's a celebrity whose singular voice could influence a generation. If Dr. Dean chose "Love is a Battlefield" as his official campaign theme song, and his wife began appearing with him regularly at campaign events with razor chopped, dyed black hair, wearing thrift store bridesmaid dresses in teal and Pepto pink, then maybe I'd think about voting for the little guy.

Snaps for Today's Youth

These ain't your daddy's snaps:

-Your mama is so beautiful, everybody is always talking about how pretty she is.

-Your mama is so smart, she's smarter than you, and you're pretty smart, but now we see where you get it from.

-Your mama is so skinny, she probably works out.

-Your mama is so smart, that's why they call her Doctor.

-Your mama is so rich, she's always treating people to dinner and buying lavish gifts for no reason at all.

-Your mama is so beautiful, I'd do her, and she's, like, fifty-five or sixty.

-Your mama is so skinny, when she sits on a couch there's still room for three or four other people, depending on the type of couch.

Snaps for Today's Youth

These ain't your daddy's snaps:

-Your mama is so fat, when she starts eating it takes forever for her to stop.

-Your mama is so stupid, when you say something to her, even if it's pretty simple, she only understands, like, half of it.

-Your mama is so fat, when she jumps up in the air someone is bound to make a joke about how she blots out the sun, which she doesn't, but it is an acceptable level of hyperbole considering how fat she is, which is super fat.

-Your mama is so poor, she's about to get evicted and can't afford the bus fare to the unemployment office.

-Your mama is so ugly, I hate looking at her, it almost makes me sick, if just looking at someone could do that.

-Your mama is so stupid, she never graduated from high school.

Dude, Penis Balloons?

Do you think Howard Dean cried bitter tears into his wife's frigid lap last night?

I think Howard Dean cried bitter tears into his wife's frigid lap last night.

Monday, January 19, 2004

I Will Buy This Product Because I Want to Be a Better Person

Saturday Looks Good to Me on Netscape Internet Radio AGAIN!

It is only a matter of time before they're in an ipod or Volkswagon commercial.

i.e. it is only a matter of time before I think that I need to own an ipod or Volkswagon in order to attract the opposite sex. Because nothing says "hot" like a product endorsed by a little known indie band harking back to the sounds of Phil Spector and early Motown. With dudes like that behind me who could I not fuck?

Nobody, I could not fuck nobody.


2004 is now renamed 2000B, the year of the beard.

Everyone is bearded.

I'm bearded.

You're bearded.

Dad is bearded.

The guys in The Stroke-Offs are probably bearded, even though they are totally 2002.

The only person to resist the bearding so far is Ray Romano, of TV's Everybody Loves Raymond, and that's because he has kids.


2004 is now renamed 2000B, the year of the beard.

Everyone is bearded.

I'm bearded.

You're bearded.

Dad is bearded.

The guys in The Stroke-Offs are probably bearded, even though they are totally 2002.

The only person to resist the bearding so far is Ray Romano, of TV's Everybody Loves Raymond, and that's because he has kids.

I Will Give You Two Dollars For the Head of Ben Lee

I finally saw Lost in Translation this weekend and now have a celebrity crush on Scarlett Johansson. True, I have a celebrity crush on any actress who spends half the movie in her underwear, but this time I think I'm in love.

Also, I saw Big Fish and would like to ask Mr. Burton to consider renaming the movie for dvd. He can call it My Big Fat Stupid Fish. I have not been so bored since that time I was trapped all alone in a sense-deprivation pod floating in zero-g after a dangerous but ultimately uneventful run-in with the space vampire. Now that's bored!

Oh, and happy Martin Luther King Jr. Day black people. Today, we whites feel especially guilty for all the terrible things that people who are probably related to us ever did to people who are probably related to you.

Friday, January 16, 2004


Sometimes, when I'm bored at work, I like to do random searches for interesting on-line diaries. What I find, time and again, is that THERE ARE NO INTERESTING ON-LINE DIARIES. Then, every once in awhile, I find an entry that really speaks to me. This is one of those entries (italics mine):

Haha! I've officially turned into my old self! I'm back! But that's not necessarily good. I unblocked EVERYONE on my buddylists... if they want to say something and are too much of a pussy to do it to my face, they have their fucking chance again. Because I'll make them feel like the scum beneath the sole of my shoes that they are.

I'm back to being mean and rude to those I am not close to. Whoever has a problem with me or that can FUCK OFF because I don't give a flying fuck.

And since everyone has messages for everyone in their posts but are too much of pussy's to put the names, I'll do the same but name the mother fucking people:

Nick~ You're my only proven friend. You rock.

Molly~ As far as I'm concerned and what shit has been said you are two-faced and you can suck big hairy cocks in hell.

This Andi chick~ watch your fucking back before you think about talking to me again. I WILL find you.

Denet~ I only took you back today for 2 reasons: 1) you threatened suicide and 2) because you wouldn't leave me alone until I did... you already know that... supposedly you're going to prove to me that u can be back to the way you were... i find that hard to believe but do so if you must. But if you can't, we are over.

.... well, that pretty much covers it. I'm out to sleep. And fuck you all!

At first I thought that "Because I'll make them feel like the scum beneath the sole of my shoes that they are" was my favorite part. Then I thought that calling everyone "pussy's" was my favorite part. Then I thought that "you can suck big hairy cocks in hell" was my favorite part. Then I thought that the part where she tells someone to watch their back before "thinking of talking to me again" and then followed that up with "I WILL find you" was my favorite part. Then I decided that the fact that this livejournal user just took back their boyfriend (Denet? Boy's name?) and clearly hates this person, but also NAMED THEIR ON-LINE DIARY "I LOVE DENET" was overwhelmingly my favorite part. That is so sad, in the way that sometimes sad things are the funniest fucking shit you have read all day.


Don't be fooled by your clergyman or internationally renowned pop-star: child fucking is not actually all that popular among average citizens.


Michael Jackson has plead not guilty to charges of child molestation.

Not surprising, and also not interesting.

How much more exciting it would have been if he had stood up and said "Yeah, your honor, guilty. I fucked all of them. I love fucking kids. I'd fuck your kids, and your kids, and your kids (at this point he is pointing first at the judge, then the lawyers, then members of the jury.) So sue me. Since when did fucking kids become a crime? Answer me that, Mr. Judgmental!"

That would beat O.J.'s trial's ass.

As if internet dating services didn't already seem like bastions for the most desperate and panic-stricken singles, how come aforementioned singles always have to post pictures that scream "if you want a real loser, here I am, ready and willing to disappoint you!"

If I see one more Vixen 892 making a pouty face up at the camera and baring a shoulder through her tanktop, or some grinning curly-haired goof who just loves to have fun and doesn't understand why nice guys are so unlucky in love, I will...I will...why are nice guys so unlucky in love?

Seriously, though, why can't these losers do what everyone else does when they get lonely, go to a titty bar and wait until you meet Mr./Ms. perfect when you both try to hail the same cab? Because everyone knows love strikes hardest when you and your soul mate try to hail the same cab.

I Can Barely Sit

I am so tired of Cingular trying to ass-rape me with my own phone!

Stop trying to ass-rape me with my own phone, Cingular!

I am so tired of it.

Thursday, January 15, 2004


That is my literal transcription of a triple-take.

A woman representing Concerned Women of America, a right-wing Christian organization, compared President Bush's hesitation to push through a constitutional amendment banning gay marriage to the government's (pre Civil War) avoidance of outlawing slavery. (New York Times article "Bush's Push for Marriage Falls Short for Conservatives")

It is interesting how she compares the government's refusal to constitutionally outlaw civil rights to gays to the government's refusal to constitutionally grant civil rights to blacks. And by interesting I mean amazingly stupid. It is surprising to me that the Christian Right even still exists. Not because I think the world is made up of particularly intelligent or rational people, but because whenever they express their opinions on issues of the day their logic is so confounding that I wonder how they manage to spell their names, much less lead the type of lives that would lead to political success and or financial security. These people should honestly be trying to wash my windshield with a dirty rag, not running the country.


Today, I have found a headline worthy of an award.

"Britney 'Totally Believes in Sanctity of Marriage'."
(taken from

It's that "totally" that really gets me. She also used to "totally" believe in the sanctity of avoiding pre-marital sex. In fact, she seems to "totally" believe in the sanctity of everything that she has de-sanctified.

"'We landed on Mars that day -- why aren't they talking about that?' she asked, referring to the Mars Rover launched by NASA."

Um, they did and continue to talk about it, slut. Not that you have ever read a newspaper, or watched CNN, or consulted any other news-based media of any kind. Also, "we" didn't land on Mars that day, a robot that can travel 12 feet landed on Mars.

You know what, I can't even do this. She is just so retarded. Honestly. She should get driven from concert to TRL to concert in a short bus, sleeping on a fold-out nap-time cot and eating graham crackers and apple juice. Britney, stop crushing the graham crackers into your juice and spooning it into your mouth and asking me if I like seafood. That's what happens when you get home schooled by a high school dropout.

I Would Do Anything For Help, But I Won't Do That

What was up with the late-80s early-90s psycho-therapeutic strategy of having people hit each other with foam covered swords? It's like the biggest fucking cocktease. You want to beat the shit out of someone, just really clobber them, knock their teeth into their throats so that they swallow their own teeth, are literally eating their own teeth, but instead you're just Nerfing them upside the head while they counterattack with their own Nerfing. I imagine that this therapy leaves the Nerfer feeling a lot like a smoker chewing as hard as he can on an entire pack of Nicorette gum. You're chewing and chewing and the whole time you're thinking "I would literally kill my own mother for a cigarette." Or you feel like a meth-head, masturbating until your penis bleeds, but never, EVER cumming. It only makes matters worse that you know the psychotherapist is either a bearded fruit or some fat woman with cats. Why is it that psychotherapists lives always seem so fucked up while they get paid to help others not be fucked up? It's like a fat person working the phones at the gym. It bugs me. I'd want to start hitting them with the Nerf sword. Take that you bearded impotent fuck. Take this and that and this and that and God damn it, I want something that cuts your skin, this Nerf shit is retarded.

Wednesday, January 14, 2004

re: Make Her Love It

Has anyone ever actually followed the links in one of those penis enlargement emails? What if there's some totally reliable, totally awesome product that's super cheap and we're all too jaded and cynical to take notice?! We could all be walking around with giant cocks at discount prices!!

Please refer all reactionary "who needs penis enlargement?" jokes to your boyfriend.

re: Make Her Love It

Has anyone ever actually followed the links in one of those penis enlargement emails? What if there's some totally reliable, totally awesome product that's super cheap and we're all too jaded and cynical to take notice?! We could all be walking around with giant cocks at discount prices!!

Please refer all reactionary "who needs penis enlargement?" jokes to your boyfriend.

I'm Going Gay in 2004

I am going gay in 2004. This will happen for two reasons:

1) It will get me on television, the only valuable thing anyone could possibly do with their lives. There is a dying hunger for more gays on television, so, hey, I'm ga(y)me.

2) President Bush is considering the proposal of a 1.5 BILLION dollar plan to promote "Healthy Marriage." At my current pay scale, if I gave everything that I earn to the government, it would take me, personally, 655.6 years of full-time work with weekends off but no vacation or sick days, ever, to pay for this initiative. But, more importantly, do people not know what marriage is? Because I think most people do. Indeed, the only reason he is promoting "Healthy Marriage" is because EVERYONE knows what it is, and THEY ALL WANT IT. Even fags, who get all their news from alternative weeklies, have somehow discovered the well kept Christian secret. Does the idea of having legal and illegal marriages sound a little too much like having black and white drinking fountains** to anybody but me? One of the main goals of this program will be to raise marriage rates in poor areas. Wait, what was that? You're going to spend 1.5 Billion dollars to raise marriage rates in poor areas? I have an idea, why not spend 1.5 Billion dollars to MAKE POOR AREAS NOT POOR!

I don't want to work one day, much less 655.6 years, to pay for this program. So, not only will I be going gay as an act of solidarity--it has been scientifically proven that gays, as disgusting as you and I may find it, are also human--but I will also stop paying taxes in order to ensure that not one dollar of my hard earned money goes to this ludicrous program. I think I would honestly rather go to jail for tax evasion than support this proposal in any way.

Of course, I will stop being gay if I go to prison, because I am NO ONE'S bitch.

If, for some reason, I get a good lawyer and manage to stay out of prison, I will also stop being gay just before I die, because I AM NOT GOING TO HELL.

**"This year, administration officials said, Mr. Bush will probably visit programs trying to raise marriage rates in poor neighborhoods. 'The president loves to do that sort of thing in the inner city with black churches, and he's very good at it,' a White House aide said."

Before I get a whole earful from partypooperjesus, I would like to say that I know this initiative is a pandering attempt on the President's part to appeal to his conservative base, and that it is unlikely it would get passed by both houses of Congress, possible, but unlikely (see: Bush's other proposal of making wetbacks American-wetbacks.) Also, I would like to point out to partypooperjesus that I am well aware that our economy, love it or leave it, depends on the subjugation of the lower classes in order to run efficiently. That there is no such thing as a modern economy without a certain section of the population cleaning our toilets, and another section being out of work altogether. But that's why they call it livejournal, partypooperjesus, because it's LIVE man, right off the top of my fucking head.

No News Is BAD News

I looked through the entire New York Times today and there was NO MENTION of the upcoming, totally balls-out awesome Alien Vs. Predator movie. What gives NYT? The baddest battle of the century wasn't good enough for your paper? Not even seventh page below the fold, in a tiny box smaller than the ad for that Tiffany's watch?

Listen, I know that Howard Dean is running for president, okay. What I don't know, but feel I MUST know, is what is going to happen when Alien and Predator do battle! You want to serve the people? You want to do quality reporting? Here is a major scoop, sitting on your face, peeing in your nose and mouth, and you ignore it.

Fellows, please boycott the NYT until they start giving a fair and balanced picture of world events. For all the shit he gets, I bet Bill O'Reilly has at least MENTIONED AVP once on his show. And shit, this is the kind of story that Fox News was created for.

Yet another instance of the liberal Jew media keeping the American people in the dark.

Mad Me Disease

The thing that I hate most about Mad Cow Disease is not that it could turn me into a slobbering babblemouth, but that it makes vegetarians THAT much more smug. Now it's all vegetarians can do not to laugh that your favorite food, meat, threatens to turn your brains to jam. Ha ha, they want to say, I knew it. It's not only the most disgusting thing in the world to eat another animal--they say "another animal because for all their meat-hating, vegetarians love to remind us that we, too, are just meat. They remind us of this right before sitting down to a feast of fake meat--but it's also mortally dangerous. I knew that God did not mean for womynkind to eat meat.

If God did not want us to eat meat, all cows would have Mad Cow Disease, always, and they would have the heads of cherubic human children, making it morally impossible to shoot lead slugs into their skulls. If God did not want us to eat meat, He wouldn't have made it taste so delicious, and he would never have allowed Ray Kroc to be born.

God wants it, man, you bet your ass he does.

I'll tell you something else, vegetarians, if God didn't want us to eat meat he would have made vegetarians more attractive, less inclined to hippyism and pasty-skinism. He would have made you guys cool and fun to be around. But he didn't. You're ugly and boring, and you can't even seem to enjoy a simple hamburger. It's ridiculous.

Don't even get me started on vegans. Those fuckers will burn in hell.

Tuesday, January 13, 2004

The Office

Everyone keeps asking:
"Have you seen The Office? Have you seen The Office?"
Then they say:
"Oh my god, you have to see The Office, it's great."

Well guess what fools, I LIVE THE OFFICE.

And, AND, we live in the United States of America. Anyone who's still watching the Queen's telly is a royalist and deserves a pound of buckshot in the belly.

Ghost Celebrity

I was thinking today about how a lot of famous pop musicians never wrote/write any of their music. Someone else writes the songs, and then they sing them. And then I was thinking how someone should write a book, and then I'll type it and publish it under my name and get rich and famous. Does anyone have a mid-list legal thriller with the potential to be a breakout title?

Astrology, Love It or Leave It at the Wal-Mart Checkout Line

I'm not sure that I believe in anything since Ms. Cleo was shown to be a hoax. You can only put so much faith into the premonitions of black women with fake Jamaican accents who make their own advertisements for cable television. Still, I have had a weird week of coincidental messages that I like to think are coming from the God I'm not sure I believe in.

First: I got a horoscope last week that was all about this big wave of change that was coming and how I should only hold on to the things I cared most about during the cleansing tides. Which, since I have been drowning in a sea of depression, seemed eerily prescient.

Second: The "message of the week" in karate class last week was about facing fear, and how the best way to prepare for dangerous situations was to face the fears you have when you're not in danger. Again, fear of dying from depression!! Facing the fear of dying of depression!!

Third: This weekend's episode of This American Life was all about "Living Without", and how to cope with not having things you think you need or want. In my case, for example, this would be learning to live without happiness or fulfillment or love from/for any human of any kind.

I hear you, Miss Cleo, loud and clear, mon.


This is a statistic that I just read, and it was even paraphrased by the time I got to it, so do with it what you will, but here goes:

94 percent of Americans believe in heaven.
1 percent of Americans believe they are going to hell.

I know that I have said this before (and I also know that I have a tendency to remind you when I've said something before), but I'll say it again (and I also have a tendency to ignore the fact that I have told you before and insist on repeating myself):



People on both sides of the political dividing line are always complaining about "big government" and how we need to stop the expansion of "big government." You know who doesn't complain about "big government"? The people of Liechtenstein.


It's such a preposterous complaint. It's like saying "I don't understand why the Post Office needs to deliver door to door. Why don't they put the mail in a pile and let everyone find their own?" And to argue that "big government" betrays the vision of the founding fathers is also specious. Perhaps, when there were only fifteen people living in the country (injuns aside), the drafters of the constitution did envision a country in which government and the individual could lead almost completely separate lives of sovereign will. Nevertheless, I don't think a single one of those pasty motherfuckers ever said "You know, this document is not accounting for the state of the union when there are almost three hundred million people living here, most of them overweight and wearing old No Fear and Hypercolor t-shirts on the nylon-grass covered step of their Windstar-200."

The only way that I think you can convincingly argue against "big government"--although few people have the courage--is to say "I think we need to stop lending support to faggots, niggers, spics, chinks, kikes, bums, retards, and single mother whores. I also think that by simply killing off these people America will once again be The Greatest Country on Earth." Now there's a position I can understand. So let's be honest, people, about what we want. It's not "big government" that makes us so angry, but rather "big, gay, Jewish, half-black Puerto Rican single mothers."

It always comes back to those goddamned big, gay, Jewish, half-black Puerto Rican single mothers."

Monday, January 12, 2004

Remember John Ritter? Well He's Dead

This weekend I saw a lot of people rolling on the floor in broken glass. Normally, we might feel the urge to call this type of person "an idiot." In this case, they preferred the term "musician." Whatever. All I have to say is I hope they cut some sense into themselves.

I did get to see some funny television. Two things:

1) Two people in a dog park dressed up in dog costumes. One of the people-dogs goes up to the other, ready to play. The second people-dog turns and blows an air-horn into the first people-dog's face, sending him to the ground clutching his bleeding ears. Then the second people-dog kicks the first people-dog repeatedly and then throws the air-horn at his head.

2) Some fool got made over on Gay Guy for the Straight Guy, and this fool works on television, so on his first day back to work he was sitting in the makeup girl's chair and had this conversation:
Fool: I think of myself as a pretty witty person, but when it comes to hanging out with the gay people...
Makeup Girl: You're not actually that witty.
Fool: It's just not happenin'. It's not happenin'. If I was a gay person, I would be a very quiet gay person.
Makeup Girl: You would be dead.

Ha ha ha. He would be dead. Then he would go to hell, because he would be a gay person.


Is every dude from my office in the bathroom this morning when I go in to do what my half cup of coffee demands? Good. It would be awful if anybody missed me entering a stall. I hope that one of you will be flossing while I poop, too, because nothing says hygiene like "public restroom."

Friday, January 09, 2004

Dig Me Out

I think that archaeologists, thanks to such great Brendan Frasier vehicles as The Mummy and The Mummy Returns, figure much closer in the national consciousness than the actual representation of archaeology in the work force would suggest. Between those assholes in Timeline, the guys who thought Stargate was a good idea, and the magicians who made the interestingness of the idea behind Jurassic Park disappear in a fog of a million pixels, archaeology would seem to be putting food on the tables of most Americans. Indiana Jones is one of the most popular screen heroes of all time, and he's also an awesome archaeologist, who somehow is the kind of archaeologist who shoots people, discovers secret societies of black magic cannibals, drinks from a holy grail, beats up Chinese orphans, and womanizes ditsy blondes rather than placing intricate grids over pieces of carefully plotted land in search of clues to humanity's past. Apparently, also, other archaeologists respect him for his hard work, even though he's clearly taking all the glory and making someone else do all the boring work that we know archaeology to be.

I have never actually met an archaeologist, but if I did, I know what I would ask:

"Have you ever unleashed an ancient demon upon the globe?"

"Was your father also a famous archaeologist? And did he find an ancient artifact that opened a portal in time and sent him back to mediaeval times? And must you now use this same artifact to travel back in time and rescue your father?"

"Why do you carry a whip? Is it to carefully remove dust from fragile objects buried under ages of silt?"

"Do you think that you might be able to vanquish the evil demon you unleashed upon the globe?"

"Don't you think that maybe the dinosaurs went extinct for a reason and that you, as a careful observer of history, should leave well enough alone?"

"If none of the above apply to you, do you know another archaeologist who might have some answers to my obviously pertinent questions about your field? Clearly you are a hack."

New Rules

I have decided to institute new rules for being my friend. This is a retroactive regulation, which means if you have been my friend in the past, before these new rules were established, but have not yet passed the equivalency tests, then you may not be my friend in the future, bitch. There will be seven stages to determining friendship status:

1. Intelligence Test (Absolutely no dummies, please, ever! I won't even talk to your drooling, booger ass, much less befriend you.)

2. Good-lookingness Test (Girls must be attractive according to a totally subjective examination made by yours truly and focussing on legs, tits, and ass. Guys must be at least two degrees less attractive than myself so that competition in the looks department is not an issue threatening to tear our friendship apart.)

3. Location, location, location Test (Where does your ass live? If it is too far for me to walk, or ride my bike over, then you can only be my friend by putting your reasons for such a relationship in writing.)

4. Friends of Friends of Friends Test (Do you know anyone that I could exploit for my own reasons? Do you have hot friends? Powerful friends? Rich friends? No? Go away, then, fuckmouth.)

5. Birthday Test (What did you get me for my birthday? Don't pull the "I bought you a drink at the bar" trick, which is the same as saying "I would have bought you a gift if I even cared about you the littlest tiniest bit, but instead I bought you a drink, because I am lazy, and stupid, and hate you, and only want to be your friend so that people will think I'm cooler than I am, which is clearly not very cool at all as displayed by my rude and thoughtless behavior on your very important birthday.")

6. Funnybone Test (Are you funny? Good. Are you funnier than me? Bad, you are not my friend, go home and tell jokes to your tape recorder. I'm sure Letterman is just dying to hire you as a writer, funnyman. I hate you.)

7. Sex Test (Ladies, how willing are you to have sex with me if we decide we want to become "more than just friends." Or, even better, "sex friends." Sex friends are friends who just have sex all the time until I make you cry. Guys, how willing are you to find me sexual partners? Sometimes this might mean giving up your own girlfriends, this is called "taking one for the team.")

That's it. How do you match up? Probably not that well. You fuck-ups have made me a very lonely, friendless person, and it's all your fault.


I am not sure why, but for some reason I feel guilty about not ever writing in this piece of shit online shit storm. As if I didn't have enough going on in my crappy life that I have to worry about what the on-line community (all seven of you, pimples and all. Hey, don't you think you should run to the fridge and get another grape Crush before reading the rest of this? Fatso!) thinks of me. But I also don't feel like I have it in me to write anything, mainly because I don't find anything funny except for the novelization of the film Waterworld which begins "It is rumored that long ago, before the world was covered in water, people lived in land villages called "cities," where there was plenty of "go-juice" for their "land boats" and "concrete rivers" bisecting the oceans of land on which these land boats traveled." **

See, that's funny. But that's about it. So, since I feel guilty in addition to always already feeling like totally shitty, I figured I would just put old crap that I had written when I was a youth into this journal. That way, all you faggots would shut up, and I could go back to watching E! Entertainment Television, whose celebrity profile on Katie Couric Tuesday night would have brought me to tears if I wasn't already crying.


10 Haiku for Crispin Glover

Dude, you are so rad
Sometimes I think about you
Holding me in bed

There was that one scene
In Back To The Future one
It was pretty good

Tightly, fist clenched, you
well, not actually you,
but McFly, hit Biff.

That voice, ha ha ha
ha I really like it but
ha ha I love you.

You must have touched him
Keanu is no Crispin
I bet you touched him

In Twister so sweet
your hair like a big helmet
and those clothes, those clothes!

If you need a place
sometimes my roommate is dumb
you can have his room

You have new movies
I have not seen them, not yet
Fun is luxury

You in the photo
Crispin, your hands like devils
That totally rules.

If we were to meet
what words could we ever share?
Soup, nice, friend, soft, bye.

**Waterworld novelization glossary of terms:
"cities": cities
"go-juice": unleaded gasoline
"land boats": cars and trucks
"concrete rivers": roads

Thursday, January 08, 2004


Um, I just heard Saturday Looks Good to Me on Radio Netscape.
The best new boy band on the internet!

Back to being soul-crushingly depressed.

Wednesday, January 07, 2004


My hands are so cold. Feet, too. I think I am dying.
Correction: I think I am dead.

Oh my god, this is slowly becoming a sixteen year old's livejournal. Next thing you know I will be posting the poetry I wrote last night. Just kidding, I'm too busy throwing up at night to write poetry.

Monday, January 05, 2004


To the one guy who reads this journal regularly--and also keeps sending cryptic postcards with pictures of auto accidents and descriptions of his little sister to my house--thanks.

Anyhow, you may have noticed a new trend: I am depressed for 2004! Yes! But it's not the kind of self-deprecating-humor-inducing-depression that makes for interesting down-time reading material. It's more like the all-I-want-is-to-lay-in-a-dark-room-until-it's-all-over kind of depression. Anyhow, I don't know what that means for the future of this journal because I don't think there's even an internet connection in the dark room of which I speak, and certainly no humorous office life.

Also, new for 2004: no more Corporate Casual Headline of the Day. Sure, once in a while, but not regularly. You'll have to get your news elsewhere. You should try typing "news" into the google searchfield and see what you get. I'm sure someone is writing about the happenings of the world.

But, all that being said, I was reading this article in the New York Times today about the successful landing of NASA's "Spirit" probe on Mars. It was all about how the mission is off to a stunning start, with a perfect ten-point landing and already sending us a billion pictures of red dirt, etc. As you know, I love space. And so I read this article the way Partyjesus reads the articles in Playboy magazine, which is to say from beginning to end, with my penis in my hand. Anyhow, then, at the very end of the article there was this:

"British scientists said Sunday they would keep trying to contact their probe, the Beagle 2, which was supposed to land on Mars on Christmas."

Ouch. That's just cold, and completely unnecessary for the rest of the article. Poor British scientists. They can join me in my dark room, where we will wait, and when the end comes, we will not cry. And I promise, British scientists, in the dark room no one is allowed to tease you for naming your probe "Beagle 2" which is a totally fag name for a space probe.

The Annulment Is Official

Finally, Britney Spears is a free woman.
Time to make her mine.


Welcome to the year 2000Productive.

I'm really looking forward to all the work we're going to get done this year. I've cleared all the high scores on Minesweeper.

Thus far I have been sick for every day of the New Year. 2000P sucks!

Also, to the lady who was two steps in front of me getting into the building this morning, and who didn't hold any of the doors for me, I hope your New Year's resolutions are to be really impolite to people and kind of a bitch, and also poorly dressed, because you've got such a head start I'm sure it would be no trouble at all to make this year's resolutions stick.