Wednesday, November 30, 2005

One Person CAN Make a Difference!

Eat Your Heart Out Brantley Foster aka Carlton Whitfield

There are many indicators of success. Some people find personal satisfaction in earning a certain salary, others enjoy holding a professional title, and still others seek fulfillment through the trappings of fame. Perhaps you are an expert in a field, or well-known among avid hobbyists who share your passion, or your home renovations were featured in the human interest section of the local paper.

AND MAYBE YOUR ON-LINE DIARY IS THE SECOND SITE TO APPEAR IN A GOOGLE SEARCH FOR "PARFUMS DE COEUR BOD," SECOND ONLY TO HTTP://WWW.PARFUMSDECOEUR.COM!

Futureme: "Didn't I Fire You"

You know in the movies when some evil businessman is trying to take over the old family store by slick-palming the founder's son and trying to convince him that he'd be better off using his family's wealth to enjoy some sun and sand, rather than mucking around with the old work mules? Meanwhile, when the heir-apparent is out of the room, the evil business man is wreaking cruelly worded havoc on all of the company's tried and true, the ones who were personally picked out by the founder himself? And then at the very end of the movie the evil businessman comes to the board meeting expecting to be handed the cash factory on a silver platter, but instead he sees some lowly secretary sitting in his chair, and he's like, "Didn't I fire you?" And then the founder's son, who is on speaker-phone, explains that he has used his family's wealth not to travel, but to repurchase the controlling shares in the company, and he has appointed the lowly previously fired secretary to the position of CEO?

I would like someday to be in the position of that evil businessman. Not the whole getting-replaced-in-a-surprise-coup-by-some-snot-nosed-trust-fund-baby-and-a-whore-of-a-secretary-that-everyone-knows-has-slept-with-half-of-the-finance-department-and-who-spends-all-her-time-making-personal-calls-and-reading-daily-candy thing, but because I want not only the power to fire people, but to abuse that power in such a way that I can never be sure whether or not I used it on you, and I am forced to ask.

Why Astrology Is Dumb

"Superficial stuff turns you off more than usual, and you want to see down to the core of everything and everyone around you. It's time for you to strip away the layers of illusion."
(astrology.yahoo.com)

No, it's time for you to strip away the layers of illusion.

Slower...slower....I want to see down to the core, but not all at once. TEASE ME.

The Berenstain Bears and the Blame Game

Stan Berenstain, Co-Creator of Those Fuzzy Bears, Dies at 82

"The Berenstain Bears hail from the mythical land of Bear Country and for more than a generation have helped children just shy of reading age glimpse the connection between stories and pictures, both of which the human Berenstains amply provided. As children matured, the books became wordier, although the couple, both trained as artists, hardly stinted on pictures of cuddly bears riding bicycles, stealing watermelons, having bad days and debating the existence of God."
...
"Papa Bear's bumbling incompetence, compared with Mama Bear's warm, wise effectiveness, has spawned particular ire."
(New York Times, emphasis added)

So...the bears can't afford a car...they love watermelon...they have bad days...and they're not really sure if they can justify the existence of a Superior Being in the face of so much misery? And the dad is an incompetent in overalls? And the mom is a wide, wise matron? And ain't nobody got no shoes?

This is not the pot calling the kettle black, this is the pot calling the recently deceased kettle out on his bizarre bearification of black stereotypes.

R.I.P. Mr. Berenstain. Enjoy all the celestial honey you can eat in the Bear Country in the sky.

Tuesday, November 29, 2005

Mr. President?

Clown Coffee and I have a fun game we like to play. We take snippets of my President's speeches and/or responses to questions from the White House press pool, and we try to formulate the question that he seems to be answering that was obviously never asked.

Here are a few examples:

[Question that was never asked: Mr. President, is it hard work?]

"It's hard work."
--President George W. Bush


[Question that was never asked: Mr. President, should the American people be worried that (Republican Arizona Senator Jon Kyl) is the kind of fellow who might do something that would make them ashamed?]

"You don't have to worry about him not telling the truth or doing something that would make you ashamed. He's not that kind of fellow"
--President George W. Bush


[Question that was never asked: Mr. President, how often do you think about Iraq? And I have a follow up.]

"I think about Iraq every day."
--President George W. Bush


[Follow-up question that was never asked: Every day?]

"Every single day."
--President George W. Bush


GAME ON!

ENTJ

I just took an on-line Meyers-Briggs personality test. I was hoping it would tell me what to do with my life, and in particular was hoping it would suggest either werewolf or vampire, as those seem like pretty good ways to meet people, feed, and cheat death. Anyway, the whole "trying to put my life in order" thing didn't really pan out because the results didn't give me even a hint as to what use I could possibly be put towards. But my results did attribute the following phrase to my "type."

TRADEMARK: -- "I'm really sorry you have to die."

So, you know, the thing fucking works.

Everyone Worth Doing Is Worth Overdoing

Longer Needles Needed for Fatter Buttocks
(Reuters)

I was going to just leave it at the headline. Look at the headline again.




I said look at it again, I will wait.




You really don't need any kind of embellishment. That pearl of journalistic prose says it all. But then I saw THIS!:

"Standard-sized needles failed to reach the buttock muscle in 23 out of 25 women whose rears were examined after what was supposed to be an intramuscular injection of a drug."

23 OUT OF 25? Women, you are getting so fat it makes me SICK!! And after all of the work I have been doing to make you uncomfortable in your own body, were you even listening?! Yes, the bigger the cushion the better the pushin, but I don't want to sit around and stare at my cushions all day. They're ugly! They're fat ugly blobs! Like your ugly butt that can't get its medicine! And don't tell me that there is more of you to love, either. If you lost that weight we talked about there would still be plenty. Believe me. More than enough. Still even a little bit too much but what am I going to do? Cut it out of you myself?

I did have a dream last night that I was on a date with a fat girl and dreameveryone was like, "Worker #3116, she's kind of fat," and dreamme was like, "I know, I didn't have my glasses on when I met her." And her fatness kept going in and out of focus in the dream because I still didn't have my glasses on and she would move in and out of my natural seeing range, and then there was this long moral quandary where dreamme was trying to figure out how to let her down easy because she was really nice, and then also how to justify sleeping with her just one time and then letting her down easy because she was really nice.

Then I woke up, strangely alone.

Your Baby Sucks

When you schedule a meeting for 11, I expect that meeting to begin at 11. Maybe 11:03. I will give you three minutes to gather the necessary people and begin the meeting. Do not have me come to the meeting and wait for ten minutes. Not just because I could be reading the internet, but also because what happens in those ten minutes is horrible. I don't want to sit in a windowless room with you while you drink Diet Coke and talk about babies you are going to have, babies you don't have, babies other people you know have, babies previous co-workers had, the cost of maintaining a baby in general, and cetra. This sucks for me, and it makes me hate you, and the thing that is inside you.

Uncool Runnings

I wake up relatively early, at least compared to the majority of my aimless alcoholic peers, but this morning when I went downstairs to make my morning meal I espied through the window two people not only up, but dressed (in a fashion). They were those kinds of people who run. YUCK. GO TO BED, CRAPS. If you are up that early, and outside, you should either be homeless or working as a donut delivery driver. God, I fucking hate running. And I hate people who run. Stop. Do you know why running was invented? To get away from wild beasts. And you know what else I hate? When people complain about running in a designated run-zone, like on a track at the gym or on an elliptical trainer. They always say that they hate organized (i.e. civilized) running because "it is boring." I'm not arguing that an elliptical trainer should be renamed the runland funmachine, but what is so fascinating about running outside, in your own neighborhood? In the dark? And the cold? Unless you are somehow magically transported to the land of your favorite tv shows where you get to take part in the action, this looks so boring. And dark. And cold.

Then I got downstairs and found that one of my William Sonoma mixing bowls had been shattered in the night. Not only had it been shattered, but the big shattered piece still lay on the ground, while the rest of the bowl sat nestled inside of another bowl on the counter. These are heavy-duty plastic, so after the anger subsided came the fascination. I just don't even know how you would go about breaking this bowl without some effort. Anyhow, I came in and told Clown Coffee about this bowl incident, and just like the chicken incident, he had to play roommate-horror-story one-up-manship. And, just like last time, he easily defeated my bowl story with the story of his friend who lived with three chicas who loved to party, only to come home one day and find that they were BURNING HER FURNITURE IN THE FIREPLACE.

2 points: Clown Coffee
0 points: Worker #3116
-1 points: My William Sonoma Mixing Bowl

Monday, November 28, 2005

Voke It Yo?

Setting aside the fact that it seems just a wee bit too 1996 to write a "legalize marijuana" club banger, can someone please teach Sean Paul English now that he is in America. I know that it can be overwhelming to live in a country where there are no cats and the streets are paved with cheese, but seriously, THIS IS JUST THE OPENING CHORUS:

Just gimme the gees an we be clubbin yow.
Gal a make wi please and we be thuggin' now.
sippin hennesy an we'll be bubblin yow.
Set we mind at ease we got to take it slow.
(sing365.com)

Just gimme di dees an we be clubbin yo (clubbin yo)
It a mek we please an we be tuggin yo(tuggin yo)
sippin in deh sea an we bubblin yo (bubblin yo)
Set ya mind at ease we gotta take it slow
(anysonglyrics.com)

Just gimme di trees and mek we smoke it yo (Smoke it yo!)
It a mek we peace so dont provoke it yo (Voke it yo!)
We nuh need nuh speed so we nah nuh coke it yo (Coke it yo!)
Set yuh mind at ease we gotta take it slow
(absolutelyrics.com)

HEARMENOW: NO ONE CAN UNDERSTAND YOU, SEAN PAUL. BOMBE ECLATE.

On a kinder note: I do like the video for this song with all those trucks in the desert. It makes me laugh. They had a meeting and Sean Paul was all like, "mek we need a yo in deh sea?" and someone else was like, "Sean Paul is right! This song address a basic human need. The need to soup up some semis with explosions of fire and the gayest neon lights, drive them out into the desert, and dance! And we need a video that's going to really evoke that." And Sean Paul was all, "Des it goan be!"

Hitlerious

Clown Coffee and I just went on our coffee run and passed a guy wearing a Hard Rock Café Las Vegas hockey jersey-cum-sweatshirt. We were talking about how ugly he was, and about how last week he had brought his ugly kid into the office in his ugly light-up sneakers, and then:

"I've said it before and I'll say it again, just because the Nazis did it doesn't mean it's tainted and can't be done again."

I Am Thankful for Fuck This Family

Also: I liked the part at Thanksgiving where someone said that after dinner we should go around the table and everyone should say what they are thankful for and Step-Grandpa #3116 said "No!" and grimaced. Then, right before dessert, he came up with some story about how he had to go home and take care of a dog. He just kept repeating the same thing over and over, "It's over there, barking, and it's breaking my heart."

Old people lies are the best because there are only so many left.

In Heaven, No One Can Hear You Scream

The tag-line on salon.com's lead article today is great:

While I Battled Cancer, I Also Had to Deal with My Teenage Son's Embrace of Hip-Hop Culture

It's great because it's like, "How much can one person take?! Cancer AND rap?! God tizakes with one hand and clizoses a window with another fo' real."

But then, once you read further, you find:

"As part of the instructions on helping kids cope with [the hair loss] side effect of chemo, they suggest making it fun, having your kids draw funny faces on your bald head."

Which is not great because I was not told that the word "fun" was synonymous with "terrifying."

Let's Talk Turkey

Best Story of Monster Thanksgiving Rally, 2005:

Pépé #3116 told a story about how in the war, the army would hold movie night for the troops. They showed the movie Best Foot Forward twice a night, on three separate occasions. After seeing the movie six times, Pépé #3116 told us, he had fallen in love with its star, June Allison. Here, Mémé #3116 interjected that Pépé #3116 later got to meet June Allison. It was true, Pépé #3116 said, he saw her on a plane a few years ago, and he approached her and told her that he had fallen in love with her in the army. As he tells it, she was very nice, and she thanked him. Then Mom #3116 asked how Pépé #3116 recognized her, now that she must be in her 80s. "Oh," he said, "she still looked just like June Allison...and, you know, she was in that Depends commercial."

Best Response to the Best Story of Monster Thanksgiving Rally, 2005:

Mémé #3116: I saw her in that Depends commercial and I said, "What did you ever see in her?"

Best Overheard Rap Lyric of Monster Thanksgiving Rally, 2005:

"Her pussy tight like an airplane bathroom" --Tony Yayo

Worst Overheard Rap Lyric of Monster Thanksgiving Rally, 2005:

"Her pussy tight like an airplane bathroom" --Tony Yayo

Best Monster Truck Rally of Monster Thanksgiving Rally, 2005:


THE ONE I WENT TO, BITCHES!

Thursday, November 24, 2005

A Special Edition of Corporate Casual:

Wednesday, November 23, 2005

From the Vault: "Candy Shop"

Earlier this year, Worker #3116 attempted to secure work writing a hip-hop cassingle review column for a MAJOR PUBLICATION. Earlier this year, Worker #3116 failed at what he attempted. Here is one of his sample reviews.

50 Cent (feat. Olivia) – "Candy Shop"

Do you remember that scene in Willie Wonka and the Chocolate Factory when the fat kid falls in the chocolate river? That part is SOOOO funny. Fat people cannot control their ever-insistent need to EAT EVERYTHING THEY SEE. I bet that fat kid would have drank the whole chocolate river by himself if he hadn’t got sucked into a pneumatic tube. But that’s not the part I want to talk about. I want to talk about the part at the beginning when Charlie is really poor and walking home to his hovel, and passes by the candy shop where all the normal kids (who don’t have a fetid bed full of invalids in the middle of the kitchen) are indulging their desires for candy. In this scene the owner of the candy shop goes into a nearly psychotic state, raging around the room, throwing fucking candy everywhere and you’re like "wait, that’s the adult in this situation?" Michael Jackson at least had the decency to pour his wine into a Diet Coke can when he was around children. This candy guy would surely have no qualms about tucking his box of Franzia right under his arm and going all beer bong style with his cheeks stuffed full of gum drops and candy canes. Well, apparently this is 50 Cent’s favorite scene in any movie ever!

See, even when you get a million dollars and your own line of Reebok shoes, your success is still measured in how many delicious treats you can stuff into your face. Now, those treats may be vaginas instead of everlasting gobstoppers, but even when this is the case, the only way to express your ability to overindulge in these "sweets" is by literally translating them into delicious candies. At least, this is what one must conclude from 50 Cent’s "Candy Shop." When he says, "I’ll let you lick the lollypop," I mean, I get it, but I also don’t. Just take a moment and imagine yourself in an intimate situation. You clear the empty beer cans, wadded tissues, and gentlemen’s magazines from the other side of the bed, your friend lays down, the lights are low, and you whisper "I’ll let you lick the lollypop." I promise, within fifteen seconds you can put all that shit right back where it was, feel grateful you didn’t waste time changing the sheets, and dim the lights all the way to off because what you’re about to do to yourself is between you and God.

But that’s where you and 50 Cent differ. 50 could rap the phone book and make it sound good. He’s the Avril Lavigne of rap. Let me explain: you may think that wearing a man’s necktie over a white tank top, and having jelly bracelets that come up to your elbows is about as punk as the time your mom was singing along to Cyndi Lauper at your cousin’s Bat Mitzvah, all drunk and embarrassingly touchy with your step-dad out on the dancefloor shouting "girls just wanna have FUUUUUUUNNNNN, Dave!" But personal style and ability to speak in teenage-angsty Our Bodies Our Selves platitudes aside, what Avril does is create absolutely irresistible pop songs, just like 50 Cent creates absolutely irresistible pop raps. The more you try to dislike either of them, the more likely you are to find yourself up in the middle of the night, illegally downloading one of their songs just so you can get the goddamn thing out of your mind and get to fucking sleep. 50’s new 4.1 million dollar house in Farmington, Connecticut is almost as thug as Avril buying that totally rebel-style studded belt at Hot Topic was punk. But if you’re looking for a song to make your ipod go all wet in its ports, you can’t do much better.

At one point in "Candy Shop," 50 rhymes "I touch the right spot at the right time." First, you’re like, Wait, there’s more than one? But then you realize that at least as far as his music is concerned, it’s true. If you’re having an Elliot Smith day, then go write another email to your mom and brew some Constant Comment tea, but if you want to have a Planned Parenthood type scare with a real woman, there is only one CD you need playing in the background. "You can have it your way, how do you want it?"

B

From the Vault: "Signs"

Earlier this year, Worker #3116 attempted to secure work writing a hip-hop cassingle review column for a MAJOR PUBLICATION. Earlier this year, Worker #3116 failed at what he attempted. Here is one of his sample reviews.

Snoop Dogg (feat. Charlie Wilson, Justin Timberlake) – "Signs"

When I see the man-child Pharell on TV I get nervous. I believe that if he really wanted to, he could go all The Ring style on me, coming through the television screen to steal my girlfriend. I’d be all, "But look at him, he’s all pixelated and moving in weird jump-cuts," and my girlfriend would be like, "PEACE!" Justin Timberlake is a similar situation. I’ve heard that he’s kind of a dork in real life, and you can totally imagine him—if he didn’t have the multi-platinum recording career—growing up to be a high school Jazz Band teacher with one of those piano-key scarves wrapped around his neck even in the summertime. Pizzazz! But he’s not a Jazz Band teacher, he’s a teen pop idol grown into a teen R&B idol and, unlike Usher, he doesn’t even seem gay. Granted, he almost cried when he was on PUNK’D, but it was one of the only serious PUNK’S ever perpetrated. After that episode they just figured that what they did to Justin was enough to carry them through the next six seasons, so they were like "Somebody dress up like a cop and pull Brandy over. That will be funny. People still remember who Brandy is, right?" No, Justin’s solid, and you should think about popping the question to your significant other before the Justified II: Justification Day tour bus pulls into town. Any poon that’s not locked down will be up for grabs.

Snoop on the other hand, I’m not so worried about. I’m not saying that the ladies don’t love Snoop, but I saw this tour video of him once where he carried around an Atlas jar full of pot and smoked all of it. And that was the opening title sequence. His eyelids never quite raised past half-mast. You remember that time you got super high and spent the whole night planning schematics for a time machine that could also be used as a sports car that turned invisible, and the next morning you looked at the piece of paper you were working it out on and the whole thing was covered in Green Day lyrics? That, in comparison to Snoop’s ramblings in the video I saw, made you a highly-functional pot user. I’m sure Snoop is up to his cornrows in pussy, it’s just, I don’t think we’re after the same type of woman. The girls I’m into tend to "complain" and to "think they are better than me." They say stuff like, "You never listen to me," or "I’m breaking up with you because you never listen to me." I’d like to see them try and pull that kind of shit with Snoop.

Skylar: Snoop, I left my boyfriend for you, but you’re just as bad as he is. No, worse. At least he pretended to listen.
Snoop: Raise up off these N-U-T's, cause you gets none of these.
Skylar: See! How are we supposed to communicate?
Snoop: I don't love you ho's, I'm out the do'.

She’d come crawling back, just like every other girlfriend I’ve ever had who had the poor judgment to leave me for a Crip. That is, unless she heard Snoop’s new single, "Signs." It’s the girlfriend-thieving trifecta, with Pharell on the beats, JT on the chorus, and Snoop on the fat rhymes. (I know I’ve spent the entirety of this column arguing that Snoop wouldn’t be able to steal my girlfriend away from me, but who’s ever heard of a bifecta? Even if there was such a thing as a bifecta, it sounds disgusting, like some kind of bacterial infection you get at the corners of your mouth. Besides, it’s his song, and it is awesome.)

That’s why the next time you see me, when you’re three appletinis deep, I’m going to be like, Hey, I really want to share something with you. I’ll take you into the plush interior of my teal ’94 Corolla and play "Signs" for you and be like, I wrote this. For YOU! You’ll be tipsy but not stupid. "This sounds just like Snoop," you’ll say, "and that angelic voice on the chorus is a dead ringer for the handsome Justin Timberlake." I get that all the time, I’ll say, but it’s me. And that’s my roommate, McCullen, on the chorus, but I’ll tell him what you said, he’s going to be totally psyched! You still won’t believe me, but are you really going to be able to do any better? In this town?

A+

TV, Bloody TV

When a tampon commercial came on last night McCullen remarked that he'd been seeing an inordinate number of tampon and birth-control advertising on television. He was surprised that so many new feminine products were being developed, and that they were making up such a large proportion of the total advertising on TV, what with all the other things to promote, like booze, cars, and Harry Potter.

I reminded him, as gently as I could, that when all one watches is America's Next Top Model and the Style Network, one's view of the world tends to be rose-tinted.

Get it? Menstruation?

Also TV: this morning I saw the new Kanye West video for "Heard 'Em Say." WAKE UP, MR. WEST! This was seriously the worst music video I've ever seen*. It was worse than the Black Eyed Peas video for! Basically, it has two parts to it:

1. Smudgy black and white charcoal animation of Kanye West driving some kind of magic Who Framed Roger Rabbit? taxi-cab with his mom and a younger version of himself in the backseat in a wacky adventure.

2. Grainy black and white live-action footage of him and Maroon 5's Adam Levine standing uncomfortably close together and singing while gazing deeply into each other's eyes. I kept thinking "Kiss! Kiss!" but that kept getting drowned out by thoughts of "Adam Levine, you suck! Suck so bad!"

BUT: the animation was done by Bill Plympton. I remember being really into the animation of Bill Plympton IN SIXTH GRADE. Kanye should have dressed in some sweet stone-washed denims with leather patches and the cuffs pegged, and a big Cross Colors leather jacket and called it a day. Seriously: no offense to Bill Plympton, but his time passed around 1993. Seeing this video also brought up the whole "Why are they making an Aeon Flux movie? Apparently 2005 is the Liquid Television re-revolution (do you remember that early episodes of LT were hosted by Alex Winter?! Righteous!.) When is the feature-length "Dog Boy" movie coming out?

Anyway: way to fuck it up, Kanye. Even white people don't like this video.

*When I say that this is the worst video I've ever seen I'm framing it in the context of "videos that could be good". It's not like I'm putting this up against some Coach Carter soundtrack video where they rap in an alley while scenes from the film are projected against an SUV or something. Think more along the lines of "what the f was Pavement thinking with that 'Rattled by the Rush' video that was just a static shot of a bathtub with concert footage of them playing in one of the bathroom tiles?" bad.

Tuesday, November 22, 2005

O' to Be Turkey for a Day

WASHINGTON (AP) -- President Bush has pardoned two Thanksgiving turkeys, and they are headed for Disneyland.

Marshmallow and its backup, Yam, are being shipped to Disneyland in California, where Marshmallow will serve as grand marshall of the annual holiday parade.

The 35-pound Marshmallow was raised on a farm in Henning, Minn. Bush says the bird's probably going to feel pretty good "strutting around sunny California."
(New York Times)



You can see the boy-what-I-wouldn't-give-to-spend-one-day-in-the-life-of-a-turkey look in his eyes! In his head my President is all, "Just sittin' around sunny California all day, eatin'...whatever turkeys eat...now that's what I call good livin'! Goddamn I wish I was a danged turkey."

And while we're at it: GRAND MARSHALL???? I was always under the impression that the grand marshall of a parade was a position of honor, but apparently it is a position of dinner.

http://www.myspace.com Has Ruined the Future of America...More!

I remember complaining to Spaceham about a year ago that I could never be President now that I've written this diary. One too many carrot-rape jokes and nobody cares how BIG your proposed tax-cut is. He argued that while there were plenty of reasons why I could never be President—including but not limited to stupidity, ugliness, and an understanding of modern political science that ends at The West Wing, season three, disc two—he did not think that the diary was a big one, the reason being that I had done a relatively good job of keeping it anonymous, without any overt indications of who, what, where is Worker #3116. Still, I always figured that some intrepid, LIBERAL mud-slinger who wanted to defame my REPUBLICAN NOMINATION to the nation's HIGHEST OFFICE could do some kind of ip address tracking to figure out who I was, and then it would be splashed all over the JEW YORK TIMES and I'd lose the backing of Haliburton. Oh, sure, behind closed doors they'd still voice their support for my PRO-BUSINESS, ANTI-BLACK platform but not in public. In public my political ass would be political grass.

All of this to say that I have now been contacted by someone on http://www.myspace.com who does not know me but does know my diary. So, apparently you do not need any kind of spyware or hacker knowledge to figure out who Worker #3116 is. You just need too much time on your hands and a profile at a poorly designed "e-networking" website.

There goes "Worker #3116 for President, 2024," down the iDrain. Now I'll never get to make my "PUTTING THE #3116 BACK IN DEMO3116CRACY" bumper-stickers.

Killin' and Chillin'

The hall outside of the neighborbots' apartment was smelling pretty bad on Sunday, but I figured maybe they just had a big trash party this weekend or something, where all their friends come over and rip open juicy trash bags everywhere and piss on the contents. It smelled like diapers. Do they have a child? What are they feeding it? Newspaper circulars? Whatever. Fuck them.

But then yesterday when I came home the front hallway had the same diaper smell. So I don't think it is the neighbors. I think that a diaper crawled into our heating system and died. Also: the back hallway had switched from diaper smell to soaking wet cat urine smell. I have no theories on this. The cat seems to consume a fair amount of orange juice and frozen pizza, though, if the neighbors' recycling is any indication.

It sucks when your house smells bad and you can't do anything about it. Your house is raping your nose is what it is, like that one scene in Jack Frost* when the killer snowman takes his carrot nose off of his face and uses it as a dick to rape that woman to death in the shower. But with smell.

*Not to be confused with Jack Frost, starring Michael Keaton, although this, too, involves a hilarious carrot-rape scene when the father-turned-snowman accidentally thinks his son is his wife in a wacky late-night mix-up.

Children in Motorized Vehicles Playing Rhyming Music with Much Bass Sound, Showing Their Friends a Special Hand Sign That Means "Hello Friend!"

CAMDEN, N.J., Nov. 21 - For the second year in a row, Camden has been ranked the most dangerous city in America, but this year Camden's leaders refused to take the news without hitting back.

On Monday, the day the rankings were announced, Camden's leaders held a rally, with ringing gospel songs, dances and speeches that criticized the crime rankings as meaningless and insulting. About 100 people turned out.

Then, to make their point, city leaders organized a trolley ride for journalists to see new construction sites and other signs of progress. But all along the way, block after run-down block, boys in puffy jackets lingered in doorways of abandoned homes, glaring at the trolley or looking out from under their hooded sweatshirts at smokestacks in the distance that appeared to be rising from the weeds.
(New York Times)

Boys in puffy jackets looking out from their hooded sweatshirts? Ha ha. Come on, New York Times, just say niggers. You know you want to.

Harry Potter and the Sorcerers Bone

A few nights ago, McCullen had a dream that took place at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. When he told Weather Report about it over the phone, she immediately gasped and in a breathy voice said, "I would never wake up!"

McCullen: But it wasn't as good of a Hogwarts dream as it could have been. Even Weather Report said that it wasn't that good. So, I guess there are better Hogwarts dreams out there?
Worker #3116: Yo, this one girl I know had the bomb-ass Hogwarts dream!
McCullen: In chat rooms and stuff...
Worker #3116: What would it be? Some crazy magic-sex dream?
McCullen: Yeah. Fucking Hermione on a broomstick while circling the Quidditch Pitch.
Worker #3116: Accio condoms!
McCullen: Or Ron. Yeah...eating Bernie Bott's Every-Flavored Beans out of his navel...in front of the fireplace in the Gryffindor Commons. Hot.
Worker #3116: ...

[McCullen points an imaginary wand at an imaginary Ron Weasley penis.]

McCullen: Engorgo!
Worker #3116: You are so gay. Any pretense of questioning your orientation is officially over.
McCullen: I think that's a real spell. ENGORGO!

Monday, November 21, 2005

Commitment Ceremonieds: Usher & Omarion: Season One

[In the morning, Usher is perplexed and not a little displeased to find the seat has been adjusted in his Mercedes Benz. Later, when he returns home from the recording studio, he confronts Omarion.]

Usher: Did you borrow my car?
Omarion: What?
Usher: The Benz, did you borrow it?
Omarion: I can't hear you sweetie, I'm in the kitchen.
Usher: Sweetie nothin', did you borrow the fucking Benz?
Omarion: I hate when you yell like that.
Usher: I'll give you something to hate. What's wrong with your car, that little Lexus I got you for our anniversary?
Omarion: Usher, honey, I didn't borrow your Benz.
Usher: That sandwich better be for me.
Omarion: Of course it is.
Usher: Alright.
Omarion: What crawled up your butt this morning?
Usher: You mean besides you?
Omarion: Ush! The cameras!
Usher: I don't care. Come here, give me some sugar.
Omarion: I'm so caught up.
Usher: Let me hear you say "O."

[Next week, Usher finds out it was his manager who borrowed the Benz when Usher was laying down a track and complaining that if he didn't get a venti gingerbread frappaccino in, like, three seconds he was going to rip the assistant PA's head off and cum down his throat.]

Newlyweds: Jake & Kiersten: Season One

[Jake and Kiersten sit at an outdoor table at a cafe on New York's lower east-side.]

Jake: What? Oh, I'm sorry, I thought you said something.
Kiersten: No.
Jake: ...
Kiersten: ...
Jake: ...
Kiersten: ...
Jake: ...
Kiersten: ...
Jake: ...
Kiersten: ...
Jake: ...
Kiersten: Huh?
Jake: No. I didn't say anything.
Kiersten: Oh. Okay.
Jake: ...
Kiersten: ...
Jake: ...
Kiersten: ...

[Next week, Jake and Kiersten sit at an outside table at a cafe on New York's lower-east side.]

Newlyweds: Brad & Angelina: Season One

[A typical morning in the Brangelina household.]

Angelina: What do you mean we're out of Kiehl's Natural Shine?
Brad: I mean we used it all.
Angelina: You mean you used it all.
Brad: Look at this!
Angelina: What? What am I looking at?
Brad: This hair? This shine? You think this shit is natural? I work on this. This is my passion. And architecture. My passion is my hair and my architecture.
Angelina: That is so powerful. Brad, honey, have you seen those adoption papers?
Brad: ...
Angelina: Brad?
Brad: ...
Angelina: BRAD! What did you do with the adoption papers?
Brad: I might have used them.
Angelina: Please tell me you used them to adopt our Uruguayan princess.
Brad: Sure, if by "to adopot our Uruguayan princess" you mean "to roll a massive blunt." Where are you going?
Angelina: To my mother's. This is the last straw.
Brad: Baby, look at this shine!
Angelina: ...
Brad: Baby, this shine is for you.
Angelina: Tell me I'm thinner than Jen, and that this means I get to adopt that entire orphanage in Ulan Bator that we visited and I will stay.
Brad: Baby, we can adopt whatever you want.
Angelina: And?
Brad: Baby, Jen is like...crazy-sick thin. That's why I left.
Angelina: Fuck this. I'mma cut you with one of my knives from my knives collection.
Brad: Cool. I love make-up sex.

[Next week: the third world runs out of children to the voracious growth of the Jolie family empire.]

Newlyweds: Tom & Katie: Season One

[Tom and Katie have just returned from an invigorating "Afterlife of the Body, Afterlife of the Mind" seminar and are sharing a healthful brunch.]

Tom: I'm getting a sense of some thetans in this quiche.
Katie: You're the most amazing man I've ever met.
Tom: When the great lord Xenu tastes this quiche it's going to be volcano time, and I don't mean the good kind of volcano time.
Katie: You've changed my life.
Tom: Maybe we should go down to the Scientology Center and have them audit this quiche for dangerous biofeedback.
Katie: I want to have your baby.
Tom: Please, Kate, please. I'm trying to recalibrate my truth levels to get them in line with my reality quotient.
Katie: When I'm with you, I feel like we're the only two people on Earth.
Tom: What time is Lost on? I don't want to miss Lost. I see in it many reflective exhibitions of past thetan behavior.
Katie: It is on at 9.
Tom: There is seriously something strange about this quiche, as if it is trying to tell us something.
Katie: The puff-pastry crust is not fully cooked.
Tom: ...
Katie: ...
Tom: ...
Katie: You're the most amazing man I have ever met.

[Later, after Lost, Tom and Katie perform the ancient ritual of anal-mind-meld in which the woman dresses up like a man, the man dresses up like a man, and they create "the one" using only their bodies and the man's latent homosexuality.]

Newlyweds: ? & ?: Season One

The popular MTV program, Newlyweds is actually called Newlyweds: Nick & Jessica, for the obvious reason that you could switch out the names and branch off into separate franchises with different newly married celebrities. Now that Nick & Jessica have decided to pursue their divergent interests as divorceds, who do you think MTV should select for the next generation?

Tom and Katie?
Brad and Angelina?
Jake and Kiersten?
Usher and Omarion?

I know that none of these guys is married yet, but I'm sure they'd be amenable to the idea if they knew they'd get a whole show out of it. Although for that last one I guess you'd have to change the name to Commitment Ceremonieds: Usher & Omarion.

Previews

I've always liked movie previews, sometimes as much as movies themselves, and so I like the movie previews section on apple.com where I can watch all the latest previews. This weekend I watched two new previews, one for The Break-Up, a romantic comedy starring Jennifer Aniston and Vince Vaughan, and another called Hostel, a Saw-like horror movie that, supposedly, is based on a true story. Let's do this:

The Break-Up: This looks like a modern update on the War of the Roses, where a now dissolved couple, Aniston and Vaughan, exact brutal revenges on each other for whatever perceieved cruelties they suffered in the relationship. Aniston is certain to play a waitress, as she does in every film, delightfully living out what her life would have been like had her wealthy upbringing not landed her some acting roles. Seriously, she is such a good waitress in these films of hers, I would totally be happy to be waited on by her. "Sure, I would love a warm-up, thank you." Anyway, here's the problem: the traditional Hollywoodian romantic narrative demands that a couple overcome numerous obstacles that keep them apart before, at the climactic culmination of the film's dramatic efforts, they can be reunited. And I would say that Hollywood has kept in ever-stricter line with that arc. So, you know, they fight or whatever, but they're going to get back together. How about a film called The Break-Up where there's, like, somebody crying on a bathroom floor, and then a lot of obsessive late-night phone calls, followed by one person getting married and the other writing painfully violent scenarios involving the ex in their journal? Starring America's old-ass sweethearts Tom Hanks and Meg Ryan. Now that's funny!

The Hostel: This movie is about some weird Nine Inch Nails abandoned warehouse where you can dress up in leather gimp outfits and torture people for, like, a hundred bucks. In the preview it says that it is based on a true story, but I don't know. What does that even mean? They could have some side-narrative about a guy who's estranged from his daughter but still writes her letters every day and then throw in a bunch of stuff about a weird sadistic torture factory and say that it's based on a true story, right? But what I want to know is at what point did it become mandatory that every horror movie feature someone tied to a straight-backed metal chair in a dank green-tinted room with no plumbing or electricity, getting a toe or finger cut off with bolt cutters? Is this the culmination of all that is scary? For sure it is the culmination of all that is gross. Also: this movie was produced by Quentin Tarantino, so it's going to have a horrific surf-rock and lost 70s funk b-sides soundtrack. And Samuel L. Jackson. As a terrorpimp.

Between These Hazel Thighs

Probably better off just skipping this, but I'm going to go over some weekend stuff and get it out of the system while we're just standing here at the e-water cooler and then we can get back to regular business.

Friday: Went to this party in what was basically a walk-in closet full of unwashed clothes and a noise band. After the noise band there was this guy who was actually kind of interesting, musically, in that he had these sampling pedals and would lay down a vocal beat, loop it, and then another, looped, and then "sing" over it. The problem, of course, was that the guy was in his early 30s, called himself YumYum, and was wearing a cream colored tuxedo and a ruffled tuxedo shirt and acting like a FUCKING RETARD. Literally. He also kept covering himself up in this piss-stained sheet and calling that "the back-stage" but it was just the same idiot, crouching in a tiny, tiny living room, while a bunch of people stood around, drunk, going "this guy is out there!" Fuck that. Do you want to know what I hate worse than poor people? Artists. You want to know what else sucked? I saw a girl that I was like "she's kind of cute," and she had fucking braces. So a) I'm a pedophile now, and b) If I don't get out of here soon I'm going to kill myself to cure the beasties in my brain. After all of this "art" they put the microphone up to the speaker of an ABC Warehouse boombox and played dance cassettes. This was good enough but eventually it's just time to go home, and no amount of M.I.A./Ramones mash-ups are going to change that. The one small victory of the night: pissing on this house. Twice.

Saturday: I don't know. We went to the bar? There was this huge black guy wearing a shirt that said "Our Johnson. Your Busch." And then some sexual innuendo. He was headbanging very hard to "Give It Away" by the RED HOT CHILI PEPPERS. Actually, I think Stevil said it best when he said "I can't look anywhere without it seeming like I'm staring at someone, so I'm just going to look at the wall." My mouth was like this "O" the whole time. They should rename that bar "Human Garbage Bar."

Sunday: Sunday.

Friday, November 18, 2005

I Have an Announcement to Make: I'm a Fucking Asshole, and I Had a Big Lunch

It's gross enough having to go to the bathroom at work, with all of these jerks' little quirks and toilet-personalities, like the guy who goes to the bathroom fifteen times a day and TALKS TO HIMSELF, or the mystery pooper who clogs up the toilet every afternoon with his special surprises. All of that EFFECTS me as a PERSON and makes me SAD about my LIFE.

But to the guy carrying a magazine down the hall and into the bathroom as if to say ATTENTION WORK: I AM ABOUT TO TAKE A SHIT BUT IT'S NOT GOING TO BE THAT EASY, you, sir, are the worst.

Rape News

Clown Coffee keeps saying that he's going to rape me at three o'clock. With a broomstick. Or a cardboard Christmas tree.

(Rape Update: For those of you who have been violated by a same-sex co-worker with a holiday decoration in what you had once thought was the safety of your cubicle, we are meeting in the Hot Caff to let our voices be heard at the Take Back the Afternoon rally. Please attend. Do not let the fear win, that is just what the fear wants. We will be meeting up at 3:05, just after we get raped.)

BCC: corporate-casual.blogspot.com

Reposted from e-mail received November 18, 2005

From: wilford.brimley@worker3116scompany.com*
To: all.marketing@worker3116scompany.com
Sent: Fri. Nov. 18, 12:41 PM
Subject: Food


There is a smashed chocolate turkey on the counter behind the Conference Room.




*I couldn't remember Wilford Brimley's name, so I googled "diabetes commercials, famous actor." Results: found this. HALLE BERRY? She better make sure to get her blood sugar checked, and checked regularly.

The Mood

I've got a hot date tonight, but I'm thinking it might be a nice change-of-pace to make it a Blockbuster Night. So, my question is: can anyone reccomend a fun, light-hearted romantic comedy about abortion? BESIDES Vera Drake?

1. She Was a Hoor
2. She Raped Me

BRITTANY Murphy has been dropped by her manager, Joanne Collonna, and her agents at ICM. Rumors abounded yesterday, but radar.com cited a nasty, not-so-blind item in Ted Casablancas' column on E!online, which claimed a "smacked out" actress named "Jordache Junky" (Murphy has recently starred in the Jordache jeans commercials) had sex with a waiter at an industry bar mitzvah. A rep for Murphy, who has been helping her mother deal with cancer, said, "Brittany is making a transition in her representation and has parted ways amicably with Brillstein-Grey and ICM. Not the other way around. The blind item on E!online is not Brittany."
(New York Post)

I always hated Brittany Murphy, but the hating only gets easier. If you are at a celebration for the coming-of-age of a 13-year-old and you just seriously need to get some fuck, why not go for the new "man" in the room? If you're a hoor like Ms. Murphy you can probably even talk him into slipping you the $180 Aunt Phyllis gave him, and call you a cab on his brand new Razr (thanks Uncle Al). But a waiter? Why don't you just get "garbage" tattooed on your big, Pro-Active-Ad-in-the-Making forehead.

Why You Say That

So, I'm at the gym yesterday, and I go into the locker room, and following right behind me is this big bruiser in a bandana and a sleeveless shirt, the better to show off his tribal tattoos. Just as we are entering the locker room another guy is leaving, and the bruiser says hello to him. Then this happens:

Bruiser: I've always got to give him a hard time because he's a Steelers fan. But have you heard "The Channukah Song"?
Worker #3116: ...Yeah...
Bruiser: Yeah, that's a great song.

WHAT? I've thought about this for hours and I cannot see where he made the transition, or how saying "hello" to someone is giving them a hard time for their sports allegiances. I guess this is a little better than the middle-aged man who sits in the locker room and talks at length to anyone within his eye-line, even when, or especially if, they are ignoring him. He's got a son living in California, his wife likes to wear sweaters when it's cold out, and don't think that you just like orange juice for the taste, you also like it for the water it has in it when you're dehydrated.

Then I come in to work this morning and there is a bagel bash for Santana and Aerobicize's birthdays. Now, being a member of the tribe of Abraham or whoever, I LOVE bagels. But not when I have to sit there and listen to:

Aerobicize: It was 18 degrees this morning. [very long pause] But when I pulled into the parking lot at work it was 23 degrees.

Followed by a description of her favorite HGTV shows. I listened while watching Married spread cream-cheese on the OUTSIDE of her bagel. Who does this? I guess boring, mediocre, married WASPS. She'd probably just never seen a bagel before, but when that happens you're supposed to watch how the strange cultural foreigners do and do that.

Thursday, November 17, 2005

Ba Na Na Na... Hey! Ba Na Na

I always found those "Where Are They Now?" shows kind of sad. First you see some glorious spandex-laden homosexual metal-head, on top of the world playing to sold out stadiums in Czechoslovakia, fake vomiting on his audience and carving his name into his perversely adolescent looking chest, and the next thing you know he's taken on work as a high school math teacher, wearing a shapeless button-down plaid shirt tucked into his chinos and cinched up with a woven leather belt and talking about how much better he feels physically since he started a macrobiotic diet with his skeletal looking, physical therapist, redheaded wife.

But I always liked the segments that would showcase, say, a glam-rock icon in his heyday, and then ask the obvious question of where was he now, only to come up with the answer: Pursuing a life of sexual tourism in Southeast Asia.

And I'm all like, I can't believe it worked!

Stock Up Now on Tamifloverdue

I saw a banner ad on cnn.com this morning for a Citibank credit card that said "Have You Been Inoculated for Overduenza?" The word "overduenza" appears menacingly out of all these amorphous black dots, you know, like how plagues appear menacingly out of amorphous black dots. Then a pronunciation key appears under "overduenza," and it is defined as a "Virus brought on by missing credit card due dates."

I know that Citibank is just doing their best to capture the eye in a world over-bombarded by flashy advertising, but I really think they're going to regret this ad when the Asian Bird Overduenza Pandemic of 2005 strikes and 50 million Americans die from overdrafts and staggering late fees!

Who's laughing now, Citibank? Besides Jesus and Tab Cuddyre?

If You Like Balance Bars, You'll Love Detour

I got these new protein bars that say on the package that they contain "designer whey protein" and at first I was like, "sweet, I've got the protein bar equivalent of IAmJamieSabuda's sweet-grass indigo-dye-suffused Japanese denim." I was like "y'all can keep your Designer Imposters protein bars, I've got the real thing." But I quickly realized that eating these was a lot like eating the IAmJamieSabuda sweet-grass indigo-dye-suffused Japanese denim and washing it all down with a hearty slug of Parfums De Coeur. I'm saying they taste like shit, washed down with a hearty slug of Parfums De Coeur.

Do you remember the old Designer Imposters ads they had on TV, where the perfume bottles got out of limousines and bumped back and forth down a red carpet while paparazzi took pictures of them? And they were like "I may smell like Giorgio Armani, but I'm actually Primo! from Parfums de Coeur..." WELL THEN WHAT THE FUCK ARE YOU DOING ON THE RED CARPET? I can dress and smell like whomever I like but that doesn't mean I can just waltz into Bungalow 8 whenever I please. I would have liked to see a bouncer shaped perfume bottle tackle these preening, self-congratulating fake-ass bottles and then some police bottles come and escort them to bottle prison for fraud. They could go before the bottle judge and try to plead their case, but we've got them on tape going "I may smell like Giorgio Armani, but..." so it's not like they didn't know they were LIARS.

My preliminary research does incontrovertibly prove that for whatever they lack in class, Designer Imposters more than make up for in sweet, totally white trash names.

For Him:
Big Attitude
Mascolino
New York Nights
Being Together
Fresh Xtreme
Great Life

For Her:
Primo!
2Hot
Fly with Me
Babe
Ninja
Sensuale
Uproar
Wanna Play

And did you know that Parfums De Coeur also makes Bod body-spray? So, that answers the long-standing question of what the fuck is up with Bod body-spray.

Wednesday, November 16, 2005

Coming Soon: Heat!

Deadly Effects of Future U.S. Heat Waves Predicted

And now: a scene from my new eco-thriller, HEAT!

INT. OVAL OFFICE - DAY
President Nelly, the First Lady, a Heat Scientist, and the Secretary of Defense sit on a presidential sofa sipping Cristal while images of Mexico engulfed in flames plays on CNN in the background.

HEAT SCIENTIST
It is getting a lot hotter. Almost a hundred degrees more every day. In three more days we will all die. The board of science predicts that the statue of liberty will begin melting on Friday.

FIRST LADY
It's getting hot in here.

SECRETARY OF DEFENSE
Mr. President, we've got to you get you to the secret, heat-proof, underground bunker.

FIRST LADY
I'mma take off all my clothes.


President Nelly sets down his champagne flute. A serious look comes over his face.


PRESIDENT NELLY
I ain't abandon tha American people like that.

SECRETARY OF DEFENSE
This is no joke, Mr. President.


President Nelly stares firmly at the Secretary of Defense before breaking into a gold-capped grin and laughing.


PRESIDENT NELLY
Gotcha, bitch. Let's hit that bunker like a back-shot. They got sandwiches?

SECRETARY OF DEFENSE
They have sandwiches, Mr. President

PRESIDENT NELLY
X-Box?

SECRETARY OF DEFENSE
Ever since you were escored there during the nuclear threat last fall and demanded one, sir, yes.

PRESIDENT NELLY
They got condoms?

SECRETARY OF DEFENSE
We can arrange for condoms, sir.

PRESIDENT NELLY
Fuck it, don't need 'em. What if I gotta restart tha Earf's population? I'mma call it Nellyville.

SECRETARY OF DEFENSE
You will call what Nellyville, Mr. President?

PRESIDENT NELLY
Tha Earf.

How Real Is This?

I started to watch the Real World last night so that I could tell you about it, but it was so painfully awful that I honestly could not do it. It was worse than the time I was rubbing one out and came on my own unsuspecting FACE! At least that time I had an orgasm. This was just shame and sadness. Even McCullen, whose favorite show is a BBC snoozer called Monarch of the Glen about a guy who owns a fish restaurant, and who was KNITTING while we watched TV, demanded that the channel be changed.

So, I thought I couldn't do any more RW recaps for you guys, but then I realized that I could just make one up. So here is your RW fan fiction, for last night's episode:

Fuck Head and Eye-Face are snuggling, but then Eye-Face asks her if she likes his hat and when she hesitates for a second he feels his manhood is in question and this begins a long, drawn-out fight. Eye-Face says that if she really loved him she would love his hat, and Fuck Head says that if he really loved her he would be willing to call her his girlfriend. He says that he thinks he has the stronger argument. They both decide that love is very hard, and that they have learned a lot about what they need. Fuck Head needs someone to actually care about her, and Eye-Face needs someone to actually care about his hat.

Shell Necklace is worried that the Austin Film Society won't like their documentary about South By Southwest because it's really bad, but the people at the Austin Film Society don't give a shit. They're like "This is great, you've done a great job. Can we have our $75,000 dollars now, MTV?" and Shell Necklace is like "Thanks. I really love film, that's where I got the idea to shoot the musicians through the aquarium we have in our house. You know, fish out of water. Or fish in water. Whatever, it looks s to the wizay, ee to the tizzay. My mom is in jail."

Brick Brain is very confused by the recent behavior of Pocahontas. She keeps telling him that she does not want to make out with him, but he thinks that people who are going to get married should want to make out all the time. She explains that she doesn't even want to be his girlfriend, much less his wife. He says that is exactly what someone who wanted to be his wife would say. His grand scheme of manipulation is WORKING. Then he burps his name during an interview segment.

Iraqi Jane gains another ten pounds, but at this point you can't even tell.

Next Week: An asteroid the size of Seattle is headed straight for Austin, and only a crack team of geologists led by Bruce Willis and Hot Topic will be able to stop them, but will Hot Topic be too busy gossiping about her roommates to her paraplegic boyfriend to save them all?!

From the Desk of George W. Bush
RE: Iraq
ATTN: Congress

Tuesday, November 15, 2005

Oops! (Grand-Père #3116 is great)

I wrote an email to Grand-Père #3116 last week to see if he and Grand-Mère #3116 were okay, what with them being car owners who live in the suburbs of Paris. I hadn't heard from him for a week, and while I wasn't too worried about their safety—at the very least I figured if something had happened that Deadbeat Père #3116 would have put down the sambuca long enough to let me know in a text message—I thought it was a strange silence, so finally I got an email from Grand-Père #3116 today. The subject line is "FW: Oops! (These are great)" and all it has in it are about 20 pictures like these:

OOPS!
OOPS!
OOPS!


It is just very reassuring to know that my family is safe and still has access to such outrageously funny email forwards.

Just Like Mom Used to Never Make, Ever

In 1984 [Oprah] confided to a studio audience that she once was so desperate for comfort food she ate two-year-old frozen hotdog buns smothered in syrup.
(New York Times)

To whom could that possibly be considered comfort food, besides the Box-Car Children and bears?

Let Them Eat Dog Cake

There is a holiday crafts fair at my work today, I guess so that you can give your loved-ones a pink knit-scarf that some fat lady at your work made to show how much you really care? Anyway, one particulary inventive woman had brought her collection of gourmet dog treats, just in case any of the big butted retards around here turned out to have any secret Park-Slope-Yuppie leanings. Clown Coffee and I overheard her urging people to try them. "No, they're not bad. You can totally eat them. Go ahead, try it."

Yes, a woman at my work today sat at a table in a conference room and tried to convince fellow co-workers to eat dog food.

As we were leaving she said "Oh no, I wouldn't give my dog anything that I wouldn't eat myself." REALLY? I thought you were supposed to give them things you wouldn't eat, like...you know...DOG FOOD.

In related news: does anyone know anyone who is hiring?

Hi, I'm Nicole Richie, and My Brain Is Made Out of Cum

Before you read Nicole Richie's new NOVEL—which features a picture of her? on the cover? wearing a tiara? but it's still a novel?—you might want to check out the New York Times article about your favorite STAR.

I've copied some of the best bits below, grouped by theme, and while obviously I am of the opinion that Ms. Richie is the single most important mental retard on Earth, I have to say that some of her fans are really giving her a run for her money...and also just giving her money, in the form of buying her stupid book. But seriously, if some of these people had access to the financial and media-outlet resources that Ms. Richie does we could have some real celebrities here.

THE FANS:

"She's the most amazing person I've ever seen on TV in my life," gushed one teenage girl, who was near tears. "I live for her. I'd do anything to talk to her."

Um...what kind of TV do you watch? Even if you only watch Laguna Beach and America's Next Top Model there's still got to be someone more amazing. Tyra "The Forehead" Banks is more amazing. Or Kristin.

She wasn't the only one living for Ms. Richie that evening. A teenage boy, wearing lip gloss and a hint of mascara, walked away from the table hyperventilating as he clutched an autographed copy of "Diamonds" close to his chest. "Oh ... my ... God," he said between deep breaths. "Nicole just said I was cool! Nicole just said I was cool!"

Have you ever heard a joke that was just perfect? It was perfectly timed, it fit the mood, it was relevant and sharp and snappy? When you first heard it you just couldn't stop laughing and it really felt like you had never heard anything as cutting and hilarious in your life? This kid is that joke.

"Her body is perfect, her hair is perfect, her outfit is perfect, her makeup is perfect," said one teenage boy with flat-ironed hair. "I love everything about her."

ATTENTION GAY AMERICAN MALE TEENAGERS, WHETHER YOU REALIZE IT OR NOT, APPARENTLY YOU ARE ALL VERY INTO NICOLE RICHIE, LIP GLOSS, AND FLAT IRONS.

As Carolyn Lluberes, an assistant at Wilhelmina Models, left the Virgin store, she called Ms. Richie a survivor. "She sends the message that, 'Yes, I've fallen, but I can get up with dignity,' " she said. Staring at a Polaroid of herself and the first-time author, Ms. Lluberes grew misty. "I never get star-struck," she said, "but to see her is really inspiring."

I'm just going to pass over the misty-eyed thing...It's...It's so stupid that I just have to let it go. But a survivor? You know who is a survivor? That lady who lost her whole family in (Hurricane Katrina, The Tsunami, The War in Iraq, The Holocaust). You know who is not a survivor?

THE STAR:

"It was really great, but I was a little intimidated," [Richie] said the following afternoon over tea and French onion soup at the Four Seasons. "I almost felt like I didn't deserve it."

I respect a woman who is humble, but who also understands her own talents. She ALMOST felt like she didn't deserve it, but then she reflected on her strength as an artist, and as a powerful female role-model, and she realized that in fact, yeah, she did fucking deserve it.

Ms. Richie, 24, is recording a pop/funk album.

[Insert Your Own Commentary Here]

Ms. Richie, however, rejected any suggestion that Ms. Hilton was the inspiration for the character of Simone Westlake, a vapid opportunist who invites Parker to be her co-host on the reality series. "Simone was leggy and tall," she writes, "though no one knows exactly how tall because she'd never been seen out of pumps since puberty ... not even in her night-vision skin flicks, filmed strictly for private use, of course."

"It's not her," Ms. Richie insisted. "I've come across many people in my life that are like that."

HA HA HA HA HA HA. Whenever Richie says something it's like the most gorgeously inane lie, each one hand-crafted out of some pristine nugget of her imagination, and then sharpened in the fires of an intellect so incapable that she actually believes everyone else is just as dumb as she is. Wait til you see the next one:

She claims not to know her current weight or how many pounds she has shed.

Please see my previous comment.

Wait For It...

You know how it is that first (and often last) time when you see someone you thought you liked in a whole new light and suddenly your boner for them has died. Like, you're just trying to enjoy an episode of Strangers With Candy together and they don't get any of the jokes, or maybe the President of the United States comes on TV and you realize THEY DIDN'T VOTE FOR HIM! Something earth-shattering. And then whenever you see them or they call on the phone there's this instantaneous cringe and it's just painful, like when your gums are raw and you have to brush your teeth, or when someone on reality TV opens their mouth and strings words together in a "sentence." Ewwww. You know? And you're on the phone and you're just thinking "Okay, get me out of here. This girl is a loser, and she's clearly drunk."

It's even worse when it happens with your dad.

Monday, November 14, 2005

Hitler's Department Store: Ask Us About Our Paper Blackberries!

Friday, November 11, 2005:

[Clown Coffee puts on a long houndstooth overcoat with a thick, black, fur collar.]

Worker #3116: Nice coat. Where'd you get it, Germany?
Clown Coffee: Hitler's.
Worker #3116: Oh, Hitler's Department Store?
Clown Coffee: Yeah.
Worker #3116: ...
Clown Coffee: I had a coupon.

Monday, November 14, 2005:

[Clown Coffee makes a reference to Hitler's Department Store.]

Worker #3116: That was funny, I wrote it down in my notebook.
Clown Coffee: Your notebook?
Worker #3116: Yeah, I have a notebook that I keep notes in.
Clown Coffee: Oh, like a Blackberry?
Worker #3116: Yeah, it's a Paper Blackberry.

Thump



Ha ha ha. Now that giant date-raping douchebag in the Harp Lager t-shirt and Oakleys won't be able to hear you when you say "Look at that shitty douchebag in the Harp Lager t-shirt and Oakleys. What a fucking horrible, shitty fucking douche."

So Deeplessness, Put Your Ass to Sleeplessness

This morning, McCullen was up. He did not sleep it up last night. He did not sleep it up at all. Maybe he was too jazzed from having baked bread last night? I don't know. So he joined me for my breakfast-time MTV Jams. We saw the new video for the Youngbloodz, "Presidential." It featured the Youngbloodz on a re-election campaign. I guess eventually there won't just be one black president, but two, sharing the office together. And white people, it is your worst nightmare. There WILL be ho's in the oval office. There WILL be weed at dignitary functions. But you know what, I guess you love it, because Youngbloodz easily swept their way into a second term, helped largely by the dirty south.

McCullen: I hope that this energizes the youth to care about voting again. But I fear that they will be disappointed when they get to the polls and find out Youngbloodz aren't actually on the ballot.

During a very important meeting in the oval office, one official presented President Youngbloodz with a pie chart. It included:

40% Education
20% Taxes
15% Unemployment
15% Chillin'
10% Prison

They ran their successful campaign on a platform initiative entitled: "In America We Get Crunk." And their victory song was so bumpin' even the bland white Republican who ran against them could not help but dance the funny way old white men dance, with a bunch of balloons in his hand? His campaign was built on balloons, which I think is why he lost.

Then we saw this song called "Shake That Laffy Taffy" by D4L. We tried to think up other potential hits:

"Shake That Lick'em Aide"
"Shake That Charleston Chew"
"Shake That 100 Grand"
"Shake That Tropical Starburst"

Then McCullen went outside to smoke his first cigarette of the day. Or is it the fourth cigarette of yesterday?

You Are Welcome

This weekend's lesson painfully learned: don't drunk-dial your mom.

I Miss Halloween

Friday, November 11, 2005

Kiss My Starfield Road

I heard that new Franz Ferdinand song, "Do You Want To," yesterday, and I was sort of stuck on the chorus:

Oh well do you, do you do you want to?
Oh well do you, do you do you want to, want to go
Where I've never let you before?
Oh well do you, do you do you want to?
Oh well do you, do you do you want to, want to go
Where I've never let you before?


The butt? He's talking about the butt, right?

ANOTHER CLUE!:

Well he's a friend and he's so proud of you
He's a friend and I knew him before you, oh yeah
Well he's a friend and he's so proud of you
You're famous friend well I blew him before you, oh yeah


Franz Ferdinand is gay with Bobby.

I remember when Thorsonglitterstar would always get really excited to tell me that Sonic Youth's "Starfield Road" was about doing it in the butt. And with lyrics like "bend down round this garbage can," "but where is the shame?," and "aah your butt cheeks can't stay," I'm pretty convinced she's right. But as with everything they do, Sonic Youth manages to make even butt-time super pretentious, overwrought, and BOOORINGGGGG. I wonder how old their grandkids are?

http://imdb.com/title/tt0364376/

If your father and brother had been murdered right before your eyes in a diner by Gary Busey, and then after he was caught and executed, a strange figure in a black cloak left a box on the doorstep of your family's bakery that was marked simply "Gingerbread Spices," would you think, "Oh, okay, I guess I'll just whip up some gingerbread right now!"? Okay, so you've whipped up some gingerbread, now, if one of your coworkers cut himself and dripped blood into the gingerbread dough, would you, as the proprieter of a business in the food industry, simply ignore the blood and mix the dough anyway? You would. Alright...now, if you rolled out the dough and cut out a gingerbread man and put him into your superoven, which is a walk-in oven, would you cook the gingerbread man all by itself, in that giant oven, or would you try and fill up the oven with other products to really maximize the energy costs? Oh, you'd just cook the gingerbread man on his own. Huh. Now, after you got in a fight with Miss Pretty-Face Waco that resulted in a bizarre power outage that sent creepy sci-fi lightning bolts into the superoven, causing the magical ashes of Gary Busey to animate the gingerbread man into a living, murderous pastry, and when you saw that pastry for the very first time, standing on its little cookie legs and telling you and all your friends that you were going to die before it scurried away to hide amidst the bread pans, would you think "OH SHIT, WHAT THE FUCK WAS THAT TALKING GINGERBREAD MAN WITH THE SHARP TEETH?" or would you think "Hmm, something about his voice was very familiar." Really! Because I would have thought the first one, the very surprised and disturbed one, but you'd just be bothered by the voice? Weird. Well, let me ask you this: after the gingerbread man has chopped off your mother's finger with a steak knife, and covered one of your friends and co-workers in frosting and locked her in the walk-in cooler, would you decide that maybe it was time to leave the bakery? NO?! Why not? Oh, I see, because the phone doesn't work. I guess that is a good reason to stay. So, you stay, and then the gingerbread man runs over Miss Pretty-Face Waco's dad with his own El Dorado, using a rolling pin to hit the gas (because he is only the size of a cookie), and then Miss Pretty-Face Waco walks into a booby-trap and gets stabbed in the head with a knife, do you wait for the bleeding co-worker to come back from his wrestling match and bite the head off the gingerbread man? And it doesn't gross you out that the headless gingerbread man starts leaking blood everywhere and your co-worker has blood all over his face, so you give him some milk to drink? But then let's say he turns into the gingerbread man, so he's Gary Busey, and a cookie, and you friend. Do you push him into the walk-in oven and set him on fire? You do.

Of course you do.

Jimmy Kimmel Ruined AIDS

Slate: Do you and Jimmy test out material on each other? Did he have any hand in your movie?
Silverman: Oh yeah. Definitely. He's on ABC, so he'll come up with jokes that he couldn't possibly use. And if it's something I think I can use, I will absolutely take it. I don't feel like it's going to give me some kind of identity crisis.
Slate: So, what did you pilfer in the film?
Silverman: You know what's his? Lemon-AIDS. ["When someone gives you AIDS, make lemon-AIDS."]
(slate.com)

Reading that really reminded me of the elementary school joke where you make someone say that they are a "homosapien" and then make fun of them for being a "homo." Except that instead of a homo, I'm a guy who thinks a Jimmy Kimmel joke is funny, and that might be even worse.

Or maybe it's like seeing your parents have sex. (Wait, which is grosser: seeing your parents have sex, or seeing Jimmy Kimmel and Sarah Silverman have sex? Pick the one that is grosser, and imagine that.) I don't know. The metaphor for this experience is escaping me, but whatever it is, it's bad, and I'll never be able to hear what should be a quality AIDS joke the same way ever again. I'll always be like "that AIDS joke was funny, but I bet Jimmy Kimmel wrote it. Fuck Jimmy Kimmel."

A Little Bit of Shh!

I remember in, like, freshman year of high school how Sasha Sloebbing had this orange and brown and green plaid flannel shirt that, quite literally, looked like vomit, and I asked her why she even wore it, and she said that she was purposefully trying to dress as ugly as possible. SUCCESS! I don't know if this early instinct towards hideousness was what made her shave her head and turn into a dyke and live on a farm with a big dog, but whatever. My point is that I've been well aware for quite a while about the "indie" or "punk" or "dyke" cultures' leanings towards horrendous outward appearance. Ugly chic. That's what all those kids in Williamsburg are doing with their moustaches and bulge-less track-pants. They are trying to gross you out into fucking them, I guess.

But what I really am getting at is Lady Sovereign sex-symbol? DUDES, SHE IS TRASH. Seriously, this is not a game. Yes, she is hyping it to the max, but even without the hype she would still be from the UK equivalent of the Jersey Shore. I'm sure if you called her a chav she would break a bottle over your head, but does that really prove her point, or yours?

And if she is so hot, then where are all the Adriana supporters? I have been to plenty of bars and places where you idiots congregate, and I've yet to hear anyone say, "Bro," (You guys say Bro because you think that it's ironic, but is it even ironic anymore? Does being a PBR shithead make you better than the Natty Lite shitheads you avoided in college?) "Bro, I was watching Sopranos last night. I'd sure like to take Adriana La Cerva to the Wolf Parade show if you know what I mean?"

Of course, by now you realize that I'm just kidding. If given half the chance, I'd buy Lady Sovereign a shot of Jaeger, a pack of Merit 100's, and then disappoint her in bed, if you know what I mean?

Ladies: gold teeth, leopard-print, and STDs are very in for 2006.

Thursday, November 10, 2005

Water Is Nature's Vodka-Cranberry

Clown Coffee: Do you want to go get water?
Worker #3116: I DO! LET'S GO!
Clown Coffee: Okay, let's go.

[Worker #3116 finishes typing an email]

Worker #3116: Hold on, I'm coming...over...for water...drinks.
Clown Coffee: Come on over around eight, we're gonna have some water drinks...
Worker #3116: Ha ha.
Clown Coffee: Ha ha.
Worker #3116: Dudes, could everybody just put a couple bucks in the cup?! The water's all tapped-out and we don't want the party to have to end. Water-run!

Swoon.

Worker #3116: Do you like date-rape jokes? Because a lot of girls (prudes!) don't.
Luiz: Who doesn't like a good date-rape joke? Maybe date-rape victims. You know how you can protect yourself from being date-raped, though?
Worker #3116: ...
Luiz: Never say no.

Hard Hitting Journalism at 50,000 Feet

[Judith Miller] said that in the few hours since her departure had been made public, she had received several offers "of all kinds" for future employment, which she declined to specify.
(New York Times)

And that is how Marjorie Ann Pierce developed her award winning brownie recipe. This is Judith Miller reporting for SkyMall Magazine.

A Wolf* in Sheep**'s Clothing



*Wolf=Stalin
**Sheep=Frat Boy

:)

Terrorist bombs ripped nearly simultaneously through three popular hotels in Amman, Jordan, on Wednesday night, killing at least 57 people and wounding more than 100. Al Qaeda has claimed responsibility for the attack, although that claim has not yet been verified. Jordanians, who suffered the majority of the casualties, were outraged by the attack. So outraged and infuriated that they took to the streets with unchecked, impassioned...glee?


(New York Times)

Did the photographer run out of film right as he got to the demonstration? This is the only picture? I mean, it looks less like a protest against Muslim-on-Muslim violence, and more like a high school pep-rally....FROM 1992, CHECK OUT THOSE CLOTHES! AM I RIGHT?

Wednesday, November 09, 2005

Detroit Rock City the Vote 2005

Detroit's Mayor Fends Off Strong Challenge

"Even with Mr. Kilpatrick declaring victory, an F.B.I. inquiry into irregularities among absentee ballots threatens to complicate the outcome regardless of which candidate prevailed.

On Tuesday, the F.B.I asked the city to preserve absentee ballots amid claims that some contained addresses of vacant lots or were cast by dead people."
(New York Times)

Wait, there are lots in Detroit that AREN'T vacant?

BADUMP-CHA!

El Coke con Cherries

Both soda fountains in the Hot Caff are out of Cherry Coke, but one is marked "Out" and the other is marked "No Mas." That means I've been unknowingly using the Spanish language soda fountain for almost two years.

GROSS!

Now I've probably got "los AIDS" or whatever.

Seyckey Seyck

Last night, I was listening to the worst show on NPR, The World. I hate the "let's go out for an Arabian coffee and maybe smoke a hukkah because we are white and went to college" theme music. I hate Lisa Mullins's voice. Everything about The World just sucks. It's like listening to kids in the dormitory cafeteria argue about philosophy or something. "I believe Deleuze said it best...hold on, I need a chocolate milk refill."

Anyway, there was this bloviating story on about a game in Cambodia called Sey and they were talking about it in the most exalted NPR style. "This ancient tradition," "buried deep in the foothills of history," "as the sun sets after a hard day's labor, Dith Pran moves with the grace of a bird," crap like that. But as they're talking about it, how you have to keep this feathered ball up in the air without letting it hit the ground...how you use your feet to kick it...how no one wins...I'm like okay, HACKEY SACK.

At first I thought this was inarguably lame (especially since the story was all about how Sey has somehow healed the country after the Khmer Rouge's reign of terror, and I'm like, "There's gotta be some devil sticks in there, too, right, and maybe an aerobie? At least a frisbee. I know there's a frisbee. Let the healing of co-ed naked quad sports begin. May the Killing Fields of yesterday become the Playing Fields of today." I looked it up on wikepedia, and it says that Sey is "similar to a hacky sack, cockfighting and soccer."

Hacky sack, soccer, and COCKFIGHTING! Now that is what I call a sport. But tell me, does it look like this:



or this?:

Sarah Silverman n' Olly. Or Was He Sifl?

Wait, wait, wait. Jesus Is Magic was directed by Liam Lynch?

Proof of the conspiratorial cabal between the Jews and the sock puppets!

Jesus Is Magic? More like Mississippi Burning (with Jokes)!

P'Soap

Dear Dial and/or Dove Product Development Dept.,

Please make an anti-magic soap to return my dolphin leg to its human form. And while you're at it, please make it smell like pizza.

Thank you,
Part-Dolphin #3116

WAKE IT UP.

I look at the mainstream LIBERAL media on a pretty regular basis, but they have skewed so far LEFT of the American PEOPLE that they're too busy to pick up on stories that really matter. For instance, last week it was all Judge Samuel Alito this, "black sites" secret CIA torture world that, but I had to go to the grocery store and stand in the check out line to read the following headline:

Yanni: Is He Dying?
He's Only 51 Years Old!!


HELLO, NEW YORK TIMES, THIS IS A WAKE-UP CALL!

Segue.

HELLO, RAPS, THIS IS A WAKE-UP CALL!

I like it in the beginning of hip hop songs when someone says "I don't think they ready for this." Really? You know, it's just a song...and it's probably about rape, just like all the other songs, so...I mean, I think I'm ready. Unless the song is going to, I don't know, come out of my stereo and cook me a meal, and even that would be kind of nice because it would let me get some work done...But basically, I've been ready for every single song I've heard, especially if it was Top 40 hip-hop. For those I have been what Lacan called "supaready".

Segue.

HELLO, SOAP, THIS IS A WAKE-UP CALL!

And also: you know Dr. Bronner's? The soap that is also reading material and a delicious beverage? I bought some in bar form, and on the bar it says "Dr. Bronner's Magical Soap." Not only does it make your balls tingle, but now I have one human leg, and one dolphin leg.

Tuesday, November 08, 2005

Cancer Impatient

Remember my injection wound from the secret experiment the government is conducting on Jews? Well, I still had it this weekend, and someone said that it was either an ingrown hair or cancer. Arm cancer. Anyhow, now we'll never know which one it was because first I started picking at it until it spread into a bizarre bruise, and then I kept picking at it until it bled at the edges, and then I took a knife, cauterized it on a kitchen stove, and burned the fucker off.

If that's what I do to cancer, imagine what I do to the fool who is so careless about checking himself that he ends up wrecking himself.

CELEBRATION TIME, CUM ON!

Saturday, November 5, was the two-year anniversary of WWJ.CD?!!!!!!

To celebrate, I was thinking I could get one blowjob from everyone who reads this. That would be almost TEN BLOWJOBS!

Either that, or give me my two years back.

If I Can Make It in New York, I Can Make It in Any York.

Fast and dirty, because I don't want this to take a long time, here is the NYCap.

Worker #3116 parks his car in the Blue lot, level 1, Row 5B. So, his trip is off to a pretty good start. It gets even better on the plane when he does the SkyMall crossword and one of the clues is "1984 Patrick Swayze film, the first movie released with a PG-13 rating." You know that old sailing expression: Red Dawn in your crossword puzzle means lots of fish later on when you're fishing. Here, fish is a metaphor for fun, and fishing is a metaphor for "going to New York." In the line for the taxi, Stevil calls to tell me that there are a bunch of new cable channels at the house. Once you leave home, you can never return. It is not the same.

The plane is delayed a half-hour because of "air-traffic control in New York," but when Worker #3116 gets to Brooklyn there's still no one at Ti-1000's house because of "pinball playing at the bar." More on that later.

But Ti-1000 finally showed up.



Then him and Worker #3116 and Travis (other Travis) all went to the bar. I don't know if you know this, but bars in New York are a lot like bars everywhere else, insofar as they have booze there. They had some of that.

The next day was SHOPPING. Worker #3116 be'd shoppin', on Friday. Because everyone was at work. And he is a fag. Anyway, he buys some things and then he goes to meet Ti-1000 for lunch, and Ti-1000 makes him wait for 15 minutes on the sidewalk, enough time for a pigeon to shit on him and for a black girl to compliment him on his sneakers, so things pretty much even out. At lunch, it is mostly "I got a case of the Avian Poo Pandemic 2005" jokes. After lunch, Worker #3116 sees an ad for pomegranate juice that says "outlive your spouse," which is very macabre, and just like a crappy juice like pomegranate juice to do.

That night, there is a dinner party in Worker #3116's honor at Doothy's house. EVERYONE is there. It is so great. People are so drunk in New York! Worker #3116 makes his famous "guac" to go along with the "margs." These are the worst words, but the best tastes! No one can decide what to do when they are full of food, so they go stand by the water.



LJabe yells "COPS!" and IAmJamieSabuda throws his beer into some bushes and everyone laughs at IAmJamieSabuda. He gets angry, but there is nothing he can do. There are also some Mexicans by the water who go out into some reeds and crouch down and flex their muscles while someone else takes their picture. Erin and LJabe say that this is for the Mexicans' friendster profiles.

In the night, Doothy's cats run marathons on Worker #3116, training for Sunday.

The next morning, Worker #3116 goes to lunch with these "douchebags."




On the way to lunch a man on the subway tries to sell candy. "I only have M&M's and Starburst, unfortunately," he says. It's all relative, I want to tell him. If this is a train full of M&M and Starburst fanatics, then you would be in paradise. Then the Metropolitan Museum of Art about ghosts. Most of the pictures look like when we stood by the water. Spooky! But art is for assholes. We stand in the modern art room and this young couple looks at the Chuck Close painting and the dude goes, "Woah, wow. Oh my god. This is really impressive. Check out the teeth." And the girl, in her most bored voice, says, "I bet the reflection in the glasses was a pain in the ass." This is Worker #3116's favorite part, that somehow the reflection in the glasses would be harder to paint than the rest of the face.

We meet IAmJamieSabuda and Ti-1000 for dinner. Ti-1000 tells about how he saw a man riding down the street on his Segway scooter, and then pulling over to the side of the road to let a firetruck pass. Then Ti-1000 needs to get his pinball fix in for the day. Here's the thing about those two: Ti-1000's new thing is pinball, and IAmJamieSabuda's new thing is rare, very expensive denim. He is on three chat rooms about denim. He told me all about all this denim. His jeans cost a month's rent. And you can't wear them in the rain (true). My jeans cost 30 bucks, and they are WEATHERPROOF. So one of them is always talking your ear off about sweetgrass jeans from Japan that have sweetgrass woven into the denim and are soft, and the other one is always playing your ear off, Tommy-style. At the pinball bar, the bathrooms are marked with "XX" and "XY," which made Worker #3116 very nervous. He is not used to having to do a biology pop quiz to go to the fucking urinal. Anyway, it was too early to drink, so everyone just sits around while the pinball is happening, until two people decide enough is enough.



Then: HOUSE PARTY. Oh, wait, no. First back to Brooklyn to a bar where Ti-1000 can play some more pinball. THEN HOUSE PARTY. Like I said, everyone in New York is so drunk. Look at Brother #3116:



I think he's trying to explain something to me about the mayoral election, or his backpack. Or singing a Coldplay song. I don't know.

Suddenly, it is morning, and it is off to a marathon brunch with lots of cheering. There are bloody marys, which, Worker #3116 always thinks he doesn't like bloody marys but he can't remember why, so he has one and is quickly reminded.

1. Worker #3116 does not like juice made out of vegetables.
2. Worker #3116 does not like his juice to have a salad in it.
3. Worker #3116 does not like his juice to be spicy.
4. Worker #3116 does not like his juice to taste like the ocean.

Most of this could probably be attributed to Mortimer, though. It was his recipe, and that guy is a fucking idiot.

But, back to the cheering.



And, of course, the marathon's winner.



Doothy and Worker #3116 walk across the bridge to PS1 where they meet Erin and LJabe for an important lesson in why art is so boring. The one good thing that happens is Worker #3116 and LJabe decide that they are going to make paintings of magic-eye paintings. Magic-Eye Painting Paintings.




THEY HAVE SO MANY GOOD IDEAS!

Then it is goodbye, Doothy, hello Ti-1000 and IAmJamieSabuda, and hopefully hello sandwich because everyone is starving. Eventually, they have to take a break from their search. This marks the 17th time that IAmJamieSabuda complains about having to walk on major thoroughfares because he prefers scenic sidestreets. WE ARE TRYING TO EAT VIETNAMESE SANDWICHES IAMJAMIESABUDA.



The thing about Vietnamese sandwiches, is you basically have to travel to Vietnam to get them. We cautiously made our way through the warzone.



You should have seen what the owner of that Hello Kitty doll looked like!

A famous crossword puzzle writer comes to the bar for drinks. Worker #3116 wants everyone to talk about Sudoku puzzles and about how lame crossword puzzles are, but that is too mean. So then Worker #3116 says, "How about this: what's a 4-letter word for get the fuck out of here?" Then Lisazilla and the Chapacabra come. And, of course, you know what happens after food...PINBALL. (He plays for four hours. Worker #3116 is not joking.)



On the way home, the stewardess compliments Worker #3116 on the "douchebag" painting Pirateman gave him. "That's great. I had one of those done." It is the perfect end to a good trip, sitting on a plane, imagining a framed "douchebag" painting in your stewardess's lonely apartment complex.

Basically, this is a post saying that Worker #3116 is back.

Thursday, November 03, 2005

Out of Office Assistant

Worker #3116 will be out of the office starting Friday, Nov. 4, and returning on Tuesday, Nov. 8. If you need immediate assistance, there is no immediate assistance. Suck it, suckers.

Ho Exit

Jean-Paul Sartre once said, "Hell is other people," but I think he was wrong. I think hell is a pimps and ho's party.

The 3116th Estate: Putting Bad Guys Between a Blog and a Hard Place since 2003!

There are a lot of crackpot conspiracy theories circulating about Donald Rumsfeld's ownership of Tamiflu stock. At first I tried to brush them off, until I heard that he also started the horrific Bird Flu Pandemic of 1918. Him and The Vampire LeStat.

Scary, dudes.

Trapt 6-8

Those with VH1 were obviously watching last night when R. Kelly, the pied-piper-pedophile of R&B, unveiled the videos for "Trapped in the Closet: Chapters 6,7, and 8 of 12". Two words for you:

Awesome!

I can't find the lyrics online, so I'm just going to do my best to summarize the plot for you here. (First, catch up on chapters 1, 2, 3, and 4. Then catch up on chapter 5 on your own because you are an adult and I never wrote about chapter 5.)

Chapter Six: At the end of Chapter Five, R.Kelly had just found out that his wife was cheating on him with the policeman that pulled him over in Chapter Four. So, he does what any man with a concealed weapon license would do: he sits on the floor and giggles. His wife joins him. It's a gigglefest. For some reason, the cop decides that he needs to come back to R. Kelly's house. He finds the door broken into, and pulls out his gun. Then he gets to giggleroom 2005, and aims the gun at R. Kelly. He says that he is going to shoot R. Kelly. R. Kelly says he is going to shoot the cop. The cop says "Don't shoot me." R. Kelly puts his gun down and wrestles the cop, then the gun goes off. I remember the lyrics for this part: "POW...pow...pow..."

Chapter Seven: There is blood everywhere. And crying. Blood and crying everywhere. The policeman says that it is R. Kelly's fault that there is blood everywhere. R. Kelly says that it is his wife's fault for having sex with the policeman. This is the most logical argument, because most guns are actually discharged by the evil power of infidelity. But whose blood is it? It is Twon's blood. Twon is R. Kelly's brother-in-law, and he has just gotten out of prison. Well, he should have stayed in prison, because he wouldn't have gotten shot in prison. Unless he was trying to escape. He might have gotten shivv'ed, too, but that's different than shot because it happens with a toothbrush that has been wrapped in stolen saran-wrap and then melted and filed down into a makeshift blade. No bullets involved. This also explains why the door in Chapter Six had been taken off its hinges, thus stirring the policeman's suspicions: Twon broke into his sister's house because THUG LIFE. So everyone is like "Oh no, Twon is dead." But surprise, Twon is not dead! In fact, he's not even hurt. He bandages his arm in the bathroom and laughs and says "I wish I was still in prison." Then there is a knock on the door, and everyone does the natural thing in response: they pull out their guns. Apparently, Twon stopped at the gun store on his way from prison to R. Kelly's house. Who could be at the door? Probably a dangerous criminal. Everyone has their guns. The tension is so high. But it is the nosy neighbor, who happens to be wearing a bathrobe and a showercap. She is also holding a spatula. This Chapter ends with the stirring lyrics "spatula...holding a spatula...she is sooooo noooooossyyyyyyyy."

Chapter Eight: Twon, R. Kelly, and R. Kelly's wife laugh with the nosy neighbor. There is a lot of laughing in this house. It is a house of laughter. Everyone has the same question on their minds: what did that silly nosy neighbor think she was going to do with that spatula? Everyone agrees that a spatula is a highly ineffective weapon. Meanwhile, the police officer has driven away. He gets a call from his fat, ugly, white wife, who has a really shitty southern accent that sounds a lot like R. Kelly doing a weird shitty southern accent in falsetto. She tells him he should come home because she has made him a cherry pie. He is like, "Bitch, I am all on that pie!" and he speeds home. The APB has gone out, All Pie Bulletin. The cop comes home, but his fat ugly wife is acting strange. She is like "It is that time of the month." He is like "I am going to heat up this chicken." He puts a box of KFC into a pot on the stove. She is like, "I bought you some pears." He is like, "Where is my pie?" She is like, "It is not ready." He is like, "You are acting strange." And that is when we discover that a man who looks suspiciously like R. Kelly is hiding in the pantry closet. That's right: MORE CLOSETS. The circular magic of this dramatic mini-series proves that R. Kelly is the MC Escher of song.