On Things That Are Completely Not True

So my girlfriend is kind of an aspiring actress.

She recently did a commercial for a herpes medication. I was a little weirded out by it, but she reminded me that they don't exclusively search for attractive actors who have herpes. Apparently it's just a lot easier to find hot actresses and then give them herpes.

Yeah, I laughed at that too.

I stopped giggling right around the time my girlfriend told me she requested to be paid in free samples.

On Cuddling

This came up in conversation today. I was asked to help a cousin out and make a ruling, this being said ruling and all associated points.

Cuddling - v. Two people are said to be cuddling if and only if both parties are consciously aware they are intertwined with the other and are enjoying the closeness.

1. If two people become intertwined while sleeping in close proximity to each other as a result of cramped quarters, the result is cuddling unless both parties fell asleep before becoming intertwined and pseudo-cuddling ends immediately upon one party waking and breaking off the cuddle in a spastic manner.
2. If the first waking party does not break off the cuddle and continues to enjoy its feeling of safety and comfort, this results in cuddle rape, or non-consensual cuddling.
3. If the second party awakes to find the first party awake and still in the cuddle, this should be construed as an open invitation on continued and future cuddling.
4. Inebriated cuddling is the worst kind of cuddle because one is more likely to cuddle with a person (s)he would not normally admit to wanting to cuddle. Thus when one awakes (s)he finds her/himself in a Shame Cuddle.
5. A group cuddle involves three or more people in a sandwich or dog pile configuration all cuddling consensually. This can lead to cuddle orgies, cuddle porn on camera and pay-for-cuddle or cudstitution.
6. Hardcore amateur, lesbian and Asian cuddling are by far the most popular types of cuddling.

For further reading, visit CuddleParty.com.

On Pie

I seriously tried "Pie," "meringue pie" and God help me even "cream pie" before I remember that every hilarious pie is banana cream and then BAM! there was this picture of the perfect pie. (I still would have liked to try the lemon meringue though.)



So I just watched a dude get hit in the face with a cream pie for no reason on television and I'm actually surprised at how badly I feel this voice inside me shouting, "Pie the fuck out of some dude."

"Don't think about who," he whispers, "Don't think about the consequences. Just go out and buy a pie. It's cool. It'll sit. Just take it with you and when you hear some telling a story that's really uninteresting, just do it. It's okay. They won't know what to do. Just fucking pie a bitch in the face and run. Yeah, that's right, you don't even stick around to see what happens. This isn't about that. This is about you and your desperate need to plant a pie in a man's face with all the might residing in you."

Yeah, I don't think I'm going to listen to that voice, but he's been there for such a long time I hadn't even noticed. One day soon I will simple wake up to the voice like it were my own, and every thought will culminate in the burning question 'How can I pie someone in the face with this?'

A few days later I'll probably cruise by a bakery just to look.

Then one day after I'll buy a cupcake. Maybe I'll huck it at a deer near the edge of the woods from my car and speed off.

Then I'll begin plotting the perfect pie. Custard. With just a hint of vanilla to set off the flavors of the filling and the flaky crust. I will bake for days, weeks, finding the perfect touch at every turn.

After that it's only a matter of finding the perfect prey. She will be weak at first. I will plan it meticulously. She will go unnoticed when she goes to the laundromat twice in one week.

I will escalate. There will be more victims. Each will call out to me for different reasons. Sometime I will be called without warning. I will be forced to improvise. A wedding cake with witnesses, yodels at a picnic in the park, a fatty with HoHos. However it goes I will be soppy. Evidence may be left.

Then it is only a matter of time before they find me. I will have to disappear. Curb my lust for pies. Perhaps I will build a soundproof bunker in my basement, stainless steal decor belying the most sophisticated cookware known to man.

I DON'T WANT TO DO IT VOICE NO NOT HER OKAY FINE HER BUT ONLY COCONUT OKAY FINE LEMON MERINGUE CRAP OKAY YOU ARE THE WORST MURDEROUS VOICE EVER.

AcipHex - Bonus Update (Because I'm Sick and Bored in Bed)

Recently I came across AcipHex through its television commercials.

As a heartburn and acid reflux medication, I can understand the use of prefixes and suffixes and middlefixes like "Aci(d)," "pH," and "iphex/effects."

However I cannot overlook the fact that there is an add agency in the English speaking world that green-lit any stomach and gas-based medication that is phonetically pronounced "Ass Effects."

On Being Sick

It occurred to me hat people never call something what it is.

For example: a sick day should not be called a "sick day." We should call it what it really is, a "sit in bed and watch TiVo'd episodes of The Office" day.

But then I realized "SIBaWTEotO Day" would never catch on and we should probably stick with "Sick day."


Plus I don't think you're still get paid for a SIBaWTEotO day.

On Collegiate Athletes: A Follow-Up

So the Press and Sun Bulletin, The Bleacher Report, ESPN.com and The New York Times.com have all run stories on how my school's recently glorious basketball team has essentially turned into the plot of a serial blacksploitation flick featuring Cleopatra Jones and Dolomite, out to expose the corruption in a mid-sized college's Division 1 men's basketball team.

Instead of attempting some haunting and thought-provoking joke about the team's propensity towards sex, drugs and politically heavy violence, I would just like to point towards as old BearCat Bummers comic from last semester which now seems almost prophetic:












Sometimes, I love my brain a little too much, and then I just remember the Japanese have lready drawn really gross porn of that, and I don't feel so bad anymore.

Know Thyself

I'm really proud of myself today.

I had not one but two dreams involving an ex and needless to say that did not go well.

Angry that I woke up upset, I decided to go back to sleep and have something awful happen to her.

And that's when I dreamed of zombies again. God, I'm awesome.

On Collegiate Athletes

The college I went to did not have a football team.

No, we were not a tiny school; yes, we were academically and athletically focused; No, I don't really know why we never just made one.

When I visited as a prefrosh there were still a few t-shirts floating around that proudly declared "[OUR] UNIVERSITY FOOTBALL: UNDEFEATED SINCE 1956." Totally a true statement.

Anyway, for whatever reason, we were without a football team and grew almost proud of this, instead channeling our passions into every other chance to excel at a team sport.

We formed a gang of soccer hooligans because we were bored one week. The paper printed chants made strictly for discouraging the team we were playing two days later and damned if we didn't chant those like we'd known them forever, then get arrested for petite vandalism.

We had an ultimate frisbee team whose captain wore Under Armor and bike shorts under his regular clothes every day, just in case he had to bust out of a telephone booth like Clark Kent and flick a disc from ankle height for the entire length of the field. And he found any excuse to do so.

We had a nationally awarded Ultimate Accounting team.

But of course, we saved our real passions for our basketball team, holding it in reserve when we were not that good and then releasing it in a violent explosion of carnal viciousness last year when we dominated the courts and made it to "The Show." To this day I am not entirely sure what the show is, mind you. I just kind of assumed it was an early stage of something that required betting and brackets.

And this is what brings me to my main point. What the hell were we thinking? Our basketball team was filled with students who ostensibly were rather intelligent, did not get much in the way of scholarships, and were coached by someone who was keenly aware of what he was doing.

That said, my alma mater's basketball team continues to find the most interesting ways of shaming itself.

Several years ago a foreign student got hammered and pounded a small mensch into the pavement, nearly killing him, which resulted in the offending player being arrested, hiding at his embassy, obtaining a questionably legitimate passport and escaping back to his native land. An ambassador was replaced and Hillary Clinton had to demand extradition. Currently, there are no plans for such and said country is even training the player to somehow play on its Olympic team whilst avoid arrest. Several other players were taken into custody and kicked off the team for their parts in the astronomic beatdown.

Last year a very large student was arrested for attempted theft and second-degree assault after he accidentally bowled over an old lady while fleeing from Walmart, where he had attempted to steal condoms. My first thoughts on this were 1) You couldn't get those for free from the RA's office? 2) Maybe he required Trojan Magnum XLs? and 3) Man, I hope he still got laid after all that. As it turns out, no, he couldn't go to the RA's office because yes, he was stealing Magnums. Point 3 remains unanswered.

Aaaand this week it seems the local police have officially charged another basketball player with multiple felonies, including possession and sale of 3.5 grams of cocaine, after a 3 month investigation.

Well played, boys. Well played.

On Katy Perry

This is a little amusement dedicated to Prof. Ryan Vaughan of Binghamton University, whose voice grated through my head as I wrote the entire thing.

Vaughan's Theory states that every song is in fact only one-half of a two-sided conversation, the other 50% of which we are not normally privy to. What follows is the entirety of the conversation from which Katy Perry drew her hit single "Hot N Cold."


You change your mind
-Okay.
Like a girl changes clothes
-You do have a lot of shoes.
Yeah, you PMS like a bitch
-Fuck you, I'm sick, I'm allowed to be a little moody.
I would know
-Apparently.
And you over think
-[shrug] It's my one flaw. Always speak cryptically -How is “Can you please pick me up some tissues?” cryptic? Are the directions to RiteAid secretly hidden in the Mona Lisa? I should know That you're no good for me -Dude, I told you not to come over if you were worried about catching it. I'm not taking the heat on this. 'Cause you're hot then you're cold
-[Blows nose] I'm sorry, that's clearly my bad. You're yes then you're no
-What? You're in and you're out -Of the bathroom maybe. I'm heaving like your mom's ample rack. You're up and you're down
-Did I pass out? Huh? You're wrong when it's right
-Isn't angry sex the best? It's black and it's white -Well, I'm down with the sistas, but if you wanna start something it's gotta be two-girls. We fight, we break up
-Well yeah, you're crazy, but I kinda like that. We kiss, we make up -I … don't think you want to kiss my right now. I'm kind of mucus-y. You, you don't really wanna stay, no
-I really wanna go to the Doctor. You, but you don't really wanna go, oh
-No, I really kinda do. I sneezed brown yesterday.
'Cause you're hot then you're cold -We discussed this. I have a fever. It's pretty bad, actually. You're yes then you're no
-What are you saying?? You're in and you're out -For Chrissake I got it coming out of both ends, here! My colon is treating me like Kenan Thompson on Saturday Night Live, in that it shits all over everything I once loved. You're up and you're down - … I'm staring to get dizzy. We used to be just like twins, so in sync
-That's kinda hot, actually. The same energy now's a dead battery -They're rechargeable. It's more eco-friendly. Or do you not love our mother earth?? Used to laugh 'bout nothing -I was hallucinating that I had a girlfriend who'd actually bring me Vick's Vaporub and not smear it over her vag before making out with other chicks at clubs instead of me, which by the way was totally hot the first couple times you did it, but now, yes, in fact as your boyfriend I do mind it.
Now you're plain boring
-I've been in bed for four days, what do you want from me?
I should know
-Really? Because you didn't call me once, except to say that you made out with four more chicks on your way home.
That you're not gonna change
-What? Of course I will. It's a cold, you dumb bitch. I'm not terminal. It's not like I caught a fatal case of Whore's Mouth from you. We bought that dental dam shit for a reason.

'Cause you're hot then you're cold
-I'M SICK!
You're yes then you're no
-WHAT THE FUCK ARE YOU SAYING??
You're in and you're out
-Seriously? It's like someone strapped a Super Soaker to my asshole and filled the tank with frothy mud and some wildlife. I think I saw a squirrel crawl out of the toilet yesterday. He stole my Mountain Dew.
You're up and you're down
-Could you at least try to catch me? Or, like put a pillow on the floor behind me?
You're wrong when it's right
-If I am, it's the recurring head-injuries.
It's black and it's white
-Alright. Fine. It can be two guys, but we stay on opposite ends of the boat and the aft section of the S.S. Slutbag is off limits to unauthorized personnel.
We fight, we break up
-I'm liking this part more and more the more you keep talking.
We kiss, we make up
-Really? Do you have a medical fetish I don't know about?
You, you don't really wanna stay, no
-Now you're catching on.
You, but you don't really wanna go, oh
-Aaaaand you're off again.

You're hot then you're cold
-[Sad] You never listen to me. You never listen!
You're yes then you're no
-I really feel like the clear-headed one in this relationship.
You're in and you're out
-Can we PLEASE stop talking about my bowels?
You're up and you're down
-Is it even possible for you to touch another human being without grinding your cooch at the same time?

Someone call the doctor
-IT'S ABOUT TIME!
Got a case of a love bipolar
-NO FUCKING SHIT! Can he prescribe meds? Does he have a partner who specializes in Dumbbitchectomies?
Stuck on a rollercoaster
- … So you stopped taking the meds, huh?
Can't get off this ride
- Normally, I'd tell you Zoloft would do the job, but right now I'm just too fucking tired.

You change your mind
-For once, you're right.
Like a girl changes clothes
- … Clean out your side of the closet.
'Cause you're hot then you're cold
-Yeah, about that, I'm starting to think this is a case of Whore's Mouth.
You're yes then you're no
-No, it's just no, now.
You're in and you're out
-Get out. Get the fuck out of my house. Get. The fuck. Out.
You're up and you're down
-Take the goddamn elevator for all I care. It's over.
You're wrong when it's right
-[serious] I really don't think so.
It's black and it's white
-You already fucked a black guy and this is just you needling me about it, isn't it? … Y'know, if I didn't have a huge cock I'd be pretty upset right now.
We fight, we break up
-About that? Yeah, this nurse down at the clinic slipped me her phone number on my way out a few days ago. I didn't throw it out right there, just to be nice, but now I think I'm gonna ask her out for coffee. She seems nice and she has easy access to prescription medications.
We kiss, we make up
-Yeah, this time seems pretty definitive.

'Cause you're hot then you're cold
-Feeling pretty fuckin' cold right now. I think we're done here.
You're yes then you're no
-It's over. I really hope you can find the help you need. I'm just not prepared to give it anymore.
You're in and you're out
-Of your vagina, maybe!
You're up and you're down
-Sorry, I'm just not in any condition to put up with this right now.
You're wrong when it's right
-You keep saying that, but your arguments are haphazard at best. Maybe if you had your Zoloft it'd work out better for you, but I'm pretty sure arguing against someone breaking up with you is an uphill battle.
It's black and it's white
-Your dripping, necrotic Whore Sores?
We fight, we break up
-HEEEEY! Look who just joined the conversation!
We kiss, we make up
-Alright, maybe one last snog for the road. I'm pretty sure you can't get double-Whore's Mouth, but this time you don't get to act like you don't like it when I sneak around your back door.

You, but you don't really wanna stay, oh
-No, I don' want you to stay!
You, you don't really wanna go, no
-Look, this is my house. Just get your stuff and be gone by the time I get back from the CVS Pharmacy.
You're hot then you're cold
-Okay, I know I'm starting to give some mixed messages but you gotta understand, Katy Perry, you're pretty fucking hot.
You're yes then you're no
-The only 'yes,' here, is for informed consent, but if you don't seriously bolt after this hot break-up sex we're having I'm gonna cry rape and use the nanny-cam footage as leverage to get you forcibly locked in the Psych Ward on Riker's Island.
You're in and you're out
-Oh, you like that, don'tchu, you dirty bitch?
You're up and you're down, down, down, down...
-But you like going down … in my pants. Yeah, I went there.

On Using Your Powers For Good

So when I play online poker for free I make a shit-ton of money.

For those of you using metric, that is 2,000 lbs or 4,240 kg of fecal matter arranged in a rough conical or pyramidal pile. When applied to money, think the Scrooge McDuck-like ability to literally swim through the money.

Interestingly, when I attempt to play online poker for real money I get exactly what you would expect.

Shafted.

Of Material That Writes Itself

My grandmother's new neighbors are in possession of two tiny, pygmy goats.

DONE. COMEDY ACCOMPLISHED.


Further images of pygmy goats:



















































Addendum:

My friend Joanne, who is deathly afraid of goats mind you, has asked the following:

"Why the fuck would anyone have goats at their house?"

Now I thought she was being rhetorical, but after a few minutes she added:

"So can you answer my question, please? 'cause I've been asking myself that for a while."

I replied that I am working under the assumption that they are kept outside, mostly, but Joanne was adamant that these are not things to keep in or around ones house. They are not cute or cuddly to her.

I'm more interested in what manner of person would breed pygmy goats.

I mean small things are more awesome than regular-sized same-things. I totally get that. Look at phones and watches and iPods and phones with iPods built into watches. I understand.

But goats? Who decided "Hmm, I want a goat but I wanna be able to keep in in my mailbox. YEEAAAHHH…."

Joanne and I then spent the next 10 minutes talking about corgis and why they're weird.

Family Brunch

So I held off on updating today until I'd finished brunch with my family, assuming I would encounter something constituting comedy gold.

I was totally right to do this.


Turns out my cousin's husband, a fairly normal guy, intelligent, a doctor, has a bit of an issue pooping in a fully-carpeted bathroom.

Just those little area rugs? Not a problem.

Wall-to-wall green carpet? Nope. "It makes him feel like like he's crapping in the living room."

On Writer's Block II

My personal cure for writer's blockage is in line with many creative types. Next to my computer I have any number of toys and little puzzles.

Unfortunately there comes a point where you can just solve a Rubik's cube so many times during a 30 minute T.V. program that it becomes pretty pointless as a distraction.

This is also usually the point in the day between the last time you were hungry and the next time you can masturbate.

The Pedophile's Paradox, or "Woody Allen's Dilemma"

There's really only four types of men in the world:

1. Gay men, who are hereby exempt from the following discussion about Miley Cyrus
   
2. Men like Matthew McConaughey's character David Wodderson in 1993's Dazed and Confused who are willing and even eager to sleep with underage girls like Miley Cyrus
   
3. Nice men, who only grudgingly admit that if legality were not an issue and consent given, they would indeed have sex with Miley Cyrus, and
4. Men like me.

This last group is the most interesting, because we are in fact a brainwashed hybrid of classes 2 and 3. Depending on the air and the mood, we may play to either extreme as the conversation dictates. However this vacillating belies a core inner belief that we must be led to, much more like our class 3 brothers.

Personally, I do not like Miley Cyrus. At all. It's nothing personal, I'm sure she's a very nice person, but she just sort of embodies everything I loath about pop culture.

• She's a manufactured celebrity
• Her talent is likewise augmented electronically and overshadows the (already weak) musical content of her songs
• She's encouraged to remain pure, which essentially makes her come off dumb.
• She is the epitome of eroticised adolescence

Also, her weird little half-accent is really hard to understand if you've lost some of your low-end hearing but, hey, I was the one who thought taking band for eight years was an easy-A with no ill effects.

But here's Allen's Dilemma in action:

As much as I loath her on principle, I would still totally bone Miley Cyrus. I know, I'm shocked too. As much as I hate pop and country, both can be catchy. As much as I hate processed vocals and that wavering, arpegiated glissando crap from bad singers who can't hold a steady note, the processing makes it sound passable. Good even.

And so here's the thing: I can't out-and-out hate Miley Cyrus for the image she was bred to wear; that'd be wrong of me philosophically and that would make me no better than the executive board of Disney^TM®C.

Sadly, If I were to meet Ms. Cyrus on the street, in a crowded New York coffee shop say, and she were to not be in Hannah Mode, perhaps in the trailing end of a 15 minute respite from personal assistants and in dire need of a 3/4-caf latte with extra foam and a hazelnut biscotto, I would be forced to treat her like a normal human being who just happens to have great hair and eyes, a sharp chin, puffy eye-cheeks with high underlying bone structure, short stature, a somewhat raspy voice and about 90% of my other listed features for the categorically perfect girl.

I would be forced to play it cool, hating this poor girl's image so much that I am incapable of becoming starstruck. This would of course endear me to her and my own natural wit and dry humor will seal the deal as I charmingly force her to wait behind but manage to silently get her order to come out with mine because I know the barista so well. I will then walk out with an amazing story because I outfoxed a teen pop sensation in the art of looking awesome.

Unfortunately, this clearly leads to the worst-case scenario of her tracking me down and wacky hijinks ensuing as we star in the worst romantic comedy since Kelly Clarkson made that movie with that guy who didn't win.

No matter what, the result is still the same. I would absolutely not sleep with Miley Cyrus, if only because she's 16 or something and she Hannah Montana stands for everything I hate about pop culture.

However if I ever met her it seems pretty obvious that she would become infatuated with me and I would basically be forced to follow in the footsteps of the great deflowering D-Bags who cam before me: Justin Timberlake, Wilmer Valderrama, Woody Allen and Billy Ray Cyrus.

There's just no way around it.

So, Miley dear, if you can hear me, for your own sake sweetheart, do yourself a favor. Stay far far away from me. I'll only break your heart by wearing wife beaters all day and then starting a solo career that eclipses you after your three failed marriages and the mental breakdown that follows the total self realization of a pop icon.

Also, if that last bit made me sound like forbidden fruit I should also warn you I've eaten cute baby animals and I might have picked up the clap from either Miranda Cosgrove or Demi Lovato. It's kind of hard to tell which when you're all in one big pile like that.

There was actually a more apropos demotivator but it was staged and sort of gave away more than I liked.
COMPLETELY UNLIKE STEPHANIE HERE, AM I RIGHT???

Astrophysics Jokes

The following string of one-liners resulted from a man I do not in fact know tweeting bad jokes about space science, both things I love dearly. Where demarcated by asterisk, Jeph Jacques of Questionable Content wrote the joke. The others are simply me furiously trying to gain his attention, which is considerable since I am told he is approximately seven feet tall.


*ASTROPHYSICISTS APPEAR TO DO IT AT A FURIOUS RATE DUE TO THE EFFECTS OF TIME DILATION.

*STRING THEORISTS CANNOT AGREE ON HOW TO DO IT BUT ARE ALL CERTAIN IT IS VERY COMPLICATED.

ASTROPHYSICISTS DREAM OF DOING IT IN A THREE-BODY SYSTEM.

*BLACK HOLE COSMOLOGISTS CANNOT TELL YOU HOW THEY DO IT BECAUSE THE INFORMATION IS ONLY RELEASED AS HAWKING RADIATION OVER BILLIONS OF YEARS.

QUANTUM PHYSICISTS DO IT SIMULTANEOUSLY AND THEY DON'T.

COSMONAUTS DO IT WITH LITTLE BACKWARDS R's.

ASTROBIOLOGISTS DO IT WITH PANSPERMIA.

*EMERGENCE THEORISTS JUST LET IT HAPPEN, MAN.

GAMMA RAY BURSTERS DO IT OFF THE VISIBLE SPECTRUM.

BIG BANG COSMOLOGISTS DO IT WITH INFLATION.

A DYSON SPHERE DOES IT WITH THE FULL POWER OF THE SUN.


I'll add more as they come to me.


[EDIT: Here are more. They came to me. Then they came again. And again. You also might really enjoy this discussion of black holes, science nerds!]

Au le Moulin Rouge

I swear to God this is the manliest picture of Ewan McGregor I could find.


So I watched Moulin Rouge today. I figured it's been long enough that absolutely no one could associate anything too horrible about me with watching it alone in my pajamas at 1 a.m. You know, beyond the obvious, I mean.

Basically I was aware that this was a very good movie, however mass-appeal overshadowed that and unless he was trying to get a little somethin' somethin' no heterosexual male has really been witnessed to sit down and watch Moulin Rouge.

So first up, I verified my own lack of French expertise and recalled that "maison" means house, so I did a quick Google through the opening credits to see that "moulin" means "windmill," coincidentally right as a see a giant red windmill appear on screen. Thanks, timing.

Anyway I finished the movie and determined that I actually quite like it. Cinematically it is very interesting. The costumes and lighting are wonderful, there are some shots that run the gamut from entirely stage-based to special effects only possible on film with multiple cameras, and a few more that utilize everything in between. It opens with rapid-fire dialogue that only matches the early vigor of its characters who, with the exception of The Duke NOT being Gary Oldman but seriously looking/acting like Gary Oldman, are all ably played and wonderful to watch on screen. Literarily, the story is well crafted and truthful, and all-in-all it is just a wonderful movie.

Interestingly, I had commented that I was about to do this experiment on a social networking site with a little status message, assuming anyone up at the hour to comment would at least right something interesting in response.

When I went back to check afterwards I found only a single comment pointing out that, from years of crappy spellcheck programs questioning my vernacular and claiming it leans heavily towards the British, I had misspelled "endeavor."

Now the interesting thing about this is the person who wrote this really only ever speaks to me when her insurance refuses to pay for her mood-stabilizers and she is heavily self-medicating with alcohol (though I must admit she seems much more reasonable in this position). After watching Moulin Rouge I realized that this person is very much my own personal Nicole Kidman.

Now I don't mean to say that she is my Nicole and I her ever-devoted Ewan McGreggor (Obi-Wan repreSENT!) Every time I'm forced to watch Kidman I become acutely aware that she is who she is and the overall experience is ruined for me.

No, I mean to say that this girl is my Nicole Kidman; in principle I fundamentally hate her but still get funny feelings whenever I see her.

I would much rather she be my dwarfish John Leguizamo.

This Has Nothing to Do with Kanye West

Proof some music is best left without visuals.



So did you guys see the VMAs the other night?

Yeah, me neither.

I just sort of woke up and found out some shit went down between an urban musician I don't listen to and a rural musician I don't listen to. In theory I probably should try and get something topical in while I can. Let everybody know I'm totally up on and appalled by this type of behavior, otherwise how will they know I'm aloof but down-to-earth?

Well I'm aloof enough as it is. I'm more awesome than you. There, I said it. Also, I have a pitiful social life and massive interpersonal issues. There, now I'm humbled and humanized. I did not need any help with that. I have the internet at my disposal.


So seriously, what's up with Video Music Awards?

I'm all for mixed-medium performance art but I gotta be honest, when I want to listen to music I'm usually in the car or reading or online or doing work or not paying attention. Often it's a combination of these things as I overly multitask as a result of having a very short attention span and a multitude of thoughts buzzing through my head like a hive of bees careening off the walls of a water slide down on Route 9 called Splashdown! which we passed the other day and GOD it really sucks but every time you go you think it's going to be better and it's not it's just the same every time and you leave cold and damp because there's nowhere to change into dry clothes and it's such a pain in the ass JESUS FUCK SHIT ASS.

Anyway, yeah, when I want to listen to music I generally want to be listening. It's cool that you hired a dude to write a little movie around your song but most of the time you have no idea what the story is, if anyone ever did.

It's cool! Really! I harbor you no ill will! Your antics on boats and in front of horse corals while expressing your open-ended desires or disregard for the opposite sex and the many problems that result from a close personal relationship give hope to millions of high schoolers who have not yet their own voices and so must cobble together their thoughts and feelings on the world and its people from bits and pieces of your lyrics.

You have a purpose.

But please, please remember that MTV is older than VH1 and beginning to show it's age. It manufactures artist and interest by rousing younger viewers with off-handed slights at its programming for older viewers. It is perfectly acceptable to watch a marathon of The Hills or Made: I Was A Teenage Hosebag, just turn it off when you start caring about the human beings creating the train wreck.

Music videos are cool and all, and yeah, if you have a party go ahead and stick the T.V. on a music channel for a little added sensory stimulation. You can even buy an album if you like the music you illegally downloaded enough.

BUT GUYS!

Please, turn it off when they start giving awards based on anything other than sales and/or musical talent.

On The Perfect Crime

So this past week my mother was on an extended vacation.

I had covered my tracks preemptively. Every vacation of long weekend trip I make sure to say, "And of course If I have any wild sex, drugs and rock & roll orgies, I'll make sure to clean up before you get back."

It was fool proof.

After a few rounds of beer pong and some music and burgers we headed out for the night.

The next day I slept in, fixed the curtain rod (again), wiped down the tables, cleaned the rug by the sliding glass door and all through the living room, mopped the kitchen floor, took out the garbage, recycling and all soiled cleaning supplies, and even went so far as to replace the preexisting messes throughout the house.

What I did not think to deal with was the vomit my one friend hurled over the side of the deck onto the neighbor's patio.

Curses. Foiled again.

O' Canada or: The Canadian Kilted Yaksmen, Pt. 5

I would put on a Shatner mask and bang Avril Lavigne like a sea green bartender from outer space. I would mount her like the Canadian police. I would nail her like Jesus on the cross.


Now the end of our tale takes quite a bit of explaining to make any sense at all. Firstly, we were drunk. That would normally do it, but there is something sinister about Montreal which I have not said: eighty-five percent of Canadian bums are punks. Now I don’t mean this to say they are bad people. They probably are, but that’s beside the point. Fifteen percent of Canadian bums are homeless beggars, who–according to one who followed us for several blocks inquiring as to the financial situations of New York City beggars–are all bi-lingual and earn upwards of $200 per day squeegeeing car windows. These people are amazing.

The other eighty-five percent are literally punks. They have stepped out of 1985 and into the streets of Montreal. They are garbed in military surplus and black leather, and the most popular accessory is the steel chain. They have large boots and spikes, and ugly girlfriends and unnaturally colored hair. Some kids lived together on the street with their dog. We gave a couple bucks to another kid outside a bar at two in the afternoon because his beggar’s request was, “Hey, can I get two bucks for beer?” He was honest. True punks are crazy, but they’re also brutally honest. If you’ve never seen the movie SLC Punk, watch it, and extrapolate that into Montreal.

Now these people remain on the streets after dark, as they live there. We, on the other hand, were drunken, foreign buffoons, appointing the least drunk of us the responsibility of deciding whether or not there were cars on the road we were about to walk into. The first thing I noticed was a group of teenaged punks huddled outside a closed Mega-Plex with their several canine companions, while one member of their groups was attempting to underhand a shrub-sized Christmas tree up onto the cinema’s lighted sign. Remember, this was late May.

About a block and a half later, Jay, the most punkish and most outrageously violent of our group was stumbling between my stumblings and Mike’s stumblings, and barring his System of a Down t-shirt, generally looking not very punkish or violentish. It was at this time that we passed a small group of punk-bums on the street. They walked between us, and in passing one threw up his leg back and sideways, kicking Jay’s leg and missing his crotch by about two inches. With a steel-toed boot.

Jay apologized, citing that he did not wish to start anything and that he was just drunk.

About three seconds later he rescinded this when he realized that he’d just been kicked by a lousy bum.

We spent a few minutes trying to keep Jay calm and explain that there were three distinct groups of punker-bums eyeing us at that moment, and that meant about fifteen people who would not be very happy with a trio of rabble-rousing tourists. The only thing that finally placate him was our friend Mike replying, "Jay, no, it's fine. He's a bum. He doesn't have a home."

Jay calmed down, laughed, and then proceeded to mock the bum, shouting, "Yeah! That's right. You're a bum! You don't have a house! I'm gonna go sleep in a nice warm hotel bed! You don't have a home!"

About half a block later Jay fell off his high road and punch a stucco wall erected in front of a renovated bodega. Two minutes later he asked us why his hand hurt and added, “Oh, shit! Why am I bleeding? Haha.”

He asked this all again three minutes after that.

And fifteen minutes later back at the hotel when we wrapped his hand in a washcloth from the bathroom dipped in the cooler’s ice water.

He asked again as we went to sleep, and every time we had to tell him, “Jay, you got kicked by a bum.”


This is an apt metaphor for how tourism works. It’s one thing to gripe about the incompetent tech support over in New Delhi, but imagine how this attitude changes when you are walking the streets of New Delhi late at night and your drunken frat buddy decides to go cow-tipping. This is why tourism will always be a novelty: People like cultural diversity, but they never want to feel out of their own element. Tourist centers spring up to offer all the comforts of Home in the middle of Somewhere Else. Businesses start catering to foreigners and not the indigenous peoples, and, ultimately, you get a whole punch of very angry locals who could quite easily teach French in American public schools, but are completely willing to live on the street for nothing if it means they can kick tourists unless they’re handed two bucks for beer.

O' Canada or: The Canadian Kilted Yaksmen, Pt. 4

Yeah, Elisha Cuthbert is Canadian. Who knew?


Ultimately in this chronicle, we must come to the reason that all underage kids visit Canada: Beer. Let me just say now that it was entirely known by all of our parents why we wanted to go to Canada. It was the same reason they went in 1978.

Beer.

We brought with us an empty cooler and duffel bag just so we could buy ice and keep beer in the room. Needless to say, or first outing with the car was to find any store that would sell beer to kids with another country’s driver’s license at 6PM on a Sunday. We found a little bodega after getting horribly lost, and handed a middle-aged Pakistani couple about $35 for cups and four six-packs of Molsen’s and something called “Fruity Tornado Twist malt beverage.” We ended up sitting in the room playing asshole and pre-gaming until about nine, when we decided to move out.

After wandering the streets, passing large men in suits offering “girlsgirlsgirls” like some ridiculous seventies exploitation film, we walked down the most terrifying street I have ever seen and entered a windowless bar. Jay got a round of Heineken at the bar, while Kessel and I established our claim to a game of cutthroat at the pool table up front. Midway through ordering our second round Jay was asked if he was looking for “a good time” and groped by a remarkably unattractive woman better suited to working the docks for sailors on shore leave, and we decided to head out.

That was when we came across the least Canadian oasis imaginable: McClean’s. We’d found an Irish pub. Immediately we walked in, and as my compatriots meandered up to the bar, I stumbled downstairs into the cleanest bar bathroom I have ever seen, and gleefully listened to the talking vacation adverts hanging above the facilities. When I came upstairs we ordered a couple rounds of Irish Car Bombs¹ from an incredibly attractive, Mid-Western American bartender.

1. Mix a shot of half Jameson’s Irish Whiskey and half Bailey’s Irish Cream and drop it into a pint of Guinness Extra Stout draft and chug immediately before it curdles. Tastes like ice-cold Yoohoo.

About midway through the second round she turns to me and says, “Oh, hey, I never checked your ID, did I?”

“Oh. No,” I said. “But I’m kinda used to it. I was always the older one and looked young, but then I grew the goatee and people just started assuming I was so much older.” I was beginning to ramble drunkenly–to a very attractive woman who quite clearly wanted to settle down and calm the tortured rebel within me, but I can be tamed by no one–so I quickly wrapped it up and tried to appear less than absolutely plastered. She never did check my ID, though.

From there we went across the street, after tipping our lovely hostess well of course, to a more trendy club, with bouncers this time. I had drunkenly gotten slightly lost, and went into the bar to find my friends. I did not see them, so I left to use my cell phone, whereby they came out and got me. Walking in the second time I actually got carded. At this point everything gets sort of purple and I don’t remember much beyond us stumbling back to the hotel, repeating over and over that the cops in Canada supposedly can’t arrest you for public drunkenness if you’re trying to walk home or to your hotel.

I must state that there is a dangerous side to touristy amusement parks like Montreal. Our second night was proof enough of that. After a modest pre-gaming session we walked far too far down the highway until we got lost and grabbed a cab to take us to the bigger clubs in town. This would be like the Parent’s Island portion of our perverted Disney getaway. We stood in line for nearly an hour. Jay bought a 40oz and drank it in line until it got confiscated. He later commented on how weak the bouncers looked and remarked, “I could take him,” right before said bouncer high-kicked a rowdy and lecherous patron who refused to leave a girl alone in the face. He put the sole of his boot up this kid’s nose, and we decided to play nice. Once inside, we discovered we were not actually inside. We had entered the pre-club, where we could buy beer and a few different drinks while waiting for the color of our wristbands to be called, and allowed into the actual club.

My God, that club. There was a bar ninety feet across. What was once a coat-check had been turned into a $1 shot station. Beer flowed double-fisted by the pitcher, and the dance floor looked like something Vanilla Ice once played in. Not being big dancers, we headed up to the second floor, which was actually the third-story balcony, overlooking the industrial catwalks and lighting equipment for the dance floor. After the first two pitchers, Jay couldn’t walk, and I followed Mike down for a pitiful attempt at playing wingman. I had to give up when I could no longer point in the direction of gravity, and stumbled back up to join Jay. Kessel joined us shortly, and we all sang along with the crowd of a thousand as “American Pie” blasted out of the speakers. Some random guy came up to us and started singing and hugging and throwing our hands into a circle like some crazed, inspirational hockey coach. This lasted the entire eight and a half minutes of the song.

O' Canada or: The Canadian Kilted Yaksmen, Pt. 3

As we unpacked our warmest summer clothes–Canada was cold in May–we monitored the FreMTV video countdown. The top five included an utterly bizarre video called “Tri-Cul” by Les Cowboys Figrantes at number five, about a taxi driver and his pregnant fare going into labor, but every person in the world looks like one of the three band members. Number three or four was titled “Moudit Qu’t’es Belle” by Longue Distance, which utterly rocked. It was the most interesting French-Canadian punk-pop I had ever heard, until I got home and translated the lyrics, only to discover the song was actually French Emo, and included the line, “Curse you for being beautiful, you rock ’n’ roll girl.” Green Day’s “Wake Me Up When September Ends” was number two. There was also some wacky video I’ve yet to identify which sounded like the girl from Evanescence singing country girl-rock, but it was in French and she wore a tutu in a sepia-colored basement world populated entirely by abused children. How do I know they were beaten? They wore casts and crutches and hid under beds with teddy bears crying, and drew crayon portraits of monsters beating them labeled “Daddy.” This was the number one video for an entire week. Then the new Coldplay album came out.

I have a sneaking suspicion that this is the same kind of overly-immersed confusion that children from poor Paraguayan villages feel when they finally get that scholarship fund to come study at UCLA. Everything on TV seems very decadent, like it could only make sense if you’d been raised on an I.V. drip of pure pop culture. Never try to understand a culture from its cable programming.

During the daylight hours of our stay we did the usual, touristy things–we got our money changed, visited the Montreal Museum of Modern Art, and basically explored the city waiting for the bars to open. Stepping out onto the sidewalk in front of the Hotel Sainte Denise is like stepping onto the Mason-Dixon Line. Turning right, one can walk downhill into the docks and bay. To the left, one has the option of turning left again onto Rue de Sainte Catharine and visiting the bars, porno-shops, and “touching-approved” strip joints. This is the Main Street of Downtown Montreal. Think Times Square circa 1987.

In the day at least, one is better off continuing up Sainte Denise Street. After a few generic municipal businesses, the paved road turns to immaculately maintained cobblestones, and the buildings start looking like London: one-story homes stacked three stories high, and packed like sardines, all of them long since converted into small, private boutiques, hookah bars, and expensive bistros. These are places that spell ‘shop’ with and extra P-E. Classy. In one I was mistaken for a store clerk precisely eighteen minutes after suggesting we bet on whether any of us could resist tourist nature and be mistaken for a “Native Canadianite” in just three days.

Interspersed with these fancy-schmancy locations were some rather ritzy Adult Novelty shoppes¹ and about seventeen million head shops. We entered one and stared at various gravity bongs and hydroponic systems and instruction manuals and secret compartment-possessing soda cans until the owner came over and talked to us. After mistaking a macraméd frisbee for a baret, we spent a good forty minutes discussing the vast disparities between Canadian and American health care systems, and the ineptitude of various world leaders to have been named Bush. This is the section of Montreal that feels like L.A. I highly suggest visiting.

1. At least I think that’s what they were. One’s sign was just a giant anthropomorphic condom, so it was a pretty safe guess.

O' Canada or: The Canadian Kilted Yaksmen, Pt. 2

Events like these seem to fall into the category of “You Had to Be There.” Now YHTBT moments are the bane and dread of every writer, reporter, and drunken storyteller the world over, but in the context of Canadian tourism, it’s actually brilliant. You have to be there. Really. Go now. There’s just something about the place that makes it feel like it’s all a U.S.-themed amusement park. Take Disneyland, and mix it with what I imagine New York City must have been like before Giuliani cleared out all the nudie-bars. Now to one side of Donald Duck Avenue is L.A.-Land, and to the other is Mayor Mickey’s New York, except now Mickey is homeless and asking for change to buy his daughter and her dog their meds after losing his job and house.¹

1. I swear aliens were also involved. It was amazing. We gave this homeless guy money twice that weekend, just for his creativity. Unfortunately, Canadian quarters are the same size as their $2 pieces. I knew I’d confuse them in my pocket when handing them to a homeless guy, and sure enough this is what happened. He was very surprised–almost as surprised as I was–and thanked me profusely. Hey, it’s not like I could have asked for change back.


The problem with theme parks is that they’re like light beer or diet soda: the flavor’s just a little off. Aside from outrageously overpriced soft-drinks and confusing maps, I’m sure any biracial Chinese-Norwegian couple would be a little offended at how they’re portrayed in the “Small World” ride. Assuming L.A. is Pepsi and New York is Coke, Montreal is Diet Cherry-Vanilla Dr. Pepper. But every Coke-drinker needs a splash of citrus-scented saccharin to revitalize our tastebuds every once in a while.


Our first stop past the border after such a long drive was to get gas. A station just inside Quebec, offered “Petrol” at just $1.32 per gallon. But not really. It was $1.32 Canadian per liter, which apparently translates as, “pay out your ass expensive,” and despite a quick-conversion table laminated at the front desk, the attendant was not mentally equipped to give Canadian change for American cash. We spent the next forty minutes figuring out that after you travel between countries I-8-35-7-B-whatever becomes Autorut 18, and along the way deciphered new and interesting street signs². We also decided to tell everyone how we’d “hit a buck-fifty” on Canadian highways, because we found kilometers so damned amusing.

2. I still maintain that one actually meant “No Station Wagons.”

We found the hotel with relative ease, considering we were in a different country and all the street signs were in the wrong language. Now the Hotel Sainte Denise is a small establishment. The three of us had originally booked a room for four to five people, and this meant that we got a room with two twin beds and a pull-out sofa. The room also had a full private bath and tickets for comped breakfasts, which included the most bizarre take on cinnamon toast I have ever come across. It was essentially a large, home-made cinnamon roll, cold, cut through the middle and arranged like a sandwich around what I think was some sort of mixture of warmed-over cream cheese and icing, topped with rocks of pure Columbian cinnamon. It came with juice and water from expensive, unlabeled, blue Absolut bottles, which coincidentally also made up the table’s centerpiece.

What really grabbed me about the hotel was the television. The TV itself was of absolutely nothing remarkable. It was a generic, brand-name unit, bought in bulk and stocked in every room of every hotel in the universe. However in Canada, TV is amazing. The first thing we did was find the French-Canadian equivalent to MTV and relax after the long drive up. We watched an animated show about sixteen year olds at their local (French) mall and tried to guess what the show was about³. Soon we were watching The Ashley Simpson Show with French subtitles, still trying to guess what it was about, even though the entire show was in English. Finally, we were treated to an afternoon of Pimp Mon Char, avec Xibit, and it was possibly the funniest thing I have ever seen on television.

4. This show was later shown briefly on Nickelodeon and more recently on Cartoon Network as 6Teen. It's hilarious.

O' Canada or: The Canadian Kilted Yaksmen, Pt. 1

Sometimes I wonder what it'd be like to sleep with a Canadian girl, bed a'rockin' and her screaming, "Ooh, ooh! Fook my coony, eh! Eh! EH! EEEHHH!! Ooooh, yea, eh."


During the summer between my senior year of high school and my freshman year of college, my cousin got married. This worked out to be a pain in the ass, because my friends Jay and Mike Kesselman and I were planning on driving to Canada from New York the next day, and my cousin lived in Maryland.

After much finagling, my mother and I drove three and a half hours down to Maryland, then realized our formalwear was still sitting on her bed at home and drove three and a half hours back. Then we drove through seven hours worth of traffic back down, arriving at the hotel around a quarter to midnight. The next day we went to the wedding, had a blast, and immediately drove home so I could get up at four the next morning to sit in another car driving seven hours to Montreal. Thanks, Mom.

Now there is a very good reason why all this seemed like a worthwhile idea at the time, and that reason is that Montreal is part of French Canada. Since Quebec keeps failing to secede, it asserts its independence by undermining national standards and keeping its legal drinking age eighteen. This is very important as Jay–I believe he was the youngest–was about eighteen and four days old on the day we trekked on up to the boarder.

Aside from lunch at an A&W restaurant and a bladder-churning wait at the border, nothing much happened for a good long while. Sitting in traffic, blasting “O, Canada” and “Enter Sandman” from the car stereo, we mused over Ontario license palates. Eventually, we realized that none of us spoke French, and no one had bothered remembering to bring a French phrase
book, so we would, for the duration of our stay in Canada, be forced to act like young, stupid American tourists. We accepted this, and with tails between our legs we approached a native of the land. We pulled up to a Range Rover and asked.
“Hey! Hey! What’s your license plate say?”
“What?” The man was understandably confused.
“Your license plate! ‘Je me rappellerai!’ What does it mean??” He starred blankly into space, apparently trying to remember what, if anything, was scrawled across his car’s plates. Conceding that there must have been something written there, he shouted back, embarrassed.
“... I forget!”
“What?” we asked over the din of traffic.
“I forget!” His wife tapped him on the shoulder repeatedly. She whispered. The man flushed, and shouted back, “I’ll remember!”
“What??” we cried in unison.
“‘I’ll remember!’ It means, ‘I WILL REMEMBER!’”

There was a brief moment of silence. Even the Cars got quieter. We all stared blankly at each other, two cars–two nations–sitting together, and then we laughed so hard we had to roll up the windows and drive away from each other.


Come back tomorrow for Part II of the adventure. Return repeatedly to read the rest of it. Return in the middle of next week if you want to skip all this and come back when I post about puns and my shitty day again.

On Canada: A Prelude

Greetings, loyal follower(s)!

I have decided that this week I will be syndicating my awesome, lengthy discussion on Canada, because Canada is like your awesome little brother who's actually pretty cool but you don't want your friends to know you enjoy hanging out with him.

To start off and lead you gently into the sea of "Canada is lame" jokes ahead, I will now present my preliminary report on why Canada is lame.


You know when Canadian Independence Day is?

Me neither. Pretty sure no one else does.

In point of fact, Canada didn't really have a revolution. They didn't even get upset. Canada gained independence from England in 1927 because they asked.

They asked nicely.

And obviously the rest of Britain said, "Uh, yeah, I guess that's alright. I mean, you're Canada. We can trust you." It's like when the A-student asks permission to go camping at her roommate's brother's cabin out in the woods over the holiday weekend at that condemned camp next to the abandoned but fully stocked beer distributor.

It sounds iffy, but hey, she's earned your trust through years of good behavior.

Canada asked to be equal in the British Commonwealth. Technically? Yeah, Canada's still affiliated with England. The idea is that no laws can touch Canada unless Canada agrees to them, but they're probably cool with it.

Robin Williams said Canada was like a loft appartment over a really great party. I can kind of agree. My only real problem with Canada is the weirdest thing: in Canada "Canadian bacon" isn't actually popular. If it's available you have to call it "back bacon." Lame. I'm not putting peameal bacon on my McMuffin. No thank you.


If you've enjoyed parts of this rant and/or Canada in general, go out and download "O Canada" by Five Iron Frenzy. Good stuff.

On the Porcine Sexual: Porky Pig Is Gay

 
Get it? It's a jackhammer. There's a pun there.


I developed this theory, oh, a good six or seven years ago.

Porky Pig is gay.

It's fairly obvious. The demure behavior, the idiosyncratic speech, his geeky but still pulls-it-off fashion sense. All the signs are there.

But I need not rely on these innuendos and dismissive stereotypes. I also have completely circumstantial conjecture.

Petunia was Porky's cover, his beard. She was a strong, independent fat woman. Probably a lesbian.

Porky roomed with Gabby Goat and they had crazy gay sex all night long. That’s why they were always late for work. Like that one time they were, and then when they realized it was a holiday they dove right back into bed with the fake snoring. They were totally just waiting for us to look away before they started the crazy hetero-species homo-sex.

Warner Brothers even tried to cover up the sex-capades. Years after they broke up, WB was able to convince Porky to work through the pain and refilm the entire 6.5 minutes short with Daffy Duck gag-for-gag and word-for-word, so no one would notice that the goat had gone missing.

Now Daffy isn't gay. Rather his initial manic insanity has more recently manifested in less maladjusted narcissism, resulting in an autosexual personality, quite literally aroused by his own performance and perceived talent. Replacing a former character in the exact film, only as a better alternative, would be all the draw he needed to go along with such an idea.

So that's it. Porky was a complete man-loving sex pig. It's cool, Porky. We still love you. You don't have to be ashamed of who you are.

Just don’t get me started on Tom, Jerry and sadomasochism. That shit's fucked up.

On Growing Up III: The Curse of the Growening

So I finally decided to get rid of a bunch of the crap that's been sitting around my room making me feel goofy.

Another way to say this is I wanted to make my room seem somewhat more mature to match myself.

Another way to say this is "There ain't no way in hell you're getting laid with Optimus Prime watching."

Now I can't just turn the guy around, that's not the problem, you see. Quite frankly, I am not giving up my toys for anyone. I fully intend to keep them in my office, once I own my own house with an office. Unfortunately I do not own a house. I in fact live in my mother's apartment in a room and I am quite lucky to have my own bookshelf and free use of the public bathroom as long as it stays nice looking.


So, what to do, dear friends? How does one cram 80% of an apartment and a full childhood bedroom into the same spacial location? (For the purposes of this discussion we are ignoring the folding of space-time and other extra-dimensional physics because if I could afford to produce a tesseract I could just buy a damn house.)

Well the answer is you get sneaky.

Last night around 5 a.m. I had an epiphany, and emotional call that said, "I don't remember what half this memento crap is from so I can throw it away. Also, buy a cabinet and hide your toys."

So this afternoon I took some measurements, checked the Walmart website and then braved the white-trash mecca of our local superstore to snag the one remaining white storage cabinet.

Now let me be clear. 1) I thought it would be taller, but I'm okay with how the height turned out. 2) I originally intended to move (hopefully) all of my complete manga series, comic books or Star Wars novels into this cabinet, closing the doors and reserving visible shelf space for what didn't fit and my more mature literature, thus showing I am an adult with refined tastes.

Well, the top shelf is a couple Nerf Mavericks and my old N64, the PS2 I bought second-hand to play Guitar Hero on and the Sega Genesis 16-Bit I bought on eBay so I could play Sonic 2 again.

The second shelf is a pile of Transformers/hot chicks from movies action figures and a plethora of booze, albeit very refined, expensive booze.

The second-to-last shelf I removed. That's not true. I never installed it. Because this way I can store all my Nerf guns like an ammo locker.

Yeah.

Now fine, I regret that I spent $50 to store a lot less than I thought I would and yes, I still have to put another storage unit of un-eBay-able toys back in the attic, but honestly, I think it was worth it. I have a piece of furniture I can use in my eventu-home. There are far fewer things around my room that can act as a sexual Trapper Keeper. It is much neater and more mature than it was this morning.

Also, I totally have a cache of Nerf guns chilling next to my dresser. I'm like the Wacco ranch of foam-based maturity.

Recurring Thoughts

I've said it many a time, but today I thought again that one of the reasons I like curvy girls is how uncomfortable it makes me when I scope out a girl with no ass in booty shorts from far away, only to realize when she walks past me that she was in fact just eleven years old and not really that far away.

Awkward.

On Trust and the Inevitable Robot Uprising

I think it's funny that after playing tech support in my family for almost a decade now, I still installed Snow Leopard on my mom's computer yesterday before I did my own, just to make sure I didn't accidentally wipe the hard drive.

I think I trust the technology just slightly less than I do myself. Awesome.

Alternate Names for My Penis

Friends, if your designated hook-up source really demands to name your Johnson (and “Johnson” isn't actually acceptable) go ahead and try to guide her towards one of these awesome names:

• Doc Johnson [at least try]
• Doc Savage
• The Iron Shiek
• The Groan Ranger
• Tiny (only if everyone you know is very ironic)
• Conan the Barbarian
• Mighty Thor
• [or alternatively if you are Thor] Mjolnir, Hammer of the Gods
• Excalibur
• Bruce Willis [because he's just awesome]
• “American Idol” William Hung
• your Boomstick
• Vlad the Impaler
• The Beast [or simply Beast; X-Men reference for you/Disney “Beauty and…” reference for her]
• Dick/Richard [only if you name your testicles Tom and Harry]
• J. Edgar Pooner
• Twilight [say what you want, but until she starts covering your junk in body glitter this idea is totally worth it]
• Marty McFly
• Mega Man
• Invade-Her Zim
• Chewbacca HHHUUUUUUURRRRRRRRRRHHHHLLLLL!!!
• Arnold Shvantz-enegger
• Cobra Commander
• Mmnnphuh! [because that's what it sounds like your saying when your mouth is full]
• Johnny Rico
• Rihanna (because if you were Chris Brown you'd be beating it all night long)
• THE PHANTASM^®
• Mr. Fantastic
  

Please note while not all of these names are intrinsically dirty, they are all in fact some way hilarious and awesome, so if you don't see that you're missing something and all of your friends are laughing at your ignorance.

On NeoPets and christianity

[VagDestroyer living up to his name. This is the little blue thing I had.]


Last night I was informed that today's blog post should be my rant about how NeoPets are anti-Christian.

Since I would run out into a busy street for the person who suggested this, I kind of have to. Thus, here is the exact conversation we originally had when I first suggested the Bruce the Penguin/Lucifer connection:

Me: … But a NeoPet is not sacrilegious in any way. WAIT. IT IS!! Neopets are an abomination against God in like 8 different ways!

Jo: Go.

Me: 1) They were not created by god.
2) They evolve online and become different.
3) They're modeled after mythical beasts and demons.
4) Children worship them more than church.
5) You create them yourself, literally playing God to create these abominations.

Jo: Only 5 so far, but yeah you're right.

Me: Ummmm … can your NeoPets marry other pets?

Jo: I don't think so.

Me: Oh, 6) they cannot die. WITCHCRAFT AND SORCERY.
7) YOU WILL COVET COOLER PETS AND THEIR EXPENSIVE BELONGINGS. Eight, eight....
YOU PLAY ON FRIDAYS/SUNDAYS. They work on the sabbath. Huh, apparently 8 + ) [in iChat] equals cool smiley guy. MORE BLASPHEMY!

Jo: All the children who play NeoPets are going to hell.

Me: Yup.

Jo: That's so sad, they don't even know.

Me: Oh, they know Tthey just do not care. THEY DON'T GIVE A DAMN FOR THE LORD. THEY HAVE WASTED THEIR LIVES IN SIN AND MISERY … in the houseee of the rii-hii-zin' sun!!!


So yes, NeoPets are an abomination unto the Lord. As Jew, honestly I'd typically root for them. They're the underdog here. I'd root for them and the New York Mets.

Unfortunately, the reason I was commanded to blog on this topic tonight is that Jo has recently come to learn that the creator of NeoPets is apparently a scientologist. Now I'm not really sure who to side with. On the one hand is organized Christianity which I am not exactly a fan of, but on the other is the systematic embodiment of every reason I hate organized religion to begin with.

Since you my have noted (okay, you didn't but it's totally there, go back and check) I did not capitalize "scientologist" as I did "Jew" and "Christianity," I think you'll find my position clearly demarked.


That's really it. I'm letting this one speak for itself. I'll just add that yes, I signed up for an account, named my little blue thing "VagDestroyer" because that was the only thing that got past the dirty word detector, checked out the games and then said "Screw this noise," before giving away all my stuff and points to Jo, and having her adopt Vag Destroyer. Promises and alimony were exchanged, and a week later VagDestroyer had been abandoned to the dark recesses of the NeoPound. AND I FEEL NOTHING FOR HIM.

Now go expel your thetans.

Of Overzealousness In the Art of Ritualistic Mating Displays

So many times I've walked through a department store and said, "Ooh, lookit that. Cologne. I'm smelled the same for a few years now. Maybe it's time for a change."

And then I smell something and have a palsy fit.

I am a man. I do not wish or need to smell of woods or beaches or non-sequitur adjectives pulled at random from celebrity thesauri like a game of capitalist Mad Libs. Unless I am a fishmonger, literally caked in brine, hair awash with the scents of the sea and gutted aquatic life, I do not need to smell like T-Pain. My Method Man & Red Man endorsed Right Guard with Power Strip^® technology does that just fine, thank you.

But yes, on occasion I do prefer to smell lightly of something more attractive and nose-catching than my own personal erotic musk. In my entire life I have used unscented deodorants, lightly scented deodorants, Axe Bodyspray – shut up, we were all young and stupid, shut up shut up SHUT UP!! – Eternity for Men (in attempt to smell attractive to one specific female/jerk), different Axe until they made it much more emphatic, and a GAP-branded scent titled simply "The Artist," which I continue to enjoy because it is cheap, lightly scented water. Bravo. On the off-chance I smell bad but do not have the opportunity to shower, I can smell more desirable to the ladies. Success.

But no. No success. Bad libido. Bad. No.

Those of us who choose to mask our own chemical-laced pheromone cocktails, for the most part, men do not smell bad. Now what we eat, that usually smells atrocious. I mean garlic? Who the fuck doesn't love garlic?

Ladies.

Ladies hate garlic. This of course led to what is possibly the most clichéd move for a sex-crazed movie douchebag since feathered hair went out of style, came back in and then went out of style again: the breath spray.

Remember Binacca? My friends found a can of Binacca in one of their rooms after like four years and immediately used it the way they did when they were 14, they sprayed each other in their open wounds and waited to see who cried first.

This is unacceptable, dudes and breath-concerned dudettes. We must have some way of making our nutrient holes smell appealing to the opposite sex, because that's where we keep our tongue muscles. It's not always possible or even affordable to brush our teeth after every consumption of delicious but malodorous food.

I have a solution, friends. What is the one food that every person on earth loves unconditionally? What is the one smell and taste that regresses any person to childhood, unwrapping presents, waiting up for Santa, sneaking down the stairs at 2 a.m. for a midnight treat?

Cookies.

Let that sink in. Cookies. Motherfucker, take a cookie and put it in your pocket when you run our to the bar. Enough of this flossing and repetitive brushing that never gets the last little taste of footlong sandwich out of your maw. Anchovy pizza? Cookie. Basket of jalapeno poppers? Cookies. Human flesh seared lightly on both sides and served on a bed of fava beans and a nice Merlot because you are not a slave to fucking convention!? Cookies.

It's real simple. Just pop a cookie in your mouth. Chocolate chip works best because it contains the base cookie, a hint of vanilla and chocolate, which sticks around as a flavor whilst simultaneously creating phlegm, which just means you keep tasting the cookie all night. No one can resist the smell of fresh cookies. It's like an electromagnet of love.

Imagine it. You start edge over to the hotty at the end of the bar but she's not giving you the time of day. Defeated, you head towards the exit WHEN SUDDENLY you remember the magic in your pants and reach into your pocket for a home-baked bite of heaven.

Chew. Chew. Chew. Swallow. Lick clean. GAME TIME. You walk back to Ms. Perfect and intrude on her circle of friends. No, ladies, there will not be a "No Guys Night" this eve. This is a place of magic and romance. Bring not your heavy baggage in here.

"ExCHUse me," you say, stressing the breathy syllables to their fullest. "HI. HOw are you? I was just HAving a HArd day WHEn I saw you HEre at the bar, and I was really just tHInking tHAt you are an inCREdibly atTRActive WOman and I was HOping tHAt perHaps you'd like to HAve a drink wHIth me?"

Her friends cannot understand why she would go with you. You are not a model for Ambercrombie. You are not the kind of man who has a Ferrari or a penthouse or even a job. Yet still she is drawn to you.

"Brenda, but … why??" Her friends call after her but she is lost to them.

"I- I'm sorry, girls. I have to. He- His breath smells like cookies."

Game, set, match. How else could it play out? You pop a cookie in your mouth and the girls are all over you? You're all of the flavor with none of the fat. Kissing you is delicious and it burns calories! You are the celery of sexy.

So just put a little cookie in your pocket if you think you might get lucky. That little circle you see in my wallet? Naw, baby, that's not a condom, that's a cookie, because I'm thinking of your comfort and needs. So if you could do me a real solid and get on the pill of somethin' we can both feel real good. I here those come with a candy coating now that melts in your mouth, not in your uterus resulting in knockedupitude due to improper administration of a perscription medical device.