Helping You Get the Most Out of Your Misery






This page is powered by Blogger. Isn't yours?

Saturday, March 31, 2007


The Stamp Project

Most days, I think the Postal Service is a wonderful thing. Just think about it: I can take something and just drop it in a box near my house and a few days later, it winds up in the hands of somebody I know. That's pretty damn cool. And, yeah, I realize that they've got their share of problems; lost mail, slow delivery, a propensity for workplace violence. All in all, though, I'm very pro-postal.

I am extremely bothered, though, by the rate at which they've been increasing the price of first-class stamps. Buying one- or two-cent stamps and sticking them on there beside the real stamp just looks dumb. I always figure people see that and think, "Jesus, this cheap bastard can't bear to toss out a few bucks worth of stamps." I don't want to do it again.

The problem with that, though, is that I've got a whole assload of stamps in my desk drawer here. I've got forty-six $0.39 stamps and they're only good for another forty-three days. So I'm setting out on a bold initiative. I'm going to do my damnedest to get use all forty-six of these things before the price change hits on May 14th.

I'm going to send frivolous letters just for the hell of it. I'm going to send letters to people I haven't written to in years. I'm going to mail a picture of my balls to Karl Rove. I'm calling this The Stamp Project and I'll do my best to keep track of my progress.

So: Day 1, 46 stamps, no letters sent. And we're off.


Music of the Nightmare

I'm not a big fan of Andrew Lloyd Webber. I think that he got incredibly lucky when he wrote the music for Jesus Christ Superstar--or else he killed an actually talented composer and stole the work for his own--and that pretty much everything else he's done since should be shoved up Ann Coulter's ass and then Coulter and the music should be shoved up Dane Cook's ass to make something akin to the turducken of annoyance.

Of particular annoyance to me is fucking Phantom of the Opera. First and foremost, I hate Phantom because it helped to usher in the era of the Spectacle Musical, in which a falling chandelier (or a landing helicopter or what-have-you) is more important than, say, good actors or a decent script. Another reason I'd rather self-administer a colonoscopy than sit through a single scene of Phantom is that I really can't stand any piece of entertainment that takes itself that fucking seriously. Oh! the pain he feels! And, oh! the strength of their love! How can an audience sit through that without vomiting all over their souvenir t-shirt?

Now, in the universe's latest attempt to prove to me that there is a god, and that he's an incredible dick, it appears that several of my middle school students have discovered Phantom. Yesterday morning, they had a print-out of lyrics from one of those god-awful Phantom songs and, while I was trying to get them to focus on the lesson at hand, they were fucking singing. Badly.

Middle school girls are overly dramatic enough without bringing the world's worst piece of overblown popera into the equation. If I have to listen to these girls sing so much as one more bar of this nausea-inducing drek, I swear in the name of all that's holy, I will save up my dogs' feces for a month, find out where Lloyd-Webber lives and fucking mail it to him.

Thursday, March 29, 2007


Justify My Love

Sereena, hostess of this week's Roundtable discussion, is riffing on our recent Roundtable theme of who ought to say what when and why anybody should give a third of a shit. Sereena wants your bona fides. So head on over to Metaphor Voodoo and use fifty words or less to defend your right to mouth off and have people listen.

Wednesday, March 28, 2007


Hairshirt Horoscope

Aries: You're apt to be especially attuned to the thoughts and feelings of people around you at this time, Aries. Which sucks for you, because you work with a punch of perverts who are mostly thinking about how much they'd love to be smearing Jell-O on their privates.

Taurus: Work on projects that require imagination and sensitivity could well take up a lot of your time today. It'll take so much time because you have absolutely no imagination or sensitivity.

Gemini: Words of love could be exchanged today between you and a romantic partner, Gemini. Sure, the actual sentence may be something like, "Get away from me, you creepy fucking asshole, or I'm calling the cops," but you'll be able to feel the love behind the words.

Cancer: More than one visitor might drop by in order to discuss matters with you, perhaps bringing a few books with them. These visitors are called "Mormons" and you'll know them by their short-sleeve shirt & tie combo. It's okay to not let these visitors in.

Leo: Insights that might not normally come to you add new depth and dimension to your writing; super-cool insights, like, "Celery is crunchy" or "Eating peanuts and grapes is like eating a raw form of a PB&J." Maybe you shouldn't be blogging while stoned.

Virgo: Your day, while not bad in any monumental sense, will be filled with enough shitty encounters to drive you that much closer to the precipice of utter nihilism. Have fun!

Libra: A trip to the library could be on your agenda for today, Libra, but it probably won't be, as you're illiterate.

Scorpio: Your intuition has been steadily increasing over the past few months, Scorpio. Like last week, when you predicted that George Bush wouldn't want to let Karl Rove testify before Congress? That was just amazing.

Sagittarius: Assessment of the ideas of others may be one of your main focuses for today, Sagittarius. Unfortunately for these "others", your assessments mostly consist of sarcasm, as represented by your reply of, "That's a brilliant idea, you fucking dipshit" when your assistant suggested getting Thai for lunch.

Capricorn: If your career involves communication in any form, expect to capture the interest of a lot of people at this time. This interest is mostly due to the fact that it's cold in the room and you're nipping out.

Aquarius: Don't let today pass you by. Reach your foot out and trip it, then tie it up and shove it in the closet with the other days.

Pisces: Dreams or visions could bring sudden and exciting insights with regard to career issues, Pisces. But please don't bore the living shit out of everyone around you by trying to tell them about these dreams. 'Cause the fact that you and your third grade teacher were flying a rocket ship is not fascinating to anybody but you.

Monday, March 26, 2007


That Darn Congress

You have to wonder where the hell the respect is in Washington these days. Take, for example, the sad, sad spectacle of what the left-wing press and those turd-burglarizing commies who've taken over congress are doing to a noble and righteous man like Attorney General Alberto Gonzales.

Now, despite not being Caucasian, A.G. Gonzales has bravely served the American people by doing whatever he needed to do to justify whatever George W. Bush wanted to do. You can't ask more of an Attorney General than that, now can you? I truly believe that if the President wanted to find a way for him to legally hunt and kill old people and wear their skin as a suit, Mr. Gonzales has the legal expertise to locate the precise loophole that would allow Bush to do just that. How can you help but admire that kind of keen legal mind, especially when it's given the administration the maneuvering room to accomplish the kind of spectacular success they've achieved in the War on Terror?

But is that good enough for the 'Fraidy-Crats? No. They can't just sit back and admire the greatest legal mind since Johnny Cochran. They have to piss and moan, "Oh no! The Justice Department fired some no-good attorneys who didn't want to smear democrats! Boo-hoo!" Why don't you get a real job, Congress? Stop stepping all over the President's toes.

Nope, Nancy Balonsi and her mafiosi are pulling poor, noble Alberto in front of congress and making him testify...under oath! What the hell is wrong with these people? Don't they realize that Mr. Gonzalez and the President have had privileged conversations? What if the President and A.G. were talking about a surprise party for George Bush, Sr.? Then Gonzalez has to testify under oath and some butt-pirate liberal congressman asks him about that particular conversation and Alberto has to blurt out the party plans in front of the whole Washington press corps. Party's ruined then, isn't it? These are the things that the liberalatti just don't stop to think about.

Let's face it, this country is never going to live up to its fullest potential until the Executive branch is given carte blanch to do whatever it takes to Get the Job Done. Period. (Unless a Democrat wins in the next election, in which case congressional oversight becomes a good thing.)

Sunday, March 25, 2007


Clown Wrath

The circus is coming to New York. And, unfortunately, they're bringing Bello the clown with them. I'm not a fan of clowns in general--creepy, unfunny, annoying--but this guy is just the most annoying-looking clown ever.

I've never seen his act. (This is because I don't fucking go to circuses.) But his goddamn picture is all over the subways and so I'm constantly confronted with his idiotic smile and his hair. His hair just makes me angry.

I don't know why. But it does. I hate his hair and I want to punch it or hit it with a shovel. I want to fire him from a cannon into a brick wall just to destroy the hair. I want to run a lawnmower back and forth across his scalp so I can see his hair flying into a mulching bag. I want to sneak up behind him with a lighter and an aerosol can so that I can set that hair on fire. I want to tie him up by a railroad track so a train can run his hair over. I want to rub tuna into his hair and then throw him into a pit with 378 hungry housecats.

Now, let me be absolutely clear here: I wish no violence upon Bello himself. As long as he doesn't clown near me, I'm fine with his continued healthy existence. But his hair must be destroyed.

Or maybe he could just put a fucking hat on.

Thursday, March 22, 2007


Hairshirt Horoscope

Aries: There is a great deal of unexpected communication coming your way today, Aries, but be careful of whom you trust. For example: that twitchy dude in the clown makeup with a machete in his hand and blood on his shoes? You probably don't want to invite him in for tea.

Taurus: It could be that you need to enlist some sort of translator in order to get through to a person with whom you are trying to communicate. Or you could just ask yourself if you really feel comfortable dating someone who feels that an evening at the Olive Garden is made that much better when you speak in Klingon.

Gemini: You may feel as if people have turned against you today, Gemini, but the truth is that they've been against you for ages and you've just been too stupid to notice.

Cancer: You're feeling a lot of warmth and affection toward everyone around you - but a little sad as well, particularly when you think of those who live far away. Call them up! They'll be glad to hear from you. Especially when you're ragingly drunk. Yeah, they'll be delighted to chat with you for hours. It'll be awesome.

Leo: Have fun letting your mind drift into a fanciful world where it can explore its imaginative proclivities. Since you're a White House staffer, you've been getting a lot of practice at this.

Virgo: Enjoy the fun-loving energy of the day instead of questioning it. The more you simply let loose and explore, the better off you will be. And, hey, if that means you find yourself in a coke-fueled threesome, well que sera, sera.

Libra: You have the opportunity to do some intense self-healing today, Libra, in such a way where you communicate much more directly with your core self, without the distractions of the people around you. This should prove pretty easy, as your head is up your ass.

Scorpio: Take a walk on the wild side today. Put three sugars in your decaf cappuccino! You'll feel so fucking free!

Sagittarius: Feel free to match your plaid slacks with your polka dot shirt today, Sagittarius. As long as you're going to be retarded, you might as well look retarded.

Capricorn: Do not feel like you absolutely need to take a rational and methodical approach to problems today. In fact, irrational and scattershot might be just the ticket.

Aquarius: Things are apt to jump out at you when you least expect them this week, so be prepared for surprises. Oh, well shit. I've gone and ruined the surprise for you. Goddammit! When will I learn? When will I learn?

Pisces: You might feel as if your heart is playing tricks on you today, Pisces. Actually, it's not playing tricks, it's just telling you you're going to die without an angioplasty.


The Cut of Your Gib

Atul is hosting the Roundtable this week and he's wondering what the hell it takes to earn your respect.

Personally, I'm pretty easy. If you fart and cop to it, I can respect you.

So click on over to Things I've Noticed, fart and cop to it.

Wednesday, March 21, 2007


Meet the Parents

So the horoscope will be out tomorrow. I had no time to write it tonight, as I was stuck in parent-teacher conferences. Sweet lipstick-blotting Christ, I hate parent-teacher conference day.

It's not so much the conferences themselves, which can actually be quite nice. It's the fact that I have to be in the school until seven fucking thirty at night. Now, I realize that the general perception is that teachers have the sweetest schedule possible and I will admit that I have little to bitch about, schedule-wise, when you compare my job to that of, say, a garbage man or a hooker.

Still, dealing with middle school students all day and then sitting around all evening waiting for their parents to show up so you can tell them what maniacs their kids are really blows.

Highlights of my evening:
  • The student who had failed the majority of his other classes, but was getting a B+ in my theater arts class. (I got to send him out with a smile when he'd come in sobbing.)
  • The girl who failed my class because she sits around with her friends every day talking and tells me to get out of her face when I tell her to get to work. (She left the room nearly crying.)
  • Leaving.
And, of course, the best thing about parent-teacher conferences is that tomorrow I will be utterly exhausted and have to drag my ass through a full day of teaching when I was there half the goddamn evening.

Remind me to tell you sometime about the wonderful afghan I crocheted while waiting for parents to get around to seeing their kids' theater teacher. It's oh so pretty.


Kids Say the Darndest Motherfucking Things

I've never been a huge booster of lawsuits that aren't absolutely necessary. But I'm seriously considering joining the ranks of the angry people suing comedian Sacha Baron Cohen.

I'm not in the movie, so it's not a matter of my having bitterness because he tricked me into talking on film about how I love to dip my testicles into bowls of clam chowder. In fact, I'm of the opinion that any of the dipshits he made look foolish in his film need to dry their little tears and shut the fuck up.

No, I'm angry because I don't think Baron Cohen took into account how middle school teachers would have to put up with obnoxious fucking sixth- and seventh-graders parading around the classroom doing lame-ass Borat impressions and thinking they're the funniest fucking thing on earth. It's annoying because it's disruptive. It's annoying because these little turds have no comedic timing and no ability to successfully mimic an accent.

And it's triply annoying because the kids act like they've discovered some great new thing that a teacher would have no clue about. I want to shake the little buggers and scream, "I was watching him do the same shit on cable when you were still crapping your pants! Two years ago!"

Seriously, do you have any idea how just galling it is to see students who are failing Theater Arts class attempting (poorly) to re-enact scenes from the film?

I guess I can take solace in the fact that, if the same kids were ever exposed to Ali G, they would have absolutely no idea that it was a joke.

Tuesday, March 20, 2007


Blow and Arrow

When I was a fat pre-pubescent growing up in rural Ohio, I wanted to be Robin Hood. I read a book called Locksley: The Story of Robin Hood and decided that living in the woods with a bunch of guys, working against an evil government and fighting for the people would be a cool lifestyle. My dad bought me a bow and I spent a few weeks practicing in the half-assed manner that would garner me so much success in my later years. I lost interest in archery after a short while, but I still have a fondness for Robin.

So I was excited when I saw that BBC America was going to be running a new series about him and I've been DVRing every episode and...meh.

It's nothing I can really put my finger on. Their Robin is this pretty boy who's meant to be charming but doesn't actually have enough charisma to carry Errol Flynn's used condoms. They've given Robin this servant who fills the role of comic relief sidekick. Or, rather, he would fill the role of comic relief sidekick if he was at least as funny as, say, yarn. But he's not. In a joke-off, a skein of yarn would win, hands-down. And then there's the problems found with every single British action/adventure series I've ever seen, which is that the action is lame and it's not all that adventurous. You'd see better stunts in a Theater Camp stage combat class.

And, like so many other things that I've seen on TV this last year, (Studio 60, I'm looking at you) I really, really wanted to like this. But I just can't. I hate that. I hate when I want to enjoy something that ends up sucking fifty metric tons of ass.

So then, today, I'm lying pantsless on the couch with the remote in my hand [note: this image is being created for purely comedic effect; I am not the type of husband who would be so disrespectful as to rub my bare ass on our furniture] when I saw that HBO was running Kevin Costner's Robin Hood: Prince of Thieves. And I thought, "Huh. I wonder how it stacks up against the BBC show."

Turns out it makes the BBC version look like utter genius. If you can get around Costner's mullet and the fact that an English lord sounds like he was born and raised in Oklahoma, then you still have to deal with Christian Slater's mullet and his shitty attempt at an accent. To this, you then add Alan Rickman as the Sheriff, made up to look like one of the Wilson sisters from Heart circa 1987. I mean, the shot where we follow the arrow from the bow to the tree was great and all that, but you've gotta have more than that to build an entire fucking movie.

So great is my disappointment in both of these craptacular takes on the story, I'm going to do my own version with sock puppets and twigs and I'm betting it'll blow BBC and Costner out of the water. And it'll definitely be more historically accurate.

Monday, March 19, 2007


Fun With Slush

A very snowy weekend here in New York. It came down heavy on Friday and Saturday morning found a buttload of slushy pyucch on the ground. I slipped and slided down the steps as I took my dogs out for a walk and had the boundlessly joyful New York experience of negotiating my way around an intersection entirely overcome with disgusting slush and street juice. It was a trek.

So when I got back I sat on my couch and continued reading Doris Kearns Goodwin's Team of Rivals, which I am enjoying tremendously in spite of my shame at having to wait for it to come out in paperback because I'm loathe to shell out hardback prices these days. I relaxed and did my best to ignore the sounds of my landlord struggling with the gunk on the sidewalk. After awhile, though, my conscience got the better of me and I put on my mukluks and headed down to help the guy out. There are two shovels in the building, so I picked up the crappier of the two and chipped in.

My landlord, meanwhile had found the snow/ice rough going and had retreated into his apartment to bring forth his little tiny snow blower. Folks, let me just say that tiny snow blowers are a shitty idea, even for city-dwellers who don't have room for the John Deere Snow-a-Pault 3000. Tiny snow blower are basically as affective as sucking up a spoonful of sugar with a straw and spitting it out.

Meanwhile, I was doing pretty well with the plastic shovel my landlord had been using. I'd cast aside the old, aluminum foil jobby that had been beaten to the point where it was really not good for anything other than maybe stirring cream into a giant vat of coffee. I got into a nice li'l rhythm and cleared away the entirety of the sidewalk in front of our building while my landlord--abandoning his snow blowing--went and got more salt. (And can I just say that snow-melting salt just always makes me want to go get a huge soft pretzel?)

Yesterday, I decided that it might be a good idea to dig my wife's car out so that I wouldn't have to do it at 6:30 this morning. The plastic shovel was as ineffectual as Ann Coulter manning a suicide hotline. The street slush had frozen to the point where I was doing nothing more than scraping a tiny layer of disgusting crap off the top. The hardware stores around us were closed, so buying a manlier shovel was out of the question. The guy who offers to help you with his metal shovel if you pay him sneered at me as I no-thanked him and told him I'd try it on my own.

In the end, I came up with a pretty effective method in which I slammed my heel repeatedly on the ice and broke it up enough to then scrape it away with my Happy Meal shovel. It took an hour or so of slamming, scraping and dumping, but I eventually got almost every filthy flake away from my wife's car and, I have to say, she had a pretty easy time pulling out this morning.
So why the hell am I taking the time to write about something so completely fucking mundane as shovelling goddamn snow? Well, I'm actually a little troubled by how into it I got. I was really enjoying the shovelling. And then, after I finished--both times--I had this utterly retarded sense of pride looking at the clear spots I'd made. I even brought my wife over to the window so she could admire my section of sidewalk compared to others on our block which had been done extremely half-assedly. I'm such a fucking dork.

Saturday, March 17, 2007


Annie Get Your Gun and Put It to My Head and Pull the Fucking Trigger

There are many reasons to hate that annoying fucking GAP ad with Claire Danes and Patrick Wilson dancing around and exchanging a pair of crappy-looking khakis.

You can hate it because you hate Claire Danes and think she's a bit of a twit, what with the occasional foot-in-mouth disease and the fact that she broke up Mary-Louise Parker's marriage.

You can hate it because the idea of marketing a pair of pants that are made for women but look like men's pants is retarded, as it's much easier to just sell a woman men's pants.

You can hate it because Patrick Wilson was in The Phantom of the Opera, so fuck him.

Or, like me, you can hate it because, for hours and goddamn hours after you watch it, you find yourself singing and humming and whistling that fucking song. I grew up with a mother who did a killer Ethel Merman impression (and did it frequently.) I think that left me especially sensitive to Ethel Merman songs, which means that, once that voice gets lodged in my head, it stays for awhile.

Add to that the fact that I'm not only dealing with this song which keeps barging its way into my psyche, but now it's dragging Claire Danes' dippy fucking dance routine along with it. I want to scoop out my brain with a soup spoon and cut out whatever part is responsible for this shit.

Fucking GAP.

Friday, March 16, 2007


My Dog the Attempted Murderer

I don't know if he's unhappy with his kibble or I've yelled at him one too many times for eating turds out of the catbox, but something pushed my dog over the edge yesterday and he attempted to kill me.

It wasn't any kind of snarling, teeth-bared lunge at my throat. Oh, no. My dog is much, much slier than that.

When I got home, as I was preparing to take the dogs out for their afternoon excretory extravaganza, Mortimer began jumping around the kitchen on his hind legs, pretending to be oh-so-very happy at the prospect of taking a crap on the sidewalk. I was attempting to hurry out the door, so I didn't really pay much attention to where he'd been jumping.

Upon returning to the apartment from our trip around the block, I noticed a gas smell coming from somewhere. I assumed the smell was coming from outside, perhaps from a passing fuel truck, perhaps from a chemical attack that would soon leave the entirety of Manhattan crumbled into twitching, mouth-befoamed heaps on their floors.

But, no, the truth was even more frightening. While feigning enthusiasm for my return home, Mortimer had, in fact, turned the knob on our stove just enough to fill the kitchen with gas. His intent, I must surmise, was to see me overcome with fumes while I filled his bowl with Iams. He would then exact his revenge for every time I've kicked him off the bed by ripping out my carotid artery with his teeth and rolling around the floor in my blood.

He's a vicious little bastard, isn't he?

Thursday, March 15, 2007


You No Speak Now

RW is hosting this week's Roundtable and he is tired of your shit, man. In fact, the sound of your voice is like a fucking power drill ripping apart his inner ear canal. And he wants you to be quiet. So please, as soundlessly as you can, head on over to Chasing Vincenzo and say fucking nothing.

Wednesday, March 14, 2007


Hairshirt Horoscope

Aries: You may find yourself gravitating towards solid, grounded things, Aries, things like rocks, with which you could fill your pockets and jump in a body of water once you reach the disturbing realization of just how very much your life sucks.

Taurus: Rid yourself of excess baggage that you cling to as some sort of support or means of comfort. It's probably not a good idea, though to rid yourself of baggage that you use to carry clothes on trips. That baggage you probably want to hang on to.

Gemini: It is time to sit down with yourself and have a serious talk. Not literally, because trying to hold up two ends of a conversation is not rational. Basically, you just need to remind yourself to clip your toenails occasionally, as they're ripping the shit out of your socks.

Cancer: Don't let yourself be satisfied with superficial interactions that don't really fill you up. Fucking demand that every single person you come in contact with tells you something substantial. Like that goddamn bag boy at the market. Don't put up with his bullshit smalltalk anymore. Make him tell you what his goddamn plans are.

Leo: Perhaps there is a sense of shame that is present within you based on events of the past that still linger close behind you. Just remember that, if two people are on an elevator and one of them farts, everyone knows who did it. Words to live by.

Virgo: Don't just think of love as a commodity you must fight for and conquer with conniving tricks and strategic dating tactics, Virgo. Realize that love is something you can buy. Legally, in Nevada.

Libra: Guilt is basically a useless emotion that you should rid yourself of as quickly as possible. Look, you didn't know how long you were going to be stranded on that mountain. If everyone's going to be all pissy about you eating a few fellow plane crash survivors, fuck 'em.

Scorpio: Be aware that the more knowledge you spread to others, the more it will grow bountifully for everyone around you to share and profit by. So tell everyone you your opinion at all times. Don't worry about whether or not it "makes sense". You're trying to grow some goddamn knowledge.

Sagittarius: Why keep trying to fool yourself and others into thinking that you have all the answers, when really you are just aware of the tip of the iceberg? Remember: people have an easier time relating to a surgeon who can admit, "Hey, I have no idea how to reconnect this femoral artery."

Capricorn: Anger is apt to stir inside of you today, Capricorn, so go ahead and get your drunk on in order to make the most of it. Yeehaw!

Aquarius: Keep in mind that a gesture as simple as a smile and word of appreciation can be extremely healing for another person - and yourself. Or you could just look like some creepy dipshit who smiles too much.

Pisces: Open your eyes to the reality of the situation at hand, especially if the reality is that you're fucking driving.

Monday, March 12, 2007


I'm Not a Face-Paint Kind of Guy

Woo-hoo! Awright! It's March Madness, baby! Yeah! Non-stop B-Ball! Time to eat, drink and sleep hoops! Time for me to have absolutely fucking nothing to say in casual workplace conversations 'cause I know fuck-all about NCAA sports.

It's annoying. I mean, I'll catch some games. College ball is fun to watch and all that, but it's not like I'm going to sit down and pour over stats to gauge the strongest teams. It's not like I'm going to have my bracket ready to call up at all times on my PDA. I don't goddamn have a PDA.

And so we have yet another opportunity for me to feel like an inferior male because I don't care enough about a particular sport. It's even worse when a team I sort of-kind of-half-assed care about like Ohio State is seeded near the top. Because I'll want to watch those games, but I won't know enough to really watch it well.

Again, I have to blame this failure in my life on the fact that I went to Kent State. Before I get a hundred people jumping on my ass, I know that Kent's basketball program has not been that historically wretched and that I could have mustered some enthusiasm for them while I was there if I'd really wanted to. But allow me to counter that Kent sports teams are called the Golden Flashes and there's no goddamn way I could ever really get behind a team that sounds like a perversion in which someone whips open a raincoat and pisses on you.

So I'll once again be the casual sports fan this March. I'll maintain an embarrassed silence when someone brings up the tournament at work. I'll watch some games here and there and not even know who the fuck's playing half the time. Because that's the kind of guy I am. Dammit.

Sunday, March 11, 2007


Time Bandits

I feel robbed. It happens every goddamn Spring, when the Time Nazis force us to push our clocks ahead an hour and I'm deprived of an hour of sleep that I desperately fucking need. I'm getting older, people. I can't do without my snoozy-time.

This year, though, they've gone completely batshit and robbed me of this hour even fucking earlier. What is wrong with these people? Who gave them the authority to mess with time like this? Should we be worried that all this mucking about with the clock is going to cause a rift in the space-time continuum and we'll all of a sudden have dinosaurs rampaging through downtown Chicago?

Honestly, I never thought Daylight Savings Time was quite this arbitrary. I was under the impression that Wise Men long ago calculated exactly the precise moment when we should switch from Standard Time and thus was it set in stone for eternity. Turns out some putz congressman can just attach a rider to bill. What's up with that?

The upshot of all this is that, when I got up this morning, I was under the impression that I was doing pretty well, getting my day off to an early start and being productive. Until my wife sat up and said, "Hey, didn't they move the clocks last night?" And then I realized that I'd missed The Puzzler on NPR, my dogs were going out far later than they should and I was, in truth, a lazy fucking tuber instead of an industrious go-getter. Goddamn you, Congress!

Saturday, March 10, 2007


Bye Bye Captain America Pie

Well, Captain America's dead. He's done been shot. Poor son of a bitch. What's wrong with you sick bastards? All Steve Rogers ever wanted was to express his love for this country by hitting people with a red, white and blue shield. And so he had to die? Damn you, America! Damn you to hell!

Actually, I've kind of got this feeling Cap won't stay dead. Call me crazy. I know that most comic book companies are too virtuous to cynically bump off a major character in order to sell some books and get some press only to bring him back a few months later. However, since Captain America spent the decades after World War II frozen in a block of ice until The Avengers found him, I'm gonna go ahead and say I don't think we've seen the last of him.

So how are they gonna do it? Allow me to float some theories:
  • It wasn't actually Cap that got shot. In today's topsy-turvy Marvel Universe, who can keep track of all the clones/evil twins/shapeshifters? Not me, that's for sure. It very well might have been someone who just looked like Cap. (And also changed their DNA to match his exactly.)
  • That wasn't a bullet. Hey, it might have been a high-velocity micro-sized suspended animation machine. In a world where a radioactive spider bite means super powers instead of a slow, painful death, are you really going to take a bullet at face value?
  • Super Soldier Serum saves the day! The dude is pumped full of a top-secret formula that makes him the ultimate soldier. Who's to say the Super Soldier Serum doesn't have some other funky side-effect like slowly healing bullet wounds after burial?
  • Tinkerbell Redux. What if a whole auditorium full of second graders clapped their hands real hard?
  • God Blesses America. Everyone knows that the Almighty loves this country. Does he really want us to be without our snazziest-dressed champion? I'm betting God will send Steve Rogers back to us so we can continue to be the best-loved country in Creation.
  • Unexplained Comic Book Circumstances. Could be Marvel doesn't even feel the need to explain themselves and Cap just shows up in the next issue of the Avengers and asks for a cup of coffee. That'd make just as much sense as anything else.

Thursday, March 08, 2007


Whore Show

Whores! Whooooooores! You're all a bunch of fucking money-grubbing whores!

At least, Deni thinks so. Head on over to Out of Tune as Deni hosts today's Roundtable and holds forth on the subject of whoring. Me, I'm going to stand here for a few more minutes and just yell the word "whore". 'Cause it's actually really fun, no matter the context.

Whore! Whoooooooore! Hoo-er! Janet Rossi in 2F is a whore!

Tuesday, March 06, 2007


That's What I Want, Yeah

I bought a lottery ticket tonight. I don't normally do that, but the Mega Millions Jackpot here in New York is up to $370 million and that seemed like an excellent excuse to drop three dollars essentially straight into the toilet. Now, I'm not the type of person who's going to be watching the drawing with my ticket in my hand. What will happen is that the ticket will sit on our desk until a few days from now when I see the news story that the winning ticket was bought by a bunch of machinists at a fake vomit factory in Buffalo, at which point the utter waste of my money will be confirmed and I'll throw the fucking ticket away.

Sadly, I no longer even--on those rare, rare occasions when I break down and buy a lottery ticket--take the time to fantasize about what I'd do if I won. Instead, I skip it and just get right down to feeling bitter.

Not today, though. Today, I think I'm going to pause for a few minutes and share with you what I'd do with $370,000,000.
  1. Keep teaching. I think I might really love my job if I had the cash to employ hired goons to keep unruly students in line.
  2. Upgrade my iPod. I'm totally happy with what I've got now, but you have to figure there's a super version for rich people with a button that you press for the bands to come to your house to perform live.
  3. Mount a presidential campaign. I don't want to be the president. But if I had the cash, it might be fun to pay my way onto the debate stage. It'd be a nice opportunity to make fun of Joe Biden's hair to his face.
  4. Fur for the wife. My wife is devoutly anti-fur, but maybe she could walk down the street and throw fake blood on herself.
  5. My own 3 train. Holy shit, it would be so much easier to get around town if I had my own subway train just waiting to take me where I was going.
  6. Never walk my dogs again. Now, I'm not sure exactly how I'd achieve this. There's a bunch of different options. But, whether I hired a dog walker, bought a building with a back yard or paid for doggy-colostomies, I would definitely not be trekking out every night before bed to watch them take a dump.
  7. Goodbye cooking. There's got to be some super-expensive Jetson's-style machine that preps food automatically. I want one.
  8. Lay low my enemies. Well, actually, I don't really have enemies. But it'd be nice to hire someone to throw flaming bags of shit at Derek Jeter during all the Yankee home games, wouldn't it?
  9. Solid gold balls. Just what it sounds like.
  10. New t-shirts. I could use some new t-shirts. A lot of mine have holes in them.

Sunday, March 04, 2007


Velveeta Jukebox, Part VII: Dance Hall Days

I realize that my normal modus operandus in this feature is to pick an utterly cheesy song and mock all that is horribly wrong with it. My song for today, however, doesn't really have all that much to mock.

"Dance Hall Days" is definitely of its era. It's loaded up with synthesizer. The lyrics aren't necessarily the deepest you'll ever hear. And the video features a horrifying dancing demon-thing being birthed from a disco ball. Still, all in all, I think the song holds up just fine. And I like it much, much better than Wang Chung's other big hit, in which they invited people to both "have fun tonight" and to "wang chung tonight."

No, the real reason I've chosen to write about this song is its inclusion in the soundtrack of a movie I watched today for the first time in about eighteen years: Bachelor Party.

Way the fuck back in 1984, when Bachelor Party was released, my sister and I absolutely loved it. It was the height of sophisticated hilarity. I believe we may have seen it more than once. In the theater. And we laughed our goddamn heads off.

Watching it again today, I have to say that my opinion has changed somewhat. Maybe I'm more mature. Maybe exposure to slightly more intellectual humor--stuff like, say, videos of Robert Tilton farting--have ruined for me the good old fashioned yucks to be mined from guys fucking hookers. I don't know.

But whatever the case, I sat through this film today without laughing once. I am, in fact, rather astonished that Tom Hanks went on to win multiple Academy Awards after this thing. God knows the rest of the cast didn't recover. Except Tawny Kitaen, who went on to a glorious career as a psychopathic baseball wife.

For those of you who may not have seen the film when it came out and who have not purchased the Criterion Deluxe Edition on DVD, allow me to summarize: Hanks plays the type of character which would eventually make Adam Sandler millions and millions of dollars. He's a goofy guy who's immature, but likable and he hangs out with guys he's known forever. Tawny, daughter of wealthy parents who don't approve of Hanks and wish she'd instead settle down with stock 80s movie dweeb Robert Prescott, knows how fond Hanks' friends are of hookers and worries that he'll screw someone else during the...Bachelor Party. Hanks promises not to. Then the party starts.

Now I'm pretty sure that the movie's creators thought they had a real Animal House vibe going with this flick. And I suppose that, if you took a toenail from Animal House and did a cut-rate cloning job with retarded lab workers, you might have wound up with this lumpy, malformed offspring. Is it truly funny to watch a bunch of guys screaming repeatedly about wanting to fuck hookers? How many laughs are we meant to scrape from the squealy-voiced druggie friend who wants to commit suicide? And then, maybe it's me, but an overdosing donkey just doesn't seem as hilarious in Dick Cheney's America.

"Dance Hall Days" shows up on the soundtrack during the scene wherein the boys play a prank on Tawny and her friends at a male strip club. The song kind of fits in, I guess. But I was really jarred during another scene to hear R.E.M.'s "Wind Out". Southern college rock in a slobs versus snobs movie? I was baffled until I watched the credits and realized that IRS records put the soundtrack out and loaded the film up with a bunch of their artists. Poor bastards.

So now, I'm not sure if I can ever again hear this song--which I've actually got on my iPod and listen to periodically--without thinking of the Nick the Dick scene. And that's going to kill my enjoyment deader than Adrian Zmed's career. Did I mention that Adrian Zmed was in this?

Saturday, March 03, 2007


Question of the Day

The wonderful Ms. Ann Coulter has been on my mind this morning after I caught a clip of her hilarious routine at a conservative political action conference. See how she holds the audience in her firm and loving grip?

My question for the day, then is this: Does Ann Coulter actually kidnap minority children and suck out their blood to maintain her "youthful" appearance?

Thursday, March 01, 2007


When Celebrities Start to Suck

It's Beigey's turn to host Roundtable this week and he's taking a look at once promising celebrities who's careers wound up in the creative crapper. So get your thoughts on Didi Cohn in order and head on over to Missives from the Beige to put in your two cents.

(My apologies for the lack of posting this week. I've been sick as a fucking dog. Woof.)