Thursday, September 30, 2004

Two Observations I Don't Know What to Do With...

Alicia Keys=Black Fiona Apple

Christina Ricci=Poor Man's Helena Bonham Carter

Tuesday, September 14, 2004

7-Letter Word for Lady Who Sits Across From Me

The woman who sits in the cube across from me does either an internet jigsaw puzzle or an internet crossword puzzle every day during her lunch break. In her head it must be like, "12 O'Clock Noon, puzzle time, Cheryl!" I think this is very cute, but not as cute as her dyed hair and matching pant-suits.

Divine Wind Are Moved Our Mind Deeply

  Everyone is impressed by letters written by Kamikaze pilot. Ican't keep back my tears to read them. They joined to the Special Attack Mission and died purely to defend their country and people they love.
  At that time,officially their letters were censored by troops to keep the military secret. They left their mind in letters,otherwise their limited conditions.
  There were rumor that U.S troops would punish people strictlywho had data concerned with Kamikaze Special Attack mission afterfinishing the war. So people threw letters and articles left by thedeceased into the fire. But, in spite of the situation which people were dangerous, some people secreted and kept those things very carefully. Thanks to their courage and love, we can read their letters and are moved our mind deeply.
  I quote those precious last letters home from reference books. Please read letters. I would like to add letters in the meaning of mourning for Kamikazes.

I Have A Fetish For Fucking You With Your Skirt On In The Back Of The Yukon, Bye Bye Hits!

You know, it wasn't so long ago that it was all Ja Rule this, Ja Rule that. Where's Ja Rule now? Note to thugs: when every single you release is a "love song" no one is going to love you for long.

ADIDAPOTUS

Last night I dreamed that I was passing under this willow tree after a heavy rainstorm and I looked over to my left and President Bush was sitting in a chaise lounge reading a magazine, and I said, "Mr. President, I'm really sorry, sir, but I think that when I pass under this branch it's going to knock a bunch of rain water on you," and he said "It's okay, I totally know what you mean." For some reason, though, this exchange inspired the President to come talk to me on the steps of a brownstone and as soon as he sat down his press secretary appeared, but it wasn't Scott McClellan, it was more like Suzie McClellan, and President Bush turned to me and was like "Do you have any questions for me, the President of the United States?" and I don't remember what I asked him but then Suzie McClellan was like, "I advise you not to answer that, sir," but Bush was like, "No, that's a really good question, I'd be happy to answer that." So then he gives some answer that is basically like "Our mortal enemy is Saudi Arabia," and immediately the President realizes he's made a mistake and Suzie McClellan is super pissed and all of these journalists appear to try and get my story and everyone I know is really amazed not only that the President of the United States of America—The Greatest Country on Earth—wanted to talk to me, but that I was able to extract such a startling piece of top secret information from him with just one insightful question. To give you a sense of what a big deal this was, a few minutes later I picked up a newspaper and there was already a front page story told by a guy who simply overheard our conversation, right, you see, but everyone was still dying to interview me and stuff because now I knew that the President was going to invade Saudi Arabia if he was elected to a second term. Then I was standing in this apartment thinking about calling People magazine and selling my story when the President burst in with a bunch of Secret Service agents and he kept being like, "You have to understand..." and "See, the thing I was trying to say was..." and I was like, "Mr. President, sir, talk to the hand because my face is not listening to you at all."

Monday, September 13, 2004

Basta!

Saturday I woke up at noon and there were no eggs in the house, so I went to the store and bought some eggs and some juice and some bacon, and the lady at the register was like, "Ooh, looks like you must have had a good night if you're making breakfast at noon," and I was like "First of all, my night was just okay, second of all, STAY THE FUCK OUT OF MY BUSINESS, and third of all, obviously if I'm making breakfast at noon I'm in no mood for chit-chat."

McCullen and I have written another movie treatment. Cornolat is the irresistibly romantic tale of a mysterious young woman who moves to town and sets up a deliciously exquisite corn shoppe, selling divinely sinful, homemade corn concoctions. Old marriages are rejuvenated, young adults are falling magically in love, children are obeying their parents, and no one knows just quite how these little corn holders that this mysterious young woman sells are having such a wonderful effect, but why fix what isn't broken? That is, of course, until the crazy corn pirate arrives and puts everyone's bigotry and ignorance on display to a tragic end.

Seriously, though, no more food-for-passion metaphors in movies please. I saw a preview this weekend for some shitty Italian movie where a lovelorn woman pours her heart into fabulous desserts and I laughed so hard that I threw up the half a burrito and leftover chinese food I ate before going to the theater all over my raging boner.

Oh, and I've finally come up with a porn star name for myself, because I figure with a good porn star name I will finally get some action. Girls love a clever and randy porn star name, don't you, girls? How about Michael J. Fucks? Does that get you fucking wet?

Friday, September 10, 2004

YOU HEARD

AMUSE ME, YOU UGLY IDIOTS.

Why You Gotta Criticize?

My parents have this lamp in their living room that I just saw in a spread in Details magazine, which either indicates that my parents are way more "with it" than all the evidence suggests, or that Details magazine is for grammys and grampys.

I'm behind the times, this is obvious (remind me to join friendster soon), but so today I discovered shoutcast.com, which I think I've heard of before but I did a google search for "hip-hop internet radio" and shoutcast was right there. Right now I am listening to The Notorious B.I.G. "Da Cunt Rennaissance", which is a good thing, but the discrepancy I've noticed is that almost all of the hip-hop stations on shoutcast.com have much lower bit-rates than, say, the "All Death Cab For Cutie All the Time" station, or the "Ze Best Danske Musik Der Deutschlander Funny Times!" station. As Jadakiss might say "Why Halle have to let a white man pop her to get an Oscar? Why can't black people get the same amount of bit-rates on their streaming internet radio stations? Ahaaaa!"

Also, on the analog "Urban" radio yesterday, the deej was criticizing Carl Thomas and he said "The man will wear a skull cap AND a baseball hat, he'll wear a Bill Cosby sweater AND a army fatigue jacket, AND HE STILL WON'T EVEN HAVE A HAIRCUT." Then the female deej was like "Why you gotta criticize?"

For Christmas I Want a U-Haul

This date-rapist (wearing a shirt that said "Moustache Rides") was sitting at the burrito restaurant with his friend, who would be a date-rapist if he had the looks. McCullen aptly described this friend as "the guy who watches the door at the party." Note to this friend: no more stripey yellow polo tees for you. Anyhow, so the date-rapist is holding his burrito in his hand and the following exchange occurs:

DR: This thing weighs, like, four pounds.
WBDR: It says eight pounds.
DR: That's the bag, man. That's how much the bag can hold.
WBDR: The bag?
DR: The bag can hold up to eight pounds and then it breaks.
WBDR: But I bet if I put my burrito in there the bag wouldn't break.

Did they try it? Yes. Yes, they tried it.

Also, there are a couple special people out there this morning who I would like to "put in the bush," and to whom I would like to extend a little bit of friendly advice:

To the girl in the one-shouldered red halter-top who was on the street corner outside of Little Caesars doing straight-up, raw-dawg, hootchie dances while holding a sign that read "Large Pizza!Pizza! 5$": Please, take off those headphones, brush the weave from out of your face, and take a good long look at what you are doing with your life.

To the guy at the gym who was wearing jeans and a Twin Peaks tee-shirt in the weight room: Don't worry, my friend, we've ruled you out as a suspect in the Palmer case. It was the 15lb bicep curls that tipped us off to your obvious innocence.

Thursday, September 09, 2004

We Refuse to Negotiate With Terrorists When We Have Pooped Our Pants

We were supposed to get cable/internet hooked up yesterday but the guy never showed up, and so Stevil was trying to get in touch with this lady at Comcassholes who apparently runs the company from her cell-phone, and she had been no help and had started saying crazy things, such as we already have cable and internet, and if we don't have cable and internet we need to contact the previous tenants and ask them why not, etc...So when Stevil was telling me all of this in a very drawn out email conversation I started getting very upset and panicky and was like OH SHIT, WHAT CAN I DO? WE MUST SOLVE THIS TRAGIC PROBLEM IMMEDIATELY! And it took me literally an hour to be like, "Wait a second, not only will this all work out in the end and we'll get our cable and our internet hooked up, but it's also cable and internet, something I did not have in my last apartment without any apparent distress."

Situations like this, incidentally, make me very concerned for moments in my life that are sure to happen where some real crisis occurs, i.e. I lose an arm and the use of one of my eyeballs in a strange grocery store loading dock accident or my mom is taken hostage by Basque separatists. Because you cannot successfully negotiate with a bunch of violent idiots who think that a stupid strip of land in the middle of Western Europe should be made into an entirely new, politically useless, multi-lingual sovereignty when you've shit your pants. Sorry, mom. I'm sorry the Basques killed you.

Onanism #3116

Worker #3116 & Himself

Devoted to the House of Pleasure, Worker #3116 enjoys the finer things in life and won't think twice about showing himself a good time. Worker #3116 is ruled by the Sun. This is the perfect symbol of his perception of self: positioned at the center of the planets. The Sun emanates a great light, power and strength. And, also like the star that illuminates the earth, the heat from The Sun can be deeply felt by those closest to it and it guides them on their journeys. The Sun can also scorch those in its path (ex. OKTiger, McCullen). Worker #3116's sense of dramatics, exaggeration and self-centeredness makes him at times burdensome to his partner or those around him.

The red-hot passion of Worker #3116 alone in his room anytime after eleven p.m. is unstoppable. His Fire, combined with reliance on physical action (rather than emotional or intellectual) makes the relationship highly dynamic. This intense energy can be wonderful if it avoids catastrophe. It will either be the 'best of times or the worst of times' as his relationship with himself swings the pendulum between sheer love and total dismissal.

There is always a power struggle when Worker #3116 is alone in his room any time after eleven p.m. Worker #3116 will make concessions, but only occasionally. The Fiery Worker #3116 temper can explode quickly and often, but clashes are quickly forgotten so that the good times may continue.

What's the best aspect of Worker #3116's relationship with himself? It's his amazing fun-loving capacity and wealth of creativity. The good times go on and on and on. Socializing, entertaining and amusing himself makes Worker #3116 and himself a knock-out love match.

Fuck This

Two awful things have happened this morning. First, I heard a pan flute on the radio. Disgusting. The sound of a pan flute is like someone breathing onion breath on the side of my neck, or trying to hold my hand with sweaty palms. It is such an awful, mystical instrument. Secondly, I got an email this morning from a woman at work that read:

"Please see Worker #3116's message below. She cannot find any information on these ***s. Can you send her a source on where to look? I believe she has already check the *** web site and ***s. thanks!"

Bitch, Worker #3116 is not a girl's name. And obviously, even if it was androgynous in the least, the part in my original email where I said "thanks for all your help, and please don't hesitate to contact me with any questions or if you want to fuck" should have been a totally clear indication that I was...oh...ha ha ha...oops. LESBIANS, COME OUT AND PLAYYYY.

Wednesday, September 08, 2004

I Know, I Know. Hey, Worker #3116, This Post Would Have Been Funny, Say, Four Months Ago. Idiot.

Clearly, I need to start wearing my glasses more regularly, because I am tired of people thinking I am looking at them for any reason other than the fact that their ugly faces are all blurry and I'm trying to discern if it is an ugly face I have to say hello to or an ugly face I can dismiss with impunity.

I will admit that sometimes I am looking at you very hard to see if maybe you are hot, but you never are.

I Know, I Know. Hey, Worker #3116, This Post Would Have Been Funny, Say, Four Months Ago. Idiot.

You know, everyone's all upset about Michael Jackson touching kids and stuff, but, I mean, it's not often that getting molested means never having to work a day in your life. Those kids are fucking lucky, if you ask me. I've had intimate encounters that were uncomfortable and made me feel bad about myself, and there wasn't no 20 million dollars afterward either, but you don't see me bitching about it to Katie Couric.

BLAH! BLAH!

25 MPH

I haven't had roommates in a really long time, but it's kind of nice having someone else help find Budweiser banners to hang in the living room and to go steal funny street signs (Slow! ha ha!) late at night to rest unevenly over the fireplace. Now we just have to find some fruit flies to put in the kitchen and a broken ping-pong table covered in crushed plastic cups filled with cigarette butts for the front yard and the place will be PERFECT!

I keep getting nervous in the morning because I think that the arriving babies are going to wake up my new roommates and then they are going to be crabby (the roommates). Those babies are so loud! There is one in particular, I don't know what he looks like, but he just runs around and around so fast that it shakes the entire house, and then he screams "BLAH! BLAH!". Also, parents, you don't need to honk your horn at eight in the morning to signal to your child that it is indeed your car that is leaving him with weirdos in the first floor of a house that shouldn't even be a daycare in the first place. They know you are going, that is why they are crying, but waking up the neighborhood with your SUV foghorn is totally pointless.

BLAH! BLAH!

Tuesday, September 07, 2004

And THAT Is Why I Will not See Open Water

Last night, Muttcatt told me that the original novel, Jaws, by Peter Benchley, had a hardcore sex-scene in it and also a part where two characters were jacking each other off in the car.

Best DVD special features EVER!

Less Weird Coughing, More Raps!

Someone needs to give Jadakiss a Fisherman's Friend.

Dr. Spock #3116

I'm no parent. But I'd like to offer these helpful guidelines to anyone who has suddenly found themselves with a twenty-something-year-old son to take care of!

1. Let him stay at your house when he comes to visit.
2. Avoid telling your son that it is too short notice for him to stay at your house when he comes to visit.
3. When your son says "I can't believe you told me it was too short notice to stay at your house" do not give him the explanation that his hope of staying at your house is disrespectful.
4. Avoid telling your son that it would be more gracious to give two weeks notice before he comes to stay at your house.
5. If this is the first time you have seen your son in nine months, try not to say "fuck you" to him a bunch of times, and then "I love you," in the hope that this makes him talk to you again.
6. If the last time that you saw your son you happened to insult his friends, his girlfriend, his grandparents, and then called his mother "stupid," try not to leave a voice mail message for him three days later saying that you have lost all respect for him. If you do ALL of these things but still manage to see your son again, avoid saying that YOU forgive HIM for all the mistakes HE has made.
7. Come to his college graduation. All effort should be made to avoid "being on vacation in Budapest" during this time.
8. Come to his graduate school graduation. If you cannot make it, avoid calling his mother's cell-phone drunk at three in the morning to say that you aren't feeling well and will not be able to make it. If you must make this call, try to at least call your son on his own cell-phone at some time during that day to congratulate him, and if calling that day is impossible, perhaps sometime within the next week, or month, with an appropriate apology.
9. Give him a birthday present.
10. "I guess I'm sorry, in a way," is not an apology.

Raising a twenty-something-year-old son who doesn't live in the same city as you and who pretty much never asks for anything and also who has been working since he was sixteen while your girlfriend who you refuse to marry but who has never worked a day since she met you continues to sit in her little room reading Ethiopian ethnographic texts and watching BET all day can be tough. But YOU CAN DO IT, dads!

Friday, September 03, 2004

This Is What I Meant

Medal of Dishonor

Without a doubt, the most disturbing aspect of the RNC was the numerous comparisons made by ALL of the major speakers (Sen. John McCain, Gov. Arnold Schwarzenegger, Sen. Zell Miller, Rudolph Giuliani, Vice President Dick Cheney, President George W. Bush, even Laura fucking-what-the-fuck-look-me-in-the-eye-you-can't-and-also-my-creepily-pursed-smoker's-lips-scare-the-shit-out-of-you Bush mentioned it) between the current war in Iraq and World War II. Say what you will about the homos, or about how great being unemployed is, but seriously, the war in Iraq is so far removed from every honorable tenet that fueled our entry into World War II and from the very last shreds of dignity that overshadowed our conduct during and after (although comparisons to pre-World War II, during which America apathetically stood by until its own interests were put in seemingly immediate danger WOULD be an acceptable comparison to, say, Darfur's current situation), that this comparison is just flat-out offensive. And I'm okay with people who argue that the war in Iraq was justified. I mean, I don't agree with them, but I'm willing to hear/allow their opinion. But fucking-a. Someone has been playing way too much Medal of Honor. It was also pointed out to me by Herb that there was something eerily Third Reich about the California Governor's heavily-accented tirade in front of a wildly cheering crowd. I'm not saying that Schwarzenegger is Hitler, that's a comparison better made against Vietnam veteran and triple-amputee, Max Cleland, but I'm saying that he is definitely in with Nazis.

This is, incidentally, the FUCKING FUNNIEST post I've ever written. Ha ha ha.

Rap the Vote!
Bombe Éclate!

Thursday, September 02, 2004

Womerkmen

Read this sentence:

"Women are reconfiguring Madison Square Garden this morning so that President Bush can speak tonight from a theater in the round."
(taken from the New York Times)

No, wait, read it again:

"Workmen are reconfiguring Madison Square Garden this morning so that President Bush can speak tonight from a theater in the round."
(taken from the New York Times)

This has been just one hilarious, albeit boring, example of what it is like in my brain.

Hey, World Peace! You're Next, Bitch!

It's happened.

All of the world's greatest scientists, artists, medical doctors, writers, photographers, graphic designers, baseball player, and marketing experts have come together in a conjoined effort—that could be termed "SUPER BRAINS"— to develop (successfully!) what is easily, and obviously, the greatest pop-up ad ever.

You're going to wish you were fucking bald, just so you could click the shit out of this one!

And Then You're All Like, "Why Does My Son Hate Talking to Me and Also Hate Me So Much?"

Worker #3116: So, I'll be coming in Saturday.
Deadbeat Père #3116: Well, what time are you coming in?
Worker #3116: Well, what time is dinner?
Deadbeat Père #3116: You know, 8, 8:30.
Worker #3116: I was planning on getting in a little before dinner so I can change and stuff.
Deadbeat Père #3116: Where are you staying?
Worker #3116: Um...I...I was planning on staying with you. At least for Saturday night, since we're going to dinner, it just seems easier if I drop the car off and go with you and...
Deadbeat Père #3116: Oooh, it's kind of short notice.
Worker #3116: I...Okay, I mean, I guess I can stay with a friend, maybe.
Deadbeat Père #3116: Yeah, why don't you try and stay with your friend.
Worker #3116: Oh...okay.
Deadbeat Père #3116: So, I'll see you at dinner at 8:30.

Is it possible to disown one half of your genetic material?

Wednesday, September 01, 2004

Avril Lovinge

It's time I do a little soul searching, and really consider what this whole "love of Avril Lavigne" thing really means. Because after our most recent conversation, which I imagined would be a real conversation if we were in love, it just got me thinking about what's important in this life, and how what's important is probably not a waifish pop-punk construct who thinks that just because she has a brash and vocal opinion of what really happened in a romantic relationship, that that makes her role in said relationship totally unassailable.

Worker #3116: Honey...no...seriously...could you just not? You're honestly planning on wearing that necktie over a tank-top and jelly bracelets up to your elbow...Honestly...Because it's my grandparents' 60th wedding anniversary, THAT's why I don't think it's appropriate...You can express yourself tomorrow...I'm not being complicated...I don't know what makes you think you can just walk into a pawn shop and take a guitar down off the shelf and then go up onto the roof of our apartment building and play a really excoriating song about all of my idiosyncratic foibles in front of me and my friends, AND somehow have it play over the noise of a passing subway train, but honestly this is not the time...Because the reception starts in, like, ten minutes...No, you know what, so much for MY happy ending. Slut.

Whatever, Lavigne. You are so yesterday.