Friday, February 27, 2004

Weekend Plans

Anybody up for seeing The Passion of the Christ: Havana Nights this weekend?

Let me know.

Afterwards we can get drunk and have sex.



As if my life couldn't get any more complicated (you know what I'm talking about Avril), now it has gotten more complicated!!!

There are many outside forces competing for control of my body, and it is all that I can do to try and wrest control from them and lead my own life. These are the areas of my life that are currently being run by despots:

Love Life
Educational Opportunities
Creative Endeavors

Within two weeks, I should hear some information that will help me to make some very important decisions, i.e. whether I have a reason to stay in this town or whether I can finally, blessedly, get the fuck out. But now I just got a call about a job that I should have gotten a call about in September. So just when I might have made it out, there is this job opportunity that would actually be a pretty good job opportunity, and I know that it's not a sure thing, but it definitely throws what one might call "a wrench" into what one might call "the game plan." Now, apparently, these are the areas of my life being controlled by despots:

Love Life
Educational Opportunities
Creative Endeavors
Professional Life

Let me out! Let me out!
Stupid despots.

At least I still have you, sweet, sweet i-pod.

Q: Why didn't he make this entry "private" so that I wouldn't have to read it?

A: Even he does not know.


DETROIT, Michigan (AP) -- Rapper Eminem's music publisher is suing Apple Computer Inc., claiming the company used one of the hip-hop superstar's songs in a television advertisement without permission. "Eminem has never nationally endorsed any commercial products and ... even if he were interested in endorsing a product, any endorsement deal would require a significant amount of money, possibly in excess of $10 million," according to the 15-page lawsuit filed Friday in U.S. District Court in Detroit.

ST. BISHOP, Missouri (AP) -- K-Mart has issued a cease and desist order to a Mr. Edward R. Kilroy of St. Bishop, Missouri, after Mr. Kilroy argued that it was "their stupid fault" he had to go to another store for the black t-shirt and black sweatpants his son needed for his role as Kabuki Set Changer in an upcoming performance of Madame Butterfly being performed at Mideast Middle School. As the suit claims "K-Mart does not take any responsibility for public school performances, nor their costuming needs. Therefore we ask Mr. Kilroy to immediately end his claims that responsibility falls on our corporation. Moreover, it is the belief of K-Mart and its subsidiaries that Madame Butterfly may not be entirely appropriate for Junior High Schoolers in the first place." Notice of the suit was delivered to Ms. Shipley, the school's theater teacher and the director of Butterfly. "I am not surprised," Ms. Shipley said in an official statement delivered to the St. Bishop Statement. "This is typical of the establishment being confronted with the truth." No one is quite sure what Ms. Shipley means, but she only recently moved to St. Bishop from an undisclosed location, and it is rumored she changed her name.

MINNEAPOLIS, Minnesota (Reuters) -- Universal Records and the artist Jimmy Buffet, legendary musician for the middle-aged, has filed an injunction against Bob Smiley and his longtime girlfriend, June Jacobs, who were recently overheard to publicly proclaim "Margaritaville" as "their song." As the suit states, "'Margaritaville' is the property of Universal Records and represents the hard work of Mr. Buffet. These claims are not only outlandish, but constitute theft." A public apology has been demanded, as well as an admission on the parts of Mr. Smiley and Ms. Jacobs that the song was not and will never be theirs. "We just like to have fun. This song meant something to us," is the only statement Mr. Smiley has been willing to issue at the moment. Warren Cohen, LLB, counsel to Universal, has noted that this is not a legal defense that would hold up in any modern court.

SAN DIEGO, California (AP) -- A copyright infringement case is being brought upon the entire Tilden family for use of an unauthorized quotation in the most recent issue of their family newsletter, the Tilden Times. The AP reports this week that the estate of Robert Frost has been bringing all of their weight to bear upon the Tilden's use of a two-stanza excerpt from the late Mr. Frost's famous poem "Road Not Taken." The excerpt was used as a lead-in to an article written by Mrs. Allison Tilden concerning her daughter Janie's entry to Johns Hopkins medical school. "As with all copyrighted material, use of said material requires permission of the owner of the property," the suit argues. "The Tilden's use of "Road Not Taken" is not only illegal, it is inappropriate, as hundreds of students attend Johns Hopkins medical school every year, as they have since it opened in 1889. It is not our desire to shut-down the publication of the Tilden Times, but if it continues to use the work of Mr. Frost without permission we will be forced to take the necessary legal action. " It has been noted that the issuance of rights would cost them around $10,000, which, admittedly, does not fit into the seven dollar budget the quarterly publication-distributed to family and close friends-currently maintains. The Tildens were not available for comment, as they were on a Royal Caribbean Princess Cruise at the time the lawsuit was issued.

Mostly This Is Just for Spaceham

She's got a dark-skinned friend that look like Michael Jackson
Got a light-skinned friend that look like Michael Jackson.

And thus started my day. Thanks, Kanyé, that was good.

Three Beer Thursday was another success. No-sleep Friday was another (projected) failure.

Also, does anyone know the statute of limitations on divorcing your parents? I know that girl did it in that made for t.v. movie, but she was, like, twelve. Am I going to be stuck with them forever, or is there some legal action I can take?


Thursday, February 26, 2004

Let's Get Rich, Bizatches!

Want to make some money? Well, you got to spend money to make money, so invest heavily in my surefire money making scheme!

Garbage Pail Kidz

Finally, a gross-out trading card for inner city youth! No longer will Urban Teens feel disenfranchised with the predominately white-middle-class culture of the trading card.

Freebasin' Farakahn and Skanky Shaniqu'a are my favorites! What are yours?


I am starting a new Social Website!

Please register at

You can link up with your favorite acquaintances and send each other messages from the following selection:

"Hey, What's Up?!"
"What's Up!"
"Good to See You."
"How Are You?"
"I've Got to Go, But You Should Call Me Sometime."
"How is [Blank]?"
"High 5!"

You can post up to three user pictures, but they should all look like slightly different people, even though if you stare at them for long enough it's obviously you, but at first glance you're not sure and might not even recognize you!

You can also pretend to be wearing headphones and not notice your acquaintancester when they message you!!

I apologize for this journal. All of it.

An Open Memo to Shaft's Cousin

Dear Shaft's Cousin:

When looking to buy a new car, perhaps give the various dealerships your home number, or personal cell phone number, or even work cell phone number, rather than your desk work number, since YOU ARE NEVER HERE! It seems to me that the dealers, as hard as they try to be nice on commission, are getting tired of talking to me, especially since I always say that I am not sure when you will be in, but that I will give you the message, since we both know (the dealers and I) that I will promptly throw the message away since I NEVER SEE YOU.

Big shout out to Sean at Nissan, Dave at Ford, and Alex at GM Chrysler.

Worker #3116

I Am Ready For Your "Work"

My endless pursuit of more gainful and fulfilling employment also leads me to search out the best possible cover letter to help get me that killer job!

So, if you have a good cover letter I could use by just switching my name and address for your name and address, send it to me. Consider this a "call for entries."

Yay! We have a winner. Thanks "The Beez," if it wasn't for you and your fan club I would have to write something on my own, and I don't want to do that because I am so laaaaazzzzzyyyyyy.

February 15, 2004

To Whomever My Desperation May Concern:

I am interested in any position for which you will pay me. I have spent a lot of time doing a lot of stuff. I am confident I can do more different stuff for you. As a finance legal assistant, journals editorial assistant, U.S. Embassy political assistant, neuroscience research assistant, Chef’s assistant, administrative assistant (twice), and literary agent assistant, I have been trained in the assistance art. I know how to be the wind beneath your wings. And you won't have to worry about this wind thinking it can do the flying. Wind flying? That don't make any kind of sense to me! Believe me, I know where the shadows are and I am content remain ensconced within them.

In addition to assisting, my executive skill set also includes coordinating, preparing, organizing, managing, maintaining, processing, corresponding, supervising, communicating, and synthesizing. I even spearheaded a few times, though never with an actual spear. I honed once, but half way through the honing, I began processing. At which point, I stopped and I collated.

Please don't be confused or, God forbid, intimidated by my Masters degree. It does not qualify me to do anything, much less does it overqualify me. The interdisciplinary nature of my Masters program allowed me to engage in different kinds of academia, from studying the shifts in interpretive theory in the last century, to contemporary literary theory, ethnography, cinema and race studies. So you see, I got nothing for you. Furthermore, I completed a 90 page Master’s thesis on, get this, historiographic metafiction. It seemed pretty important at the time. If anything, my graduate experience has given me a valuable understanding of and appreciation for endlessly and monomaniacally pursuing a task of no particular interest. Let me put this skill to work for you.

In conclusion, I bring to the position the preferred experience and the exploitable despair. Doing whatever for you (preferably, assisting whatever) would be a tremendous opportunity, I guess. Finally, and most importantly, I am in no way burdened by any expectations of job satisfaction.

I look forward to hearing back from you, because maybe then I'll stop punching myself.

May the Lord Bless You,

"The Beez"

Wednesday, February 25, 2004


I think it would be funny if everybody voted for George W. Bush to get re-elected and then at the inauguration Ashton Kutcher came out and said "What's Up America, you got PUNK'D" and then fucked the shit out of Demi Moore while Justin Timberlake sang "Rock Your Body."

I, Like Madonna, Have My Very Own Yoga Instructor And Difficulties Communicating With My Father

The one thing that I like best about celebrities is their ability, at times, to be just like us! They're like us if we starred in movies and had a lot of money and then lost it all by buying houses that were too big, doing cocaine and marijuana cigarettes too much, and letting our "money manager" invest in his cousin's doomed-from-the-start pirate-themed Chinese restaurant.

Yes, and celebrities occasionally hold grudges and then bring them up years after everyone else has forgotten about them, just like my ex-girlfriend.

For example, as reported in today's New York Post, Pony Boy had this to say:

If it came to a rumble between original "Karate Kid" star Ralph Macchio and "The Next Karate Kid" leading lady Hilary Swank, Macchio foresees a crushing defeat for himself. "I have no doubt she can kick my butt." The diminutive actor says he'd stand little chance of escaping Swank's kung fu grip: "She has serious fighting skills and is surprisingly large. Hilary dresses in a way that hides how big she really is."

Wow, didn't see that one coming over the past ten years!! You don't pull any punches, do you Ralph, until everyone has turned their back and moved on with their life and pursued second and even third careers and had and lost love and then WHAMMO! You're right there, waiting with some carefully, VERY CAREFULLY, chosen words.


A Boring Story That Will Bore You Even More Than It Bores Me Which Is A Lot of Being Bored

One time John Waters spoke at a nearby University and I went and sat in the front row and when he took questions I asked him who made the giant lobster that rapes Divine at the end of Multiple Maniacs because it really seemed to me that he must have just found this giant lobster at a garage sale or something and decided to rape Divine with it in his new movie. As it turns out, he was supposedly smoking crack (accidentally, he claimed) and looking at this postcard advertisement for a local seafood restaurant with a lobster up in the sky floating over a beach and commissioned his set designer/costume maker to make it specifically for a scene in which a lobster rapes Divine in the living room of what could only be described as a middle class home in the suburbs of Baltimore. And now that costume designer works for NYPD Blue.

What I should have asked him, though, was why gay people think that they should be allowed to marry, which is clearly against the most sacred and ancient of all our codes of civilization, even more sacred than money! Fucking faggots.

What Some People Have To Say About How The Passion of the Christ Is Not Just About Killing Ch

(All quotes taken from the New York Times)

Meanwhile, in CRAZYLAND!

Ms. Moreno, who said she was raised a Methodist, has never seen a graphic depiction of the Crucifixion. "We all go through our own suffering in our daily lives," she said. "I'm interested in seeing how Jesus transcended his pain."

Move over Woody Allen, there's a new hilarious Jew in town!

"So much of what Gibson is doing is profit-motivated, and I don't mean p-r-o-p-h-e-t," said Rabbi Robert N. Levine, who is the senior rabbi of Congregation Rodeph Sholom in Manhattan and the vice president of the New York Board of Rabbis.

As this rabbi proves, a man can be an island unto himself, have fun with no one to talk to, reb!

"The alternative to a passionate discussion and interfaith dialogue would be only to discuss if Carrie would have ended up with the Russian or Mr. Big," he said, referring to the series finale of "Sex and the City" on HBO. "And I will pick a discussion about the meaning of life and sacrifice and sin over that any day."

Club Dread Seen By Many to Fuel the Fiercest Anti-Semitism in DECADES!

People complain that Mel Gibson is a bigot, whose new film The Passion of the Christ will fuel anti-Semitic sentiment.

But the movie opened on a Wednesday.

Say what you will about Mr. Gibson or TPOTC, but you can't say that he doesn't respect the Sabbath, unlike Club Dread, which is pissing all over Jewish God's day this Friday.

God Is in the Playlists

I have learned a very important lesson, one that I can share with you in the form of an easy to remember maxim:

When life gives you lemons, buy an i-pod.

i-pod alone disproves a mathematical impossibility that mathematicians have been puzzling over since the DAWN OF TIME! A negative multiplied by a positive CAN produce a small positive. My Life x i-pod = 2!!!!!! AMAZING!!!!

Also: I have set up an AOL im account so that I can instantly tell you how much I hate you without the drag time of refreshing my inbox!! corporate3116 is my im name, hating is my im game.

Tuesday, February 24, 2004

Unwarranted Dietary Restrictions

What is wrong with this picture?

Number of bowls of cereal eaten today: 1
Number of jelly-filled donuts eaten today: 1
Number of glazed and non-glazed donut holes eaten today: 3
Number of pastrami sandwiches eaten today: 1
Number of "Big Grab" bags of Fritos eaten today: 1
Number of bananas eaten today: 1
Number of marijuana brownies eaten today: 0

Jurassic World

Corporate Casual Headline of the Day:

"Phone Tower Digging Uncovers Dinosaur Egg"
(taken from

This may just be me, but upon reading this did you fear that the egg would hatch and a new dawn of ancient terror would be unleashed on an unsuspecting world of men?

I Have Read Your Mind, Or At Least a Synopsis

Brother Russia is trying to learn the Tarot, and so he gave me a free reading.

This reminded me that for my bar mitzvah, a local sex expert gave me a pack of tarot cards, a book on how to interpret them, and a reading from a "professional" tarot card reader for a present. (Next time, money, thanks.) But so this got me thinking...what the fuck was my fortune at 13 years old? "You will graduate Junior High School, but not before passing through the cleansing fire of truth and suffering."

If I was a "professional" tarot card reader I would refuse to read the fortunes of children if only to avoid boring myself. "Luck in love is not to be yours, at least not until your sophomore year of high school! I is hazy...but I see you hanging out in a parking lot!!"


Also, if I was a "professional" tarot card reader I would get caller i.d. and never answer the phone. Then, right after you called, I would call you back and say "Were you looking for a "professional" tarot card reader."

Civics Lesson

Vladimir Putin, of Russia, just fired the government.

Once again, the seed of democracy takes root and grows strong!!

I Smell the Coffee

Another glorious day!

The best part about my life is that it just keeps on coming!! It is so awesome!! Some mornings I'm all like "how could another day like yesterday even exist, that would be impossible." Then my life is all like nope, here you go, surprise!, just like yesterday, super fun and super cool and not life-threateningly depressing at all, and by "not" I mean "totally" and by "at all" I mean "". Other mornings I'm like "maybe I won't feel like crying today," but then I realize I already AM crying!! Ha ha ha ha ha.

Oh man, this is fun.

Friday, February 20, 2004

Get Out of My Dreams and Into My Cubicle

I am working on my new resume!

Now you can work on my new resume, too!

Which e-mail address is more professional-like:

I'm sort of leaning towards the second, because underscores in e-mail addresses hints at a sort of pickiness I don't want to hint at (as well as being the type of e-mail that makes an employer say "fuck it, I'm not contacting someone with a fucking underscore in a fucking e-mail address. Step into my office why because you're fucking fired!") Also, hotmail always seems to get a grudging respect, whereas yahoo e-mail people are like "why do you have a yahoo e-mail, why don't you just get a hotmail e-mail." Okay, never mind, you can't help me, I've perfected my resume all on my own. Now I just have to type it onto a computer!

Books That I Have Read That Would Make Good Band Names And What Type of Band They Would Be

Books That I Have Read That Would Make Good Band Names And What Type of Band They Would Be:

One Hundred Years of Solitude (emo)
Rabbit, Run (pop punk)
Life of Pi (math rock)
Fathers and Sons (family-kitsch band)
All the Pretty Horses (girl band)
The End of Alice (riot grrl band)
The Book of Daniel (punk band)
Ask the Dust (neo-folk band)
Detroit and The Kid (rap band)
Monsieur Mallausène (one of those indie spoken-word, ambient-rock bands w/ foreign accent)
White Teeth (White Stripes cover band w/ Zadie Smith look alike as lead singer, and everyone will wear dentist's smocks. Or just Zadie Smith as lead singer--I once saw her sing some Destiny's Child song, I don't remember which, with Arthur Bradford on guitar, and anyway, this is far too long for an explanation so even though it's only the third band listed it will now be moved to the bottom of the list, and if you still think it doesn't make up for the unnecessary length then you will not be on the White Teeth guest list at our superbig show!)

God, that was dumb, and it took me a really long time!!

My Dinner With Momdré

Mom: Oh, this is that movie with the monkey who flies in space.
Me: You mean Planet of the Apes?
Mom: No.
Me: Well, this is a remake of Planet of the Apes.
Mom: Yeah, I've seen it. It's really good. It's about this scientist and his monkey.
Me: Planet of the Apes?
Mom: No.
Me: Well, this is a re-make of Planet of the Apes, based on Planet of the Apes, and it's called Planet of the Apes.
Mom: Oh, this isn't the movie I thought it was. There was a movie, though, with a guy and a monkey, and it was really great.

Me: You know, when you ask people "what have you learned from that experience?", no one likes that question.
Mom: Really?
Me: Yeah. And if they have an answer to it, they'll tell you, so when you've already asked them the same thing three times, you should probably stop.

Mom: I went to Meijer this morning on my way to work. I bought four things of Gatorade.
Me: No Kidding. You don't say.
Mom: Yeah.
Me: That is fascinating. Four whole things of Gatorade, huh!
Mom: You make fun of me a lot.

The Adviceicist

And now, more of your letters:

Dear Worker #3116,

I have been suicidal since high school. My childhood was great, my parents are loving and supportive, and all that kind of stuff. And I have already heard everything you can say about suicide, that it's selfish, that it's a permanent solution to a temporary problem. But I've felt this way for so long, and no matter what I try (pills, therapy, meditation, hypnosis), I can't seem to escape this gaping black yawn that threatens to swallow me 24/7. I've gotten some Percocet and some Tylenol-3 from my friend Jackal (his name is Jack, but we all call him Jackal, it's just funnier), because if nothing else, I just want to stop hurting. No matter how many people say something to the contrary, I can't seem to find any hope, or any other way out. I don't know who else to turn to anymore. Do you think scientists will ever invent a machine that can successfully predict the outcome of a lottery drawing?



Dangerously Desperate.

Dear Desperate,

Only poor people play the lottery! Good luck!

Worker #3116

Dear Worker #3116,

I'm pregnant, but my boyfriend doesn't know about it yet. I want to keep the baby, I feel really ready for motherhood, but we've argued about starting a family in the past and I'm really nervous about telling him about it. He could be a great father, I think, he just doesn't realize it. If it came down to it, I'd be willing to go and raise our child on my own, but I feel like if I tell him he'll somehow force me into getting rid of it. Still, he does deserve to know, it's as much his as mine. I just don't know what scares me more, losing him or losing the baby. Things have been rough lately, but I love him so much, and I think this could be just what we need to strengthen our relationship and take it to the next level. Ultimately, these are decisions I will have to make on my own, but I was hoping you could tell me whether or not it's true that a diet of only mastodon meat would take more energy to digest than it generates, thereby starving you to death?

Pregnant and Perplexed.

Dear Pregnant,

Mastodons, like their friends the Indians, are extinct. Good luck!

Worker #3116

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


Here are a few common woman phrases translated so that YOU can understand:

"Do I look fat?"
Translation: Whatever you say, I am going to hurt you with a weapon.

"I heard there was a sale on window-dressings at Bed Bath & Beyond this weekend."
Translation: This is your last chance, after this weekend we will have crossed the point-of-no-return.

"Tell me about [Insert name of ex-girlfriend here]."
Translation: After tonight, [Insert name of ex-girlfriend here] is dead to you, capice? So get her out of your system now, and make sure you don't smile while you're doing it.

"Your parents are great."
Translation: Your mother hates me. Years of war lie ahead.

"We are having a girls'-night-out on Saturday, so you should call your buddies."
Translation: I have been saving up all of my good moods to share with others.

"I hate my hair."
Translation: it, you've taken too long to compliment me. I am going to hurt you with a weapon.

"What do you want to do tonight?"
Translation: Ask me what I want to do tonight. I already have many great ideas, and some of them even include you!

"I love you so much."
Translation: It has been far too long since you purchased me a gift.
Translation: I do not love you anymore.
Translation: If you will not fill this uncomfortable lull in conversation, I will.
Translation: You bore me, but I will pretend that you do not bore me.

Your Horoscope

Even if it seems like the world is crashing down, don't worry! Or maybe worry more! It all depends on where you are at! Things are changing, maybe too rapidly for you, or too slowly, but either way change is good! Embrace it! Remember, it's dangerous to count your chickens before they've hatched, but you should also know what's going on in your own nest! You only get out what you put in, but if you are putting in a lot right now and not getting out enough, put in less! It sounds illogical, but Mars is in the house of Uranus with Venus ascendant and so I really know what I am talking about!! Patience is a virtue! Be patient! Impatience can feel great, and you might need that kind of energy right now!! What I'm trying to say is that you are on the right track, even if you don't know it, and love is right around the corner! Or if you are already seeing someone, it is time for you to make a big decision!! Don't decide too soon, but don't take too long!!

Your lucky numbers: 4,5,8
Best day for a makeover: January 12

Thursday, February 19, 2004

Message of the Day/Week/Month/Year

fuck you
fuck you
fuck you
fuck you
fuck you
fuck you

Wednesday, February 18, 2004

Question For the Crazy Lady

"I'd go to churches that were way too judgmental or too ambiguous," she said. "At Spirit Garage, there is no question what we're doing. We're talking about Jesus. We're taking communion. We're just doing it together, as a journey."
(taken from the New York Times, "Hip New Churches Pray to a Different Drummer")

Spirit Garage?

Spirit Garage?

Meeting Your Enemies in Battle.

Simple instructions for how defeat a variety of your enemies in battle.

Ninja: It is a little known secret that the ninja has one fatal weakness: tortilla chips. When faced with a fresh bag of tortilla chips (better: a basket of home-fried tortilla chips) the ninja's debilitating karate skills evaporate like the way water evaporates except much more quickly. One should, when wandering a lonely forest path hunted and watched by legions of fierce ninjas, always carry a bag or basket of tortilla chips in one's knapsack.

Dragon: Dragons, those legendary fire breathers, should be flattered profusely. There is nothing that a dragon enjoys better than a good, believable compliment. Do NOT say something that will cause you to snicker or even smile, because the dragon will sense falsity and you will be burned in the fires of his truth (i.e. in the fire from his mouth.) You may find it easier, if you really can't see anything good in the dragon, to simply compliment yourself but replace all references to yourself with references to the dragon.

Walking Dead: Two words, noble warriors: knee caps. Without working legs, the walking dead are forced to pull themselves along the ground by their dead fingers, at which point they are the crawling dead, a much less fearsome and much less dangerous foe. As their shoelaces are often untied and trousers torn, getting caught on a snag is very likely for the crawling dead. At this point, the use of an axe or sawed-off shotgun to sever the undead spine from the undead brain should be equally sufficient.

Sea Monster: It should come as no surprise that the fearsome Sea Monster is lactose intolerant. As a native of Asian waters, where nary a dairy product finds its way into the adult diet, these ancient aquatic beasts will be doubled over in pain after just one drop of milk or a nibble of cheese. You should, thus, prepare a non-dairy meal for the Sea Monster, but it will actually be a dairy meal. Then wait about a half an hour.

Mummy: Although the Mummy's touch IS fatal, his shuffling step and preference for old ragtime standards makes him a very unthreatening enemy. Nevertheless, he must be defeated in battle. So: yes, the Mummy's touch is fatal, but your touch is not. Seduction is the key. Use your best judgment depending on the type of Mummy you have encountered, but if seduction does not come easily to you might I suggest just turning the lights low, pouring a glass of Chardonnay or Bordeaux (you'll have to feel the Mummy out yourself on this one) and some soothing music. Once you get that Mummy undressed you'll find out that underneath those wraps he is, in fact, dust. Have Nasonex or Allegra on hand if you are allergic.

Vampire: O' Vampyr, thee of the silver tongue, thy love of thy's own voice is the undoing of thee. This guy will NOT shut up. Get him talking and he'll forget all about drinking your blood, at least until he's "made his point," which, hours later, you will wonder if there ever was one. Hold your ground in the debate and, more likely than not, he will get fed-up with your "close-mindedness" and your "bourgeois ignorance" and leave, sticking you with the bill. Pay it with cash, which is cheaper than paying with your life-force.

Werewolf: Silver bullet this, silver bullet that, let's get realistic people you don't even know where to get a regular bullet. And where are you going to get a gun, for that matter? No, the best course of action is to meet the werewolf in an underground rap battle. Get the crowd on your side by dissing yourself, leaving the werewolf no ammunition with which to drop dope rhymes about your shortcomings. (A Special Note to Tourists: You can tell if you have met a Werewolf abroad: he will be wearing a fanny-pack and a promotional Corona t-shirt, and talking far too loudly.)

Fear: Although commonly forgotten, fear IS your enemy. Naturally, the enemy within is the hardest to defeat because you don't want to throw out the baby with the bath water (meaning you do not want to throw yourself out with the fear.) The best known counter-agent to fear is bargain shopping. A decent sale will remind you that you are, if nothing else, competent in managing your finances, and in a capitalist society this is one of the most important skills for survival. Whatever fears you may be facing, you will be doing so in a very cute roche-sleeved blouse that you still cannot believe only cost $19.99.

Me and Giovanni Ribisi Are Best Friends Because We Both Love Frites!!! And Tits!! Right, Giovanni!!!

First of all: CONGRATULATIONS to all the champs!

Also, I know that there are a lot of "gay" people reading my journal, and I also know that "gay" people like to see "art" movies, because they feel "culturally superior" and feeling "culturally superior" makes them feel less "bad" about being "gay." So, gays, what the fuck is up with Swimming Pool? Is it French? Is it English? Does it have a point? Was it all made up, or were those youthful, awesome tits real? That's why Swimming Pool is so one likes imaginary tits. Also, I know this is kind of nitpicky, but that final scene, where she confronts her publisher with the new manuscript and he doesn't like it and then she totally SURPRISE!s him with a paperback copy of the book already published by another house is pretty logistically impossible. Everyone who works in publishing is sucking everyone else in publishing's dick and then using their cum to moisturize their withered faces. So the publisher would totally KNOW about her book long BEFORE it was PUBLISHED.

Anyhow, I was all WTF Swimming Pool at the end of Swimming Pool, and then I was all, fuck it, I'm going to sleep.

The other movie I have seen in the past two days is Basic. This movie is great for 3 reasons:
1. John Travolta
2. Samuel L. Jackson
3. Panama
Am I right, gays? Also, I don't think I've ever seen another movie in which Giovanni Ribisi vomited a gallon of blood!!! Way to go Giovanni!! Remember when I saw you in French Roast on 11th? That watchcap wasn't fooling no fools!! Your girlfriend was hot, I think!! Way to go, I think!! You love to eat!!

Me and Giovanni Ribisi Are Best Friends Because We Both Love Frites!!! And Tits!! Right, Giovanni!!!

First of all: CONGRATULATIONS to all the champs!

Also, I know that there are a lot of "gay" people reading my journal, and I also know that "gay" people like to see "art" movies, because they feel "culturally superior" and feeling "culturally superior" makes them feel less "bad" about being "gay." So, gays, what the fuck is up with Swimming Pool? Is it French? Is it English? Does it have a point? Was it all made up, or were those youthful, awesome tits real? That's why Swimming Pool is so one likes imaginary tits. Also, I know this is kind of nitpicky, but that final scene, where she confronts her publisher with the new manuscript and he doesn't like it and then she totally SURPRISE!s him with a paperback copy of the book already published by another house is pretty logistically impossible. Everyone who works in publishing is sucking everyone else in publishing's dick and then using their cum to moisturize their withered faces. So the publisher would totally KNOW about her book long BEFORE it was PUBLISHED.

Anyhow, I was all WTF Swimming Pool at the end of Swimming Pool, and then I was all, fuck it, I'm going to sleep.

The other movie I have seen in the past two days is Basic. This movie is great for 3 reasons:
1. John Travolta
2. Samuel L. Jackson
3. Panama
Am I right, gays? Also, I don't think I've ever seen another movie in which Giovanni Ribisi vomited a gallon of blood!!! Way to go Giovanni!! Remember when I saw you in French Roast on 11th? That watchcap wasn't fooling no fools!! Your girlfriend was hot, I think!! Way to go, I think!! You love to eat!!

Tuesday, February 17, 2004

San Francisco

When will some brave legislator take up the important fight of a constitutional amendment defining divorce as the dissolution of a sacred contract between a man and a woman? Huh, Mr. George W. Bush!?!

Go here.

Everything is clicking. So, keep on clicking to find out what's happening.

Quit Calling Me

Can someone please explain the difference to me between a Handi-wipe-brand moist towelette, and a Staticide-brand antiseptic telephone cleaning wipe?

At least one of them was designed by experts, I'm sure.

Big Ups

My social life is like a who's-who of American Celebrity Pop Culture.
So I am starting a zine called US Zine, which will be celebrity gossip based on the celebrities I consider my best friends.

Big shout out to Reese, and a big fuck you to Ryan (j/k Ryan!)

Thanks for the massage tips, John, Slippery When Wet is right!

Sorry about missing your show, Conan. I'm really really sorry that I couldn't be your FILLER GUEST because your REAL GUEST cancelled!! Yeah, I feel REALLY REALLY BAD about it, and I'm not being SARCASTIC at all!

Stop doing drugs and getting married, Brit. He ain't worth it.

R.I.P. Bennifer. You're better off without her, boyfriend. There are plenty of other silver lamé wearing singer-actress-model triple-threats in the proverbial sea (i.e. entertainment biz, dude).

Monday, February 16, 2004

Crazy World

I'm going to go out on a limb here and say that White Man's Burden, starring John Travolta and Harry Belafonte, is the best movie ever made about an alternative America in which "blacks are members of a social elite, and whites are inhabitants of inner city ghettos." I don't know about you, but I cannot think of any other film that has dealt with this issue in such a compelling way. That black Barbie doll really freaked me out, because it made me understand about oppression and also racism. Harry Belafonte was particularly convincing as a member of a social elite. Do you think they had to have special upper-class white people coach him for that role, or how did he do that?

Ha ha, bam bam, ha ha.

When we are having sex, and I am laughing so hard, it is not you! It is because I have seen what the British call Coupling, and have discovered that there is nothing funnier in the world than sexual situation comedy.

Hello, My Name is FIST IN YOUR FACE!

When you see the blackly-rotting patch of lizard skin on my knuckle, do not fear me because you suspect I am leprous, fear me because I got that patch by karate punching the skin off my knuckle. This is exactly the kind of karate punch I am going to give you to your skull.

Wise Up

It is safe to say that everyone agrees Valentine's Day is the single Greatest Holiday of the Year. But what may not be as widely known is how much this already wicked awesome holiday can be made even better with a little Ultimate Street Fighting added in.

Here are two examples of some Super Special Valentine's Day Ultimate Street Fighting that have been tried and tested that you might want to print out and keep in the "Valentine's" folder of your filing cabinet of great ideas.

1) After drinking five or six "beer-of-the-month" beers (Molson, this year, ???, next year) you should get up on stage and, while carefully positioned in a spotlight, pick up a stranger's pitcher and begin drinking it. This will cause the stranger to come over to you and say something like "YOU JUST DRANK MY PITCHER." At this point you pull four wadded up dollars from your pocket and say "I have four dollars." This will cause the stranger to say something like "FUCK YOU, ASSHOLE!!!!" Super Special Valentine's Day Ultimate Street Fighting is all yours, if you'll have it.

2) Five minutes later, remember that you have a box of Valentine's Day Heart Candies With Romantic Messages on Them in your pocket. Take this out, and quickly decide that the best thing to do is throw handfuls of them as hard as you can into a crowd of dancing people. One of them will inadvertently hit the blond meathead wearing the shiny gray silk shirt, you know, the one with the super ugly girlfriend. He will come up to you with the heart in his hand** and hold it out. "Is this yours?" he will say. You will look at the heart and realize that not only is it obviously yours, but this may be your chance for some more Super Special Valentine's Day Ultimate Street Fighting, which was fun five minutes ago and will be fun now. So you nod. "This hit me in the back of the neck," the meathead will say. You are thinking maybe you should say "that is because I threw it at you," but you do not, it is more fun to wait and see what he is going to say. "The next time one of these fuckers hits me, it's going up your ass," he says. Now you are ready to ask him the ultimate question. "What does it say?" The meathead, not exactly a "master" of the English language, will look at you blankly. "The heart, what does the heart candy say?" You are particularly curious because you saw a heart candy earlier that said "wise up" on it, and you thought this was a very funny candy. The meathead is now ready for some Super Special Valentine's Day Ultimate Street Fighting and so are you.

Good luck. If you use these simple techniques, you might have the totally coolest Valentine's Day ever, just like I did.

**When the meathead produces the heart candy in his hand, the "fucker" that "hit him in the neck," you might get to wondering: how did he get it in his hand. I have come up with only two possible solutions, both of which are excellent solutions. 1) The candy bounced off of his steel-reinforced neck, at which point he had to get down on the beer sodden floor to find it, the better to confront you with. b) The candy simply stuck to his gigantic fat neck, which was very sweaty from having so much fat in it. In either case, you know one thing about this man: he smells, and his girlfriend is very, very ugly.

Friday, February 13, 2004

Poet. Philosopher. Loser.

All day I have been using this online diary as a forum for my explorations on the theme of love, what is it, where does it come from, how does The Penguin fit in? Mostly, this has been a tremendous failure. I have not come to any revelatory conclusions, and I have bored even myself. But, by doing a simple random search for more useful livejournals, I have stumbled upon what must be the most sensitive online diarist of all time, and his name is ToonWorld1982. I think I will let his poetry speak for itself:

Friday, February 13th, 2004
7:54 a.m.
Poem Time (Philisophical time)
My love is like a dead dead rose,
whose bloom has sprung too soon.
My love is like a lonely song,
with a meloncholy tune.

Current Mood: melancholy

Fuck. This guy is beautiful. If, like me, you read this and wondered how someone so young could be so wise, so INTENSE, it takes only a cursory glance at his previous entry to see just how deep these rivers run:

Friday, February 13th, 2004
7:49 a.m.
Well, it turns out that my D&D game may still be on for saturday. In honor of that most terribley lonely of days (as if the 364 others were not bad enough) I am going to be especially violent to any enemies we encounter and the chance for goofiness is about 95%. Woe is to those who will be playing in the game. The thought they had seen it all, they thought I could not get any goffy-er. Well, hold on to ur britches because if is going to be a gooy ride!

Current Mood: silly

Oh, ToonWorld1982, you immortal bard, you will never, EVER see a woman naked.

I can't believe you ratted me out, Anonymous!! This used to be a totally mean-spirited on-line diary that only hurt the feelings of my closest friends. ToonWorld1982 has now been hurt due to the conniving of one, lone, unidentified man/woman/child, and when I discover who that man/woman/child is (Pirateman!), then we'll see who's fucking whom up the ass with a giant malevolent comment-posting dick!

Happy Valentine's Day, Negroes

AN UN-FUNNY VALENTINE: Greeting card picture evokes race stereotype


American Greetings Corp. calls it a regrettable printing error.

Somehow, boxes of SpongeBob SquarePants Valentine's Day cards are popping up in local Wal-Mart stores -- but the popular cartoon character found inside isn't his traditional yellow color.

He's black. And with his trademark big teeth and wide eyes, this SpongeBob seems similar to offensive images of African Americans portrayed in minstrel shows decades ago.

American Greetings officials said Thursday they were surprised and puzzled when the Free Press made them aware of a complaint about the product.

"We absolutely fell out of our chairs when we saw it," said Carol Miller, director of business development for the Cleveland-based company. "We're obviously going to be talking to Wal-Mart as well as Nickelodeon . . . to offer our sincere apologies for this product making it to market."

Miller said the cards, which were printed and packaged in China, are mistakes, but she and other officials said they were trying to determine how that happened.

David Blinderman, director of global product development for the company, said the printing facility is one of the company's most reliable.

"Culturally, the guys on press in China wouldn't have the faintest idea of who a SpongeBob was or who a black SpongeBob was," Blinderman said.

Jemeka Garcia of Flint Township was skeptical of a mistake, in part because the cards appear to be well made. Garcia and her husband, Scott, complained to the Free Press earlier this week after their 6-year-old daughter discovered the different SpongeBob. The family purchased the cards at a Wal-Mart near their home so the girl could hand them out to her first-grade classmates.

"I want to know why the person did it," Jemeka Garcia said Thursday. "That's kind of a horrible prank. And what if some kid gets it" as a valentine?

A Wal-Mart official said customers who want refunds can have them, but there were no plans to take the boxes off shelves. "It was a very popular item, and there aren't very many left out there," said corporate spokeswoman Danette Thompson. She said the company had received no other complaints.

The cards -- branded as "Nickelodeon 34 Foil Valentines" and selling for $2.74 -- are exclusive to Wal-Mart. Officials said they were widely distributed across the country, but they would not say how many had been produced. The Free Press checked a Wal-Mart in Roseville and found the cards. There are 68 Wal-Mart stores in Michigan.

SpongeBob stars on the Nickelodeon cable channel. The show chronicles the cluelessly optimistic meanderings of a bright-eyed sponge, who lives in a pineapple in the underwater city of Bikini Bottom.

Jemeka Garcia said she's already gone out and replaced the offensive SpongeBobs for her daughter.

"I went and bought her some Scooby-Doos."

My reasons for loving this article are clear, but I will say this: It's not just the Chinese who are clueless as to who exactly the Black SpongeBob is. I mean, does he like rap music, or is he more like Carlton on The Fresh Prince of Bel-Air, a Black SpongeBob in White SpongeBob Shorts? Does he live in a Middle-Class Pineapple under the sea, or is it some kind of Crack Pineapple in a blighted tributary? Also, I would like to voice my solidarity with Mrs. Jameka Garcia for her clever observation that this couldn't possibly be a printing error. If it was an error, then the cards would not look professionally printed, they would be hand drawn on the back of a Kentucky Fried Chicken bucket, and they would be signed "Whitey." Good work, Mrs. Garcia. You're child isn't going to grow up all fucked up at all, not with a racially vigilant and moralistically neurotic mother like you around. We need more people around who are not afraid to stand up and shout "That sponge is offensive. That is some kind of racist cartoon nigger sponge and I for one won't have my daughter subjected to the same kind of mocking racist cartoon nigger sponges that I had to deal with as a child."

I Enjoy a Hate-Hate Relationship With You

Occasionally, I will go to lunch with my co-workers. I'm not sure what this feeling of social obligation is with them, considering that I hate all of them so much I have to poop, combined with the fact that they take every possible opportunity to remind me of my second-class-citizenship. But, somehow, I figure it will, if nothing else, allow me to get caught playing Minesweeper four times before anyone fucking says anything to me.

So, today we went to lunch, and I felt this normal obligation combined with the fact that we were "celebrating" the Office Profile in the new issue of the MSA Communiqué, which I had to fucking write. The point is that I came to the realization that if you tried as hard as you could to bore me in a conversation it would still probably be more interesting than a lunch with my co-workers. I have not heard them say one single intelligent thing in the entire seven million years** that I have known them. At what point does a grown adult think to him/herself I bet my co-workers would love to spend their lunch hour hearing about my cats, or maybe if I fake laugh at my own insipid story everyone else will actually think it was funny and they will laugh and I will feel less alone in the world, or I am a great person, even if there is no evidence to support this claim, and in being a great person I am a great conversationalist, and so talking about a thing that a dead aunt of mine did once before she was dead is therefore very very interesting?

At one point I poked the back of my hand with a fork to remind myself I was alive, but I felt NOTHING!

Meanwhile, The Penguin continues to shuck all of my advances. "I'm married," she cackles. "I'm a billion years old," she titters, shoving another raw trout into her black mouth. Whatever, she's mine.

**This figure was acheived by multiplying five months by the amount of time it will take me to forget the horror of this place.

I Smell Love, And It Smells Bad

The Penguin is wearing a red silk shirt, and I cannot but think this is in honor of tomorrow's festivities. When I see her waddling by in her red silk shirt I feel an overwhelming compulsion to ask her on a date and marry her and love her forever. It seems like the least I can do for this woman who in all three feet two inches of her body exudes enthusiasm and holiday spirit.

Then again, she is ugly and very, very short, and is The Penguin. So I hesitate on the whole asking her out and loving her forever thing, and by the time I work up the energy again she is back at her desk, thinking about how much everyone is going to love the e-mails with the personalized hearts and cupids border that she spent thirty minutes working on this morning. "Just a little pick-me-up" she always begins.

This makes me love her more.

I am a fool in love. In love with The Penguin.


Entry Form

Tomorrow, in honor of the Greatest Holiday of the Year, I will be holding a Makeout Contest.

Whoever wins will get to make out with me longer than all the girls who lose.

Then you can be my girlfriend. This is going to be GREAT!

Official Rules: You must be super hot to enter. No affiliates, employees, or family members of affiliates or employees of The Penis may enter. Unlimited entries for qualified applicants possible. Dress to impress, and do not have bad breath, or you will be immediately disqualified and forced to makeout with someone of Worker #3116's choosing. This will result in embarrassment and pregnancy for you. Fatties are disqualified. Indians are disqualified. People who unnecessarily claim genetic purity to any race to make some kind of socio-cultural point are disqualified. Makeout with me at your own risk, I do not assume responsibility for any damages and or thefts that may occur as a result of your participation in the contest. E-mail this entry form to a friend for a bonus entry! Do not e-mail this entry form to a fat or ugly or Indian friend as that will result in your immediate disqualification. Everyone who plays will get SPUNK'D.

An Open Letter to My Wife

Dear Scarlett,

Make me a sandwich.

Love Forever,
Worker #3116


When I was tapping your ass, I thought it was going to be forever.


"But Worker #3116," you homosexuals say, "Valentine's Day isn't until tomorrow."

Oh, I see, you can spit in the face of God's moral law, but you only recognize a rigid temporality when it comes to Hallmark Holidays. Figures. That is so typical of you homosexuals.

Today, all posts will be about love. And, of course, when I say "love" I mean "whatever I feel like writing about, because it is my online diary, not yours, so keep your homosexual opinions out of my business."

Because it is early morning, and I am very lazy and depressed, today's starting-gate post has been stolen from Eric Bescak! and he will never know. If you do not know who Eric Bescak! (a.k.a. "The Beez") is that is because he does not hang out at all of the homosexual dance clubs that you homosexuals are always going to to rape each others' asses. Not because Bescak! doesn't like a bit of ass raping now and then, he just isn't much of a dancer.

Anyhow, take it away Bescak!

"MAD" by Eric Bescak (penned 1.30.2004)
This article previously appeared in "Leather Bound: The Eric Bescak! Fanclub Newsletter", (V2:05).

after three years together with my girlfriend, our relationship began to operate by an unspoken doctrine of mutual assured destruction. we both openly and secretly engaged in a massive proliferation of ego-annihilating constructs. these included embarrassing stories (she vomited in my mother's lexus) and annoying habits (i smell my hands). as the escalation continued, we mentally composed entire tirades--powerful and dramatic passages of spite and denunciation to devastate the other's sense of self and bring about nuclear winter of depression.

we had acquired an insult arsenal large and substantive enough to ensure that even if the one of us surprised the other with a relationship-ending attack, the other would still be able retaliate devastatingly. and we both knew it. we assumed that neither side would be so irrational as to risk its own destruction. stable peace ensued, though fears of a pre-emptive first strike lingered.

love no longer kept us together. the threat of massive retaliation kept us together.

that was until she acquired for herself an effective missile defense system (i.e., someone else). you see, once a viable missile defense is in place, destruction is no longer mutually assured. the affection from another would preserve her from any offensive i might launch. her defense neutralized my arsenal. the break-up deterrence was ruined.

and so, we waited.

"I'm sorry, too, Dmitri. ... I'm very sorry. ... All right, you're sorrier than I am, but I am as sorry as well. ... I am as sorry as you are, Dmitri! Don't say that you're more sorry than I am, because I'm capable of being just as sorry as you are. ... So we're both sorry, all right?! ... All right."

--U.S. President Merkin Muffley, Dr. Strangelove or: How I Learned to Stop Worrying and Love the Bomb

Thursday, February 12, 2004

The Battle Has Ended. Also, The War Has Ended. You Are Destroy.

You are destroy.
That is the rap battle for you.

Stop Fronting. STOP! FRONTING!

Rap Music is the most popular music in the world. That is why it is usually called World Music.

Everyone is always asking me: Rabbit #3116, what does it take to be the world's greatest rap battler. I will tell you: good raps, no, great raps, def beats, and a bloodthirst for battlling. Without a combination of these four things, you will easily be destroy in a rap battle, and most likely it will be me who does the destroy you.

Afterwards, you will be in my trunk of my rap car. I will take you to the river and put you in there. Sorry. That is the way of the rap battle, for you. Don't worry, though, although you are destroy, you are not as destroy as who is so destroy it is sick.

Rap Rules

After every rap battle womans are coming up to me and putting their vaginas on me. This is the great thing about womans, and about rap.

But do not do this when clearly you can see I have Hallie with me. She is only a child, and does not know about all the great things that happens to womans' vaginas after a rap battle. All she knows is that everyone around me is destroy.

And when I am feeding Hallie in a restaurant, do not come up and ask me for my autograph. You will find that there is no autograph. Also you will find that you are destroy.

Rabbit #3116

This Man Is a Joke For All to Laugh About Over Raps

Moby is a fat gay man who is making a kind of music no one will ever listen to. That music is techno.

Have you ever heard of a techno battle? I have not. A techno battle, that would just be silly. Put one rapper in there and all would be destroy.

Hey Moby, oops, sorry about that, you are destroy with my rap battle you old fat gay man. Your techno is destroy, too, yes, with my powerful raps I can battle and destroy even concepts and genres of things, not just human beings, like you and your destroyed fat man's body.

Who can smell what the Rabbit #3116 is rapping?

Back Up, You Are Too Close to My Rap!

Look at this car you have given me for my birthday, Mother, it is garbage!

Get out of my closet, I am cleaning it out and you are in it and I hate you because you are so easy to be destroy with my rap battle!

One time, when you are dead, Hallie will be on your grave dancing because that is the only time you will ever see her! I have told her you are a whore and she agrees! When she grows into a woman she will be a woman rapper and will always rap in a basement!

I try not to destroy Hallie with my rap battle. Sometimes it is impossible not to, she is so stupid.

Rap time!

I Am Divorce You, Kim. I Am Love You, Kim. And Slowly I Am Fuck You, Girl. Hello in My Trunk of My R

Everyone is always talking too much garbage for me, I just want to rap in a battle. This is a great basement for a battle, and here you will be destroy.

Every day I ride the bus, thinking about a rap, writing it down on my hand, because my hand is a lethal rap weapon when I write a rap on it.

Now you are destroy!

Rabbit #3116

Fred Durst Got a Oral Sex From Christina Aguillera and I Am Destroy You in My Rap Battle

Mom, I want to move out of this trailer.

Mom, I am a successful person now, because of my destroy you in a rap battle.

Mom, I have the tightest cubicle, it is the joint.

Mom, you are eating a lot of painkillers because you are destroyed in rap battle all the time. You should dump him!


All of the white people want to be like me. Am I black, am I white? You are destroy in my rap battle before you ever learn!

8 Cubicle

I am like the white Eminem!!

I am destroy you with my rap battle.

Go Rabbit #3116, Go Rabbit #3116

Rabbit #3116

Wednesday, February 11, 2004

Good Good Good BAD!


My life and job were just super cool and super sexy for 3 minutes and 32 seconds.

Then Pass the Courvoisier (pt. II) ended and I remembered that I was white and hated myself (as epitomized by my use of the word "woah.")

The Adviceicist

More of your letters:

Dear Worker #3116,

I really like this girl at the home electronics store where I work, but she already has a boyfriend. The guy's a total jerk, always hanging out in front of the store with his buddies, drinking beer and swearing at the customers. My manager has to go out there all the time and tell them to get lost, and has called the police twice! And that's just the way he is around the store. The girl is always coming in with a bruise, or crying in the break room, and I've seen them yelling at each other in his Dodge Caravan a whole bunch of times. I know it's none of my business, but I really like this girl, so, I mean, if you were a sheriff being attacked by a horde of the living dead, do you think an axe or a gun would be the best weapon for defending the townspeople?

Circuit Citizen

Dear Circuit,

Are some of the zombies pets, like zombie dogs? That's important, but I'm going to go out on a limb and say gun. Good luck!

Worker #3116

Dear Worker #3116,

I just moved to a new town, and it's really hard for me to make friends. My job (for a major international corporation, but I can't say which) makes me relocate about once every three years, and it's really difficult. The work itself is fulfilling, but whenever I start to get comfortable I have to pack up my stuff and hit the road. I'm not one of these people who meets others easily, I'm more of a homebody, but I'm a really nice, genuine guy. Sometimes I think maybe I would be better off settling down someplace permanently and making a real home, but if I stick with my current career path I'll eventually be able to retire very comfortably, and sometimes I even feel like what I do makes a difference. In my position, would you wonder what it was about the nineteen eighties that made so many small business owners name their strip-mall stores "Ye Olde [Blank] Shoppe"?

Ye Olde Conflictede

Dear Conflictede,

I like to shop online, no hassle! Good luck!

Worker #3116

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

lj cut it out

This is just a quick livejournal related question:

Do you people who list yourselves on your friends pages also send yourselves e-cards on your birthday?

You are all a bunch of fucking blogsterbators.

The only thing worse than blogsterbators are cloggers, which are you fools who write your entries all cryptic and poetic.

Sunshine, so bright my eyes are dying
And we went up the top of the hill
You know who you are, which is more than I can say for myself
Riding bikes springtime, perfect, like a happiness milkshake

At least Sylvia Plath had the decency to put her head in an oven. What are you so busy doing that you can't kill yourself?


Two trains, 1000 miles apart, leave at the same time from points A and B.

The train leaving point A is travelling due south at 35 miles per hour.

The train leaving point B is travelling due north at 70 miles per hour.

Meanwhile, two hoses are filling two identical 1000 gallon tubs with water.

Tub A is being filled with 7 cubic feet of water per minute.

Tub B is being filled with 21 cubic feet of water per hour.

So, in a frictionless world, under ideal conditions, how long will it take Billy Ocean to issue a formal public apology for his career?

Be My Valentine, Or Else!

I am currently taking applications to be my Valentine. Please send me your 10 hottest pics, as well as records of a clean gynecological exam. I know this goes without saying, but NO Indians (until you people learn to control your liquor).

The deadline is Friday at noon.

Description of Our Dream Date!

1st of all, I would want you to come to Cubicle D-489,
Where as I have king-sized bed. I would pick you from
the airport,{kipnap you}, take you to me place,
remove all of your clothes, shower with you, dry you
off, then tie you to my bed. Then I am going to suck
your tits, until they are standing tall & firm. With
your legs spread apart, I am going to use my dildo to
play with you clit, making you squirm, [or course you
will be gagged], with you trying to free yourself. I
am going to lightly chew your clit, this will make
start to shoot some cum. Then I am lift your ass up,
and lube it. Then stick one my sterile Butt-plug in
your ass-hole. Now I am going to take my Blk cock,
very slowly and I am fuck you. sending every inch deep
inside of you. When I feel my starting to cum. Then I am
stick my cock in mouth, as I am finger-fucking so more.
After you have drank my load, then I am going to return
back to your cunt, and finish up with a load up you

UPDATE: 0 applications received.

Now He's Fucking Romania

It's back: Corporate Casual Headline of the Day!

"Romania Declares Victory in Fight Against AIDS"
(taken from the New York Times)

Wait, I thought George W. Bush was our president?!!?!

First sentence of the article?

"After a long, clumsy war against AIDS, Romania has finally declared itself the winner."

Have you been practicing "Grab Your Reader"? Then you will know that this opening sentence could be A LOT better.

"After a long, protracted Lazer Tag battle against AIDS, Romania (known to "Taggerz" as "Le Grim Reaper 666") has finally declared itself Ruler of the Known Universe."

My job here is done.

Also, this morning, right before I woke up, i.e. in my dream, I was smoking pot out of a silver-goblet sized bowl. I am so HIIIIIIIIIIIIIGGGGGGGHHHHHHHH.

Tuesday, February 10, 2004

Hi, This Is Tina and I Haven't Heard from You in Sooooo LONG

I was thinking it would be kind of funny to set up a fake e-mail address and then send fake spam to my co-workers.

But then I realized that I would probably set up the fake e-mail address and then forget and log in to my regular e-mail and send out the fake spam so it would look like this:

From: "Worker #3116" []
To: "Lambchop" []
Subject: Make Your Dick Bigger Like She Wants It

Hey "Lambchop",
Want a bigger dick?!! Just like she's always saying!?! Now make her gag for it!!!!!!

Send $25 dollars to "Big Time Dick Factory"
P.O. Box 69
Blowmeville, Blowme, 6969-6969
"Oh, I'm so scared"--Wesley Snipes

Worker #3116
Temporary Employee
Cubicle D-489, 5th floor, Bldg. 1.

Bonnet Beard Bonnet Beard Beard Beard Bonnet Bonnet Beard Bonnet

There were Amish at Wendy's!!

I am not shitting on you at all.

They don't debase themselves to use the sinner's electricity, but they will allow the sinner to microwave them a Double Classic w/ Cheese. I was wondering what was up with the horse-drawn carriage parked next to the dumpsters: it was the stupid Amish. I was at the straw/napkin/ketchup-pump station and looked up and was all Hey, look at that guy's beard. And that guy over there has the same kind of beard. Then I was all, Look at that lady's bonnet, and the lady with her, and the other lady with her, so many bonnets!! Also, all the Amish dudes had "biggied" everything, which I think was to try and make up for the emasculating fact that they cannot operate a motor vehicle or play Gameboy Advance.

The best part about making fun of the Amish on the internet is that they will never EVER know.

Would You Like My Fuck With That?

This one time, two minutes ago, I realized I had forgotten my lunch at home.

I will be eating lunch at Wendy's.

When I was in High School, there was this guy who used to go to Wendy's at lunchtime and after he had placed his order, when the pimple-faced fat lady turned around to get his drink or whatever, he would pull the bendy mic over the counter and start rapping into it so that you could hear the rapping in the kitchen.

Meanwhile, there was another guy who wasn't in my high school, but he was around, and his nickname was Crackhead Ted, because he was a crackhead and his name was Ted. Now Crackhead Ted is sober and converted to Islam and goes into local businesses trying to sell everybody incense. Anyhow, back when he was still a crackhead, I saw him one time standing in the middle of the street yelling "EAT MY FUCK" at all the cars and people passing around him.


Today at Wendy's I will narratively compress these two characters when I pull the bendy mic over the counter and yell "EAT MY FUCK" into it.

This totally sweet prank will be code-named Notorious B.I.G.G.I.E. and my character's name in this totally sweet prank will be nicknamed Crackhead Worker #3116.

Terminator 4

I have won two games of chess in my life:

1) Two years ago, against H when she had just woken up from a nap (i.e. when she was asleep).

2) Over Christmas, against Deadbeat Dad, when he was totally smashed on six margaritas, half a bottle of wine, and three quarters of his giant highball glass of Martini and Rossi Vermouth, which he drinks straight.

The point is: if IBM could simply program a post-nap/fucking-wasted algorithm into Deep Blue I think I'd have a good shot at proving that man is smarter than machine.

Notes from R. Weil, Dream Editor

Dear Worker #3116,

re: dream submitted 2/10/2004

Worker, Please do not take the following suggestions as anything other than that, they are not rules, nor are they requirements. These suggestions reflect my reactions as a professional dream editor, and do not mean that another dream editor wouldn't find value in your submission exactly as it is. Thanks for giving me the chance to look at this, and best of luck with your career.

1. I feel it hard to believe that you and Herb would go on another trip together, particularly to Asia. What if the two of you went to the grocery store, or out for pizza? Remember, you have a contract with your reader, and if the reader feels you are breaking that contract he will leave.

2. To the best of my knowledge there are no traveler's cheques in 10,000 dollar denominations. You might want to look into this.

3. Why exactly do you refer to the sleeveless velour shirt with a tiger head on the chest as "the kind of clothes Asians wear, you know"?

4. Number of minutes Herb and Lynn enjoy in your dream: 20. Number of minutes Herb and Lynn could realistically be expected to enjoy in regular life: 0.001

5. Do you remember the time when you were a little boy and you had a dream that you had the best rabbit costume in the world and it made you happier than you had ever been, and when you woke up you were still excited because you were going to put that rabbit costume on but then you realized it had been a dream and that there was no costume and your life was empty and meaningless? The part in last night's dream in which you are accepted to a graduate school program, sell your first novel, and get laid all on the same day is a lot like that rabbit costume: unattainable. For the sake of realism, you might want to adjust these achievements to fit your character's very limited abilities: for example, what if instead of grad school-novel-doing it from behind, your character got a credit card bill in the mail, sold a Dokken record to his friend, and watched some porn before going to sleep but WASN'T able to achieve orgasm. Try that.

6. You do know that there is no such country as Gookistan, right? And that some might construe this as racist? If being vague is the most important aspect of this location, you might consider "somewhere in Asia," or "Thailand."

7. People's bodies just don't do that. I am, of course, referring to the last part of your dream, just before you woke up not knowing whether to scream with joy or fear.

Monday, February 09, 2004

Correction: People Who Live in Glass Houses Shouldn't Throw Stones Anywhere Near the Glass Walls of Their Own House

Worker #3116 contemplates his life and is stunned into silence:

Question: Why am I not getting drunk on my lunch break?



I was thinking that the only way to make this day better would be to swallow glass, or have my eye get a bunch of glass in it.


It was when broken glass cut off all of my fingers and made me eat them that this day really got F-U-N!

p.s. To the glass that cut off all my fingers and made me eat them: are you on orkut? We should totally network. l8er sk8er.

The Special Grammlympics

Can someone please explain the difference between the following Grammy awards:


Considering that all of the same artists were nominated for all of these awards, it sounds a lot like the special Olympics where everyone is a winner...or better yet, the term-end screenings of Film-Video 300 in which the award for "best use of the William Tell Overture" was given to the awesome Rum Cola Rum project.

Also, I think CBS is congratulating itself on the "fast thinking" behind the five minute delay on the broadcast. This buffer allowed them to screen out the 17 breast barings, as well as Beyoncé's shaved bush, and came in especially handy since every single person who won used the word "fuck" one hundred thousand times in their acceptance speech.


There is this commercial:

Two guys in suits and ties are sitting together, eating lunch. The pudgy one bites into his sandwich and says "mmm, good BLT," the other guy says "yeah." Then the pudgy one slurps some soup and says "good soup, too," and the other guy says "yeah." Then the pudgy guy says "you know, this tastes just like mom used to make," and the other guy says "uh, she did make it," and then the camera cuts to the woman behind the counter wearing her visor and apron. It's mom! "Hi boys," she says, waving. Then we are told that we should eat at Tim Horton's.

Okay, first of all: if you are eating lunch at Tim Horton's, unless that lunch is donuts, you should kill yourself afterwards because not only are you fat, you are also stupid. Moreover, how depressing is this commercial? Your mom fucking works at a donut store, and not even an American owned donut store, a fucking Canadian owned donut store. When you are done killing yourself for eating lunch at Tim Horton's, you should put your mom out of her misery. These boys were well dressed, why can't they take care of their own mother that she has to work at a fucking donut store? And what a fucking asshole that this guy didn't notice his own MOM making him lunch behind the counter. Do you know why he didn't recognize her? Because he assumed that everyone in food service is Hispanic!

Speaking of advertisements and Hispanic people, have you seen that new Panchero's commercial where there is a mentally-retarded breaded jalapeno popper singing a song about chips and salsa? That is a good commercial. The only thing funnier than singing food is mentally-retarded singing food, or wheelchair-bound singing food.


I would like to thank everyone for making Fiction Friday the tremendous success that it was.

A few of you did complain: "lj cut this, lj cut that." I must apologize, I forgot how strenuous it was for fat losers to scroll through text on a computer screen. Moreover, it was brought to my attention that Friday night was a moment of tremendous frustration when you used your already worn out computer-mouse-button-finger to (unsuccessfully) try and find your boyfriend's g-spot. Please accept my apology, and pass my condolences on to Bruce and his swollen asshole.

(The Passion of) Jesus H. Christ, seriously, you guys are a bunch of whining fuckers. If anything good came out of Fiction Friday it's that I learned how many lazy-ass crybaby faggots have listed me as friends, and it also revealed to me that JDRyznar and Erinth can suck my dick until they drown in my legacy.

Speaking of sucking my dick until your lungs fill with cum:
Please watch my new reality show, SPUNK'D, in which we bukakke unsuspecting celebrities. Who doesn't want to see us fill Justin Timberlake's new Ferrari with man-seed? Or throw a mason jar of white gold in Danny Bonaduce's fat ugly freckle-face. You got SPUNK'D, bitch!


The only thing worse than catching the Fat Bus to work in the morning is NOT catching the Fat Bus to work in the morning.


The only thing worse than knowing you just missed the Fat Bus is NOT knowing you just missed the Fat Bus.

Friday, February 06, 2004


The end.

Chapter Seven

Wallace was at his desk, the phone cradled between his chin and shoulder, noting something on a legal pad with a pencil. When he wasn't writing, he was tapping the eraser end against his temple. He looked up as Farber approached and held up his index finger. Farber sat in a chair across from him and put his feet on the desk. Wallace used an open hand to swat them to the floor. He hung up the phone, his eyes beaded on Farber.

Before Wallace could speak, Farber said, "What'd you get on Ketchins?"

"Not much. He's still under heavy sedation. But I went over to his residence and talked to his new girlfriend. She said they were together that night, all night. She said it like that, too, all night."

Farber nodded. "You believe her?"

Wallace shrugged. "I guess. It doesn't really matter. He won't be able to talk for another few days at least, and the fact that the only thing that places him in contact is this phone call...I mean, Williams could have called him, and he could have told him to Fuck off, and there you go, short conversation. It's too thin. Everything is thin. I feel like we're being stretched out and punched flat and there's nothing we can do about it. What are you smiling about?"

Farber shook his head and sighed.

"The D.A. called this morning. He said he wanted something to tell reporters. Apparently the Durant Examiner wants to do this piece on Williams. You know, salt of the earth, working class tragedy, that kind of thing. They're talking to his colleagues at the bowling alley, his landlord, anybody they can find. But they want it to end with a real bang, you know, some kind of moral vindication, which means a name and a matching set of iron bars."

Farber looked at the notepad. He pointed at it. "That's what the D.A. told you?"

Wallace nodded and held it up. He'd doodled a picture of the D.A. with a giant nose, horns, and a blurb coming out of his mouth that Wallace hadn't figured out how to fill in yet.

"How'd it go with Bertig?" He asked.

Farber shrugged.

"What the hell's that mean? Don't fade out on me, Farber."

"I have an idea what happened to Williams."

Wallace looked at him through half closed eyelids. "Since when?"

"Last night, maybe."

Wallace nodded. "And you didn't tell me because--"

"I had to check it out with Bertig, see if it was even possible."

"And he said?"

"Said I sounded drunk."

"Were you?"

"I wish."

"And your theory?"

"Barely, he says."

"And you're being cagey about it because..."

"You won't like it."

"It's better than what I got."


Wallace pointed the pencil across the desk. "Out with it, Farber. One more stunted, vague answer and I cut you in half."

Farber sighed and leaned back in his chair. He placed both hands heavily on the arms and pushed himself to his feet. "Follow me," he said.

Wallace stood with a curious look on his face. He moved around the desk and walked closely behind Farber, who was navigating the tightly packed desks of the office, stepping over piles of deep brown case folders, and stretched phone cords. Farber entered a conference room, and let the door hiss slowly on its piston behind him. Wallace caught it before it closed and stepped into the quiet room, its long empty table and blank chairs looking at him expectantly. Farber moved to the window and turned to face Wallace.

As the door clicked closed quietly behind them, Farber put a hand behind his back and yanked a window open. It didn't budge. He grunted. Farber turned and looked at the window. It was locked. He slid the lock over and the window pulled up easily on its springs. Wallace was staring at him.

"What do you smell?"

"What is this, Farber? We've got work to do..."

Farber stood, waiting for a response.

"Maybe you need some time off. I've been saying it for months, so has the Chief. You haven't been the same since the O'Reilly case."

Farber's face tightened. "This has nothing to do with the O'Reilly case. Just close your fucking eyes and sniff the air, Wallace."

Wallace closed his eyes and shrugged his shoulders. He took in three deep breaths. He shrugged again. "Outside, I guess." He opened his eyes. Farber was nodding.

"Yes," Farber said.

Wallace looked at him like he was crazy. "Okay," Wallace said. "Are we done?"

Farber shook his head. "I told you you wouldn't like it. You want to hear it or you want to make fun? Go sit at your desk and draw caricatures of people and slam your fingers in your desk drawer so you can at least prove that something happened?"

Wallace shook his head. "Fine. Fine, okay. It smells like the outside."

Farber slowly nodded. "Fresh air, right, from outside?" Wallace looked at him, waiting. "Air is composed of molecules. These molecules move around at random, bumping into each other like pool balls, getting breathed in and exhaled, etc. Right now, air molecules from outside are pushing their way past the inside air molecules, and vice versa. If you were standing outside this window it would smell faintly of carpet, and it would be warmer. Right?" Wallace nodded weakly. Farber continued: "But this all happens at random. Now, according to the laws of probability, one could imagine a scenario where the air molecules from outside didn't come in through the window. By chance, their random pathways went everywhere but in the window. Do you follow?"

Wallace nodded to keep Farber talking.

"Okay. Now, air molecules move at different speeds. The warmer the air, the faster the movement. Remember Williams's room? It was like the tropics. The molecules would have been moving pretty quickly."

"You're telling me that A.J. died because he opened a window and no air came through from the outside?" Wallace asked skeptically.

Farber was speaking very quickly now, and sweat was dotting up on his forehead despite the cool air coming in through the open window. "That was an illustrative example, Wallace, just an illustrative example. Stay with me. Now, we're talking probability here. Let's say the odds of winning the lottery are 1 in, oh, what, 3 trillion. Okay? But some guy wins the lottery. Right. So it's not impossible, just not very likely. Okay, so, here we go. Now, the odds of a single air molecule moving to a particular spot in a room is 1 in however many molecules there are in the room combined with other factors, like temperature, obstacles, whatever. Doesn't matter. It's hard to predict, is what I'm saying. And that's for a single molecule. So the odds of all the air molecules in the entire room moving to the same place at the same time is nearly impossible. It would be one in a thousand with about a million zeroes after that. But that doesn't mean that it's impossible, and it doesn't mean that if it happens it didn't happen just because it's not likely."

Wallace nodded slowly. "You're right, I don't like it."

Farber shook his head. "Listen. LISTEN! It's the only thing that fits. No marks on the body, no forced entry, no witnesses. Guy dies from asphyxiation, but more than that, there are no trace signs of oxygen or nitrogen or carbon dioxide in his lungs, almost like a drowning. He gasped for air and there wasn't any! Don't you see? Now, if all the air molecules moved into one corner of the room at the same time the air pressure would be very great because of the density of the particles--"

"No," Wallace said. "Farber-"

"YES! The broken plaster. In the corner, it's...Wallace...Wallace!"

Wallace had moved to the door.

"You need a break, Farber. You have to take some rest. Go somewhere warm. Have a coconut with some rum in it."

"But Wallace-"

Wallace opened the door and stepped through it. Farber sat in one of the empty chairs and splayed his fingers on the tabletop. He could smell the crisp winter air coming through the open window, and through the conference room glass he could see Wallace consulting with the Chief.

Chapter Six

Farber and Wallace drank coffee and watched Buck Williams consult with his lawyer through the two-way mirror.

"What do you think?" Wallace asked.

Farber blew the steam off his cup. "I think he didn't do anything."

"He did something, Farber, come on. Ketchins is in a coma."

"He drove too fast, maybe. He might have been reckless behind the wheel. But I don't think he even knew who he hit."

"It's too lucky."

"I wouldn't really call it luck, but I guess it depends what side you look at it from."

"You know what I mean. It's a helluva coincidence."

"Sure it is," Farber said, sipping his coffee. "But so are a lot of things."

They stood in silence for a moment. Buck was making rapid hand gestures at Torrence, who tried to calm him.

"You ever been driving in a car," Farber began, "and it's raining like crazy, but the guy on the radio says 'there'll be a ten percent chance of rain today?'"

Wallace shrugged. "I don't know, sure. So?"

"It's not a ten percent chance of rain, anymore. It's a hundred percent chance."

"What are you getting at Farber?"

Farber said: "There's this guy, right, who never knew his dad. Pops ran out on mom when he was a baby. But now he's older, and he's got some money to burn, so he starts to track the old man down. Finally, after two years of searching, hiring private dicks, putting ads in newspapers, going on talk shows, finally, he gets a call. It's his old man, come to town to reunite with his baby boy. They set up a time to meet for lunch the next day at some Italian restaurant. On the way there, the guy's cab driver gets in a pretty bad accident with another car. But the guy is running late for this long-awaited occasion. He promises to come in and file a report on behalf of the hack, gets out, and runs the rest of the way to the restaurant. Pops is sitting there, waiting. It's awkward, but they're both happy to see each other. Long story short, pasta primavera arrives and they're sharing all kinds of stories about each other. The kid pulls out a picture of his girlfriend and tells dad the great news. "We're pregnant," the kid says. Pops takes one look at the photo and drops his fork. It's his daughter from another marriage. The father doesn't know how to tell him that he's sleeping with his half sister. He changes the subject and the rest of the meal goes by in almost total silence. Pops pays the bill, but he's resistant to keeping in touch. The kid is kind of mad, because he's finally found him, and now the father is going to disappear again. But he can't do much. The dad says he'll call him and walks away. On the way home, in another cab, the radio is turned to some talk station and the guy hears the news that a pregnant lady was killed in a car crash earlier that day with a taxi."

Wallace started to laugh. "Give me a break, Farber. That is the crappiest story I ever heard."

Farber could not help but laugh himself. "Fuck you, Wallace." He set his coffee cup on a chair. "Fine, I'm tired, but it serves my point. If a thing happens, it happens. You can say that it's unbelievable and say that it defies all probability, but that doesn't stop it from happening."

Wallace shook his head and sighed. "Whatever, old man."

Farber looked at him, and then turned his attention back to the interrogation room. Buck was sitting stone faced, looking straight ahead to the middle distance. Torrence was looking at some papers in his briefcase. A deputy came around the corner.
"They're ready for you, fellas."

Cat had finished off the orange cheese. Farber found him stretched out on the couch, his feet in the air, belly exposed. He closed the door quietly, locking it behind him. There was a message from Bob O'Reilly on the machine, asking how he was doing. He deleted the message and sat down heavily. Most nights he either went to visit the O'Reillys or spoke with Bob on the phone, but he was too tired for ghosts.

Buck Williams would spend the night in a holding cell, and they would try and up the charges on the car accident, but that was it. His lawyer had a slick tongue and there wasn't enough evidence to put him over. It had been a rainy night, one of Ketchins's headlights had been out, and there was a decent amount of alcohol in his veins.

Farber stuck his hands in between the cushions of his couch. When he had a long day, or his mind felt clouded, he liked to put them there, where they could rest safe and warm. He breathed deeply and looked around the room. The air was stale. He cracked a window and felt the rush of a cool breeze in his face. It smelled better but sucked the heat from the room. Farber returned to the couch and found Cat in his spot. He pushed the cat aside and stuffed his hands between the cushions again.

Something struck him. He shook his head. "No," he said to himself. But it was the only thing he could keep still long enough to place. His hand reached for some paper and a pen that sat on the coffee table. He made some quick sketches, and the rudimentary drawings and silly calculations made it almost impossible for him to sleep.

Wallace was sitting on Farber's desk when he walked in, dragging the bags under his eyes behind him. Wallace looked pink and well rested. He tapped a pen against his teeth. Farber nodded.

"Okay," Wallace said, "we got Ketchins's sister on the phone. She says Williams and Ketchins had been in contact for over a month. But, according to her, and get this, Williams was calling Ketchins for advice."

"Advice?" Farber asked.

"Whenever Cindy would go on one her furious tantrums, Williams would call Ketchins and bitch to him."

"That's strange."

"Yes, it is."

"But Ketchins wasn't in the room that night. There's nothing to place him there."

"No. Nothing corroborating. But there is a call from the hotel room to Ketchins's number and it only lasted a minute."

"You're thinking--"

"I'm thinking Williams called Ketchins and asked him to meet somewhere and talk it out."

Farber nodded and stood from his desk.

"Where are you going?" Wallace asked.

"Follow up on it. It's good. Let me know if it gets you anywhere. I've got to see Bertig."

"Bertig? But the M.E. already gave us everything."

Bertig leaned against the autopsy table, an implement in his hand. He took off a blood-stained rubber glove and pushed his goggles up on his forehead. "Come again?" he said.

Farber explained his theory once more. Bertig laughed and shook his head. "Well, this is a new one, Farber. Probably the first case in history."

Farber nodded. "That's the point," he said.

Bertig stood silently and shook his head some more. He set the implement down on the tray. The body he had spread out on the table was missing half its face, and Bertig was currently exploring a hole in his left thigh.

"Well?" Farber asked.

"I don't know what you want me to say. It's basically impossible, but I think you know that. And even if it is true, there's absolutely nothing you can do about it. No one will believe you, and it leaves the D.A. twiddling his thumbs. If there's anything the D.A. hates, it's twiddling his thumbs."

"He'd rather keep them shoved up his ass," Farber said.

The M.E. groaned.

"Just tell me if it's possible. Not in terms of what you know, but in terms of what you could know. Does it hold as a theory?"

"It makes you sound drunk."


"According to our earthly laws, your theory holds, barely."

Farber nodded. He pointed at the body. "I think your friend is getting bored."

Bertig turned and looked casually at the body. When he turned back, Farber was gone.

Chapter Five

Williams's lawyer looked exhausted when he arrived at the interrogation room. His hair was barely flattened down on his head, and you could actually make out finger indentations in the gel where he'd hand brushed the strands in his car. Nevertheless, his gray suit was pressed, and his briefcase firmly tucked under his arm. As he took his seat a deputy brought another cup of coffee, this one light with cream, and set it in front of him. He sipped it quickly and looked at Buck. "My client refuses to answer any more questions until he understands the charges against him."

Farber chuckled and lowered his head.

"We're investigating a murder, here, counselor. Two days ago your client's brother was found dead in his hotel room. We suspect foul play and we're trying to get to the bottom of it."

"Are you accusing my client of murdering his brother?"

"Not yet, no. But one of the primary suspects in the case is currently in a coma at St. Joseph's hospital on account of a car crash. The driver of the other car is your client."

"Accidents happen, gentlemen."

"Not like this, they don't," Farber said. He scraped a chair up to sit next to Buck. "This was no accident."

"Detective, this is harassment. If you don't back away from my client this instant I'll bring so many charges against you, you'll have to trade your badge in for a Wal-Mart name tag."

Farber stood and backed towards the two-way mirror.

"Listen, Mr.--" Wallace began.

"Torrence," the lawyer replied.

"Mr. Torrence, we can hold your client for forty-eight hours as part of our murder investigation. But we don't want to. All we want is for him to answer some questions."

Torrence nodded and finished his coffee. "As long as you keep your bulldog on a short leash, I'm sure we can work something out."

Wallace nodded to Farber, who sat at the head of the table and folded his hands.

"Where were you two nights ago?" Wallace asked.

Torrence nodded at Williams. Buck looked at Wallace. "I was at home, watching Monday night football."

"Can anyone back up your story?"

Williams shrugged. "I didn't think I would need back up. I was just watching the game."

Wallace jotted something on his notepad. Farber crossed his arms and leaned back.

"Did you talk to your brother that night?" Wallace asked.

"Listen, I didn't kill him, if that's what you're-"

Torrence held up a hand to silence his client, and then tried to signal something with his eyes.

"I'm not asking you if you killed him, Mr. Williams," Wallace said. "I'm asking if you talked to him."

Torrence nodded at him. Buck looked at the ceiling. "He called me."


"I don't know. Ten, eleven. He was pissed off. Said Cindy had kicked him out-"

"Cindy Ketchins."

"Yeah. Cindy had kicked him out, they had some fight about somethin' or other. I don't know. He just said he hated her but that he was staying in Ormond. Figured she'd just call and invite him back later. He said he didn't feel like driving anymore anyway."

"Did they fight a lot?"

Buck shrugged. "I guess. As much as anybody who's got a high maintenance girl like Cindy."

"How do you know Cindy was high maintenance?"

"Just stuff he'd tell me, you know, like how she would scream at him for going to work, but then spend all his paycheck on a pair a shoes or some shit. You know how it is." There was a long silent pause. "I don't know, I'm just sayin', she sounded high maintenance to me. Like, one time she wanted to go to some party that her girlfriend was throwing, but our mom dies, right. So, A.J. says "I can't go to your party, I got to go to the funeral." Doesn't even make her go with him, just says to have fun but that he'll call her when he gets back to town, and she goes crazy, throws shit at him and shit."

"Ms. Ketchins told us that it was A.J. who was high maintenance," Farber said.

Buck shrugged.

"Okay," Wallace said, "so she kicked him out. Did he say anything else?"

Buck nodded. "Said he'd got the tiger lures."

Wallace looked at Farber.

"Tiger lures?"

Buck nodded. "Yep. Said not to worry, that he'd gotten them."

"Does that make any sense to you?"

Buck looked at Wallace and laughed. "Sure," he said. "We were supposed to go fishing this weekend. He was in charge of picking up some new lures, and the tiger lures were supposed to be the best for catching carp."

Wallace sighed. Farber leaned forward. "Stop fucking with us, kid."

"I'm not. Honest. You asked what he said, that's what he said."

"What about Randy Ketchins?"

Buck looked at Torrence, whose face was blank. "Who the hell is Randy Ketchins?" he asked.

Wallace looked at Farber who raised a suspicious eyebrow.

"Randy Ketchins is Cindy Ketchins's ex-husband."

"Shit, the bitch is married?"

"Ex, he's the ex-husband."

"Okay. What about him?"

"You hit him with your car."

Buck looked panicked. He turned to Torrence who nodded and held up his hands. "That's enough, gentlemen. My client will not answer any more questions until I've had time to give him counsel."

"Well, give it fast," Farber said, standing. "We'll wait outside."

Farber and Wallace turned to leave the room, as Torrence leaned into Williams's ear, whispering.

Chapter Four

There were only three working light bulbs in Farber's entire apartment. He moved from one room to another, between lightness and darkness, like a man switching between the few overly-familiar stations on his television that weren't totally snowed out by poor antenna reception. He opened his fridge and found some cheese, two pickles, a slice of bread, and a beer. There were some stale Oreo cookies in the cabinet, from a visit paid by his young nephew who said he loved policeman and crime investigation, but who actually enjoyed burning insects with his official Young Sherlock Holmes magnifying glass.

The cold beer sweated in his hand, and he wiped the condensation against his trousers. There was nothing on television, but he watched it anyway. The orange cheese was hard but edible. The green pickles were soft but, he had to admit, also edible.

Cat jumped up on the couch with him. He curled up so the tip of his tail stuck into his mouth where he could more easily chew it. An old girlfriend, Sheryl, had insisted that they breath some life into the place by getting a cat. Then, when she dumped him a month later, she told him to take good care of "Mr. Shit Machine." But Farber and Cat got along well.

The Williams file was strewn across the coffee table, and Farber examined it again, the television volume on low so that the nasal voice of Fran Drescher was more of a droning comfort than an intrusion. Photographs of William's discolored body, a photograph of the slip of paper with Randy Ketchins phone number. The beds as they'd been found: one clearly slept in, the other still tightly made. Had someone else been in the room with him but covered their tracks? Fiber had produced nothing. There were a few hairs and carpet fibers that matched Cindy Ketchins, but A.J. had most likely brought them in himself. No finger prints, and no sign of forced entry or struggle. Someone A.J. knew. Someone he would have invited into the room to share from the mini-bar. Maybe he and Randy Ketchins were friendlier than Cindy thought. The phone rang. Farber had gotten a cheese-grease thumb print on a photo of Williams' face. He dropped the photo, wiped his hand quickly on the couch cushion, and picked up the phone.

"Farber," he said.

It was Wallace. They'd gone to Randy Ketchins's residence--a small tract house on the outskirts of town near the gravel quarry--to bring him in but he wasn't there. They'd tracked him down now.

"Good," Farber said, absently petting Cat. Cat took a great gouge of skin from the back of his hand. Farber grabbed the beast and threw it across the room where it landed on an overstuffed chair and scurried away. This is how it went between them.

"Where'd you find him?" Farber asked.

"He's uh, in the ICU at St. Joe's," Wallace sounded nervous.

"Well, shit, Wallace, what'd you do to him. All we want is to talk to the guy."

Wallace sighed. "We didn't do anything, Farber, gimmee a break here. The guy's in a fucking coma. Car accident on Rt-52."

Farber punched the wall. "Fucking kidding me. You have got to be fucking kidding me."

There was silence on the other end.

"Get someone sitting bedside around the clock," Farber said. "If the bastard ever wakes up I want to know what he dreamt of."

"Done," Wallace said. "But Farber, listen to this, you won't believe who was in the other car."

Farber cradled the phone to the couch and sat down. Cat was back, poking his nose in the orange cheese. Even he wouldn't eat it. He turned to scratch up the arm of the couch instead.

"Buck Williams."

Farber was silent.

"A.J. Williams's brother. Ran straight into him at sixty. Not a scratch on him."

"I'll meet you at the office. Let's bring Buck Williams in for coffee."

Farber hung up the phone. He scraped the remaining brown sludge from a rusted tin of Whiskas into Cat's bowl and closed the door behind him. He didn't bother turning the lights out.

Buck, unlike his brother, had blonde hair, which he'd cut short and gelled so it spiked up like a porcupine. He wore sunglasses and sat slumped at the interrogation table. A paper cup of coffee steamed in front of him.

"Cream and sugar?" Wallace asked.

"Black," Williams answered.

"Like your women," Farber said.

"What the hell is that supposed to mean?" Williams said, folding his arms.

"You got a bit a the jungle fever, don't you, Williams? You like the bush babies, am I wrong?" Farber was sitting on the edge of the table.

"Fuck this." Williams stood, his chair scraping against the cement floor.

"Sit down, Williams." Wallace put out a hand. "Come on. Farber, Jesus, give the guy a break, will you."

Farber held up his hands in retreat. "Hey, Okay, I'll back off. I didn't mean any offense to...what's your girlfriend's name, Sh'quanda?"

Williams jumped up and raised his fists.

Farber held up a hand again. "You got a bit of a temper, Williams."

Williams's face was red and he breathed heavily, but his fists fell slowly to his sides.

"Just sit down."

Williams sat down. "I want a lawyer," he said.

"Innocent men don't usually need lawyers," Farber said.

Wallace shook his head. "The man's got rights, Farber."

"Hell yeah, I do," Williams said.

Farber shrugged. Wallace stood and poked his head out the door. He spoke to someone and then returned to the table. He sat down slowly. "Okay, Buck, you're lawyer is on his way. Drink your coffee. We won't ask you any more questions until he gets here."

Buck just looked at his coffee in its Styrofoam cup, looked but did not touch.