Wednesday, December 31, 2008
I don't know if you watched that whole video, but if you decided to sit through it out perverse curiosity like I did, you're probably thinking, "Wait a second, if all the mass in the universe can be collapsed into the size of a bowling ball, and we're all made of energy and vibrating strings, and a cell doesn't really have any mass, and the definition of disease is 'we have transformed our energy state' then... HOW THE FUCK DID THIS WOMAN GET A FUCKING DOCTORATE IN MOTHERFUCKING OPTOMETRY!!!??"
Sunday, December 14, 2008
Wednesday, December 3, 2008
Tuesday, November 25, 2008
Sunday, November 23, 2008
Wednesday, November 19, 2008
Friday, November 14, 2008
It all began earlier this afternoon, innocently enough, with a craving for Sabra hummus. Sabra hummus—in my opinion—is far and away the best on the market. If you haven’t tried it, you’ll have to take my word for it. If you have, you know exactly what I’m talking about. The trouble with Sabra is that it’s scantly available, even in Queens, where I live, and where it’s allegedly produced. Further, the best variety, Jalapeño, is only available in one supermarket—on 34th Ave. in Astoria, if you’re in the neighborhood.
Living only 7 blocks away, you’d think I wouldn’t have a problem taking the short 5-minute walk to purchase it. You’d be wrong. Instead, I routinely buy plain Sabra hummus around the corner, along with jalapeños, and make my own. Even though it’s more work. And more expensive.
I suppose, given my sloth, I deserve what happened next. Shortly after making the hummus, I noticed a slight, shall we say “twang” in my nose. Within a few minutes this twang became what I can only describe as, Satan and his minions setting fire to my nostrils.
Before too long, the pain was unbearable. I quickly googled my condition: “jalapeño in nose”, and hit “I’m feeling lucky”, even though I wasn’t. Not surprisingly, I arrived at the web’s premiere destination for horrible advice, bad puns, and wise-ass 14-year-olds: Yahoo! Answers. It’s usually the first result on Google when a question is posed that would never affect a respected, moderately-functioning member of society.
Here’s the question, word for word:
“OMG, HELP, I am on fire. Jalepeno juice? I cleaned a bunch of jalepenos, yes, I wore gloves. But some how it still got on my nose. My god, it burns like hell. Does anyone know how to stop the burning? OUCH I look like a drunk with a RED nose.” -Cheryl
Pretty spot on. I felt “Cheryl’s” pain, and sensed the amalgam of utter dread and anguish in her hurried words. The answers to the question were varied. Most were helpful. You can see for yourself, here. I began running down the list—completely at the whim of the Yahoo! Answers community—willing to try anything. This is never a good place to find yourself.
I ignored the guy who said to “put tomatoes or catsup” up there. First off, anyone who spells ketchup like that can’t be trusted. I also skipped over milk, for the time being, opting for vinegar. Maybe using balsamic threw it off, but it sure as hell didn’t work. I tried lemon juice next, soaking a Q-tip with lemon juice and swabbing the inside of my nostrils like a doctor testing for strep. No dice. Nose still on fire, I read the next piece of advice:
“I hear that sticking bread up your nose will stop the burning, but it may interfer with breathing...whatever
AND please do not pour milk down your nose! This is a case where the cure is worse than the disease! :-)”
“May interfer with breathing”? I figured doing the opposite of what this guy said was probably my best bet. So I started sucking milk with a straw, strait through my right nostril. If there’s such a thing as gargling milk with one’s nose, I think I achieved it today. Unfortunately, it didn’t have the desired effect. The nose-fire persisted.
Running out of options, I tried the last advice: soak a paper towel with water and sugar. “Fuck it,” I thought, as I jabbed a wad of saccharine tissue into my nostril. I hate to leave you hanging, but that’s pretty much where I stand as I write this. I figured I’d jot this whole mess down before I forgot the agony. The pain seems to be subsiding, as the sugar’s mostly dry, and seems to be forming a strange, inflexible shell around my nose and mouth. I’ll let you know how it goes. I'm not terribly hopeful.
Tuesday, November 11, 2008
Whoops! So much for the seven second delay. I love how he had absolutely no idea what happened. The second he goes off camera he starts whispering, "I said 'F' right... Did they bleep it?"
Monday, November 10, 2008
Now, I've come to you again. This time, not to name a whale, but to get some poor bastard laid. Naturally, a guy like me, with a heavily-trafficked weblog about nothing, doesn't have this sort of problem. But not all of us are so lucky. Some of us need to make "real" websites and attract 5 million unique visitors before our friends will screw us.
According to his site: "I made a bet with a friend of mine (my only friend who knows about this situation, and who is, by the way, very pretty): If I get 5 million unique hits for this website until New Year's eve, she's going to "help". It's exactly what you're thinking! If I can't do it, I'll have to do anything she wants for a whole month."
If you're asking "where's the site" or, "how can I help", congratulations, you have an irrational emotional need to help virgins. And you're very kind. But I assure you, anyone who understands both the psychology behind the "help a virgin" traffic-hording scheme, and the complex programing required to pull it off, will never get laid anyway. So, instead, check out the many, many "help a virgin" ripoffs, widely available by Googleing it.
Oh, fuck it. I cave. I know this is like throwing bread to pigeons, but help this fake virgin, if you must. Or this other one. Or this allegedly dying one. I'm sure they could use the
Wednesday, November 5, 2008
As of tonight, Joe, your services are no longer required. Don't get me wrong, feel free to continue snaking all sorts of rank shit out of Ohio's plugged-up toilets and septic systems. The state's flatulent masses need you. Just don't start your own business, or write a book, or run for Congress, or record a crappy country western album, or sign on to anchor a show on Fox News alongside that creepy Sean Hannity guy, 'cause there's a new Redistributionist in Chief coming to Washington... and you, my friend, are shit outta luck.
Except for the 'shit' part, obviously. You'll never be shit outta shit. As a plumber, there will always be plenty of feces. But I don't need to tell you that.
But don't be sore, Joey P. Sure, it sucks to be you. And also, too, Palin. And McCain. And all those red states that Barack Obama doesn't think exist. But on the bright side, for the rest of us -- the overwhelming electoral majority of us -- it feels pretty damn good to say at last...
Barack Obama is President-Elect of the United States of America.
Wednesday, October 29, 2008
Let me tell you something. If Jesus ever came to America, first he’d wonder why half of the people who say they love him so much watch Nascar all day, and have absolutely no clue what he actually taught. Then, he’d be like, “Fuck this place, I’m going to Canada.”
Sarah Palin and Jesus have about as much in common as that bear from the Snuggles fabric softener commercials has with Jeffery Dahmer. And I'll prove it...
In Matthew 5:40, Jesus said:
“And if any man will try to take away your coat, let him have your cloak also.”
In a Neiman Marcus department store, Sarah Palin said:
“Oooh, gosh, a Louis Vuitton coat? That’s nifty. Let me have the matching bag.”
In Luke 14:13, Jesus said:
“When you give a feast, invite the poor, the maimed, the lame, the blind, and you will be blessed, because they cannot repay you.”
In a rally, Palin said:
“When you give tax cuts, also, too, make sure to give ‘em to Joe the Plumber, Bobby the Investment Banker, and Abdullah the Saudi Oil Baron, and you will be blessed, because they’ll fund your run for president in 2012!”
In Matthew 5:44, Jesus said:
“I say unto you, love your enemies, bless them that curse you, do good to them that hate you, and pray for them which despite-fully use you, and persecute you.”
In a TV interview, Sarah Palin said:
“I say unto that Hussein Obama guy, stop pallin’ around with terrorists all the time. Pretty lame. Plus, also, I don't want my kids—Trig, Track, Piper, Fork, Crispy and Zamboni—growing up with that one as their president."
As a side note, remember in the Bible where Jesus was all like, "love thy neighbor" and "do unto others" and stuff? I could be wrong, but I'm pretty sure he didn't mean "fly around in a helicopter and shoot defenseless wolves with a high-powered rifle."
Friday, October 24, 2008
Wednesday, October 22, 2008
In September alone, McCain paid Tifanie White, TV makeup artist for "So You Think You Can Dance" and "American Idol," a total of $8,672.50 to plaster makeup on his droopy, old kisser. And thank God. I can only image what he looks like without makeup...
Monday, October 20, 2008
Thursday, October 16, 2008
Tuesday, October 7, 2008
Wednesday, October 1, 2008
But just because Sarah Palin doesn't understand things like fossils, or the obvious genetic differences between dogs and hockey moms, does not mean she should be feared. In fact, to her credit, in the historical town of Bedrock, cavemen rode brontosauruses like horses. They had saddles and everything. So the jury's still out on that one... even though Sarah Palin probably doesn't know what a jury is, and definitely can't name a single Supreme Court case aside from Roe v. Wade.
You know what though? I can let all that slide. My real issue, honestly, is that Sarah Palin went to college for journalism, and claims to have perused "a vast variety of sources," but somehow, cannot name a single magazine or newspaper that she has ever read.
See it, and weep:
There you have it. Would-be journalist/could-be vice president, Sarah Palin, can't name a single newspaper. Luckily, I can name six newspapers, and I have a hunch which one she's been reading this whole time. It's called The Onion. Apparently, "America's Finest News Source."
All I have to say is, good luck with the debate. And by "the debate", of course, I mean good luck pronouncing "Mahmoud Ahmadinejad" on live television. It's way harder than "The Onion."
Saturday, September 27, 2008
Now a solid two days into the experiment, I've drawn one conclusion: you can sell anything on Craig's List. And if you can't sell it, someone's got something to offer you in trade. It's 2008 and we're back on the barter system. One guy offered me a handful of wampum -- WAMPUM!! -- for my classical guitar. Believe me, you can sell anything. To prove it, I tried to sell the toilet from my rented apartment in the "general sales" section.
The thing is... it worked. In all honesty, within minutes of posting my landlord's old, literally shit-ridden toilet on Craig's List (as a fish tank, no less) this is the actual response I got:
And that's when I realized... there is no economic crisis. If we get low on cash, we can always just sell everything we own on Craig's List. It doesn't sound all that presidential, but let's be real: Craig's List could be the cure-all for our global economic woes.
Take it from Bedi (or John McCain, for that matter) there really is no limit to American ingenuity. If it looks like a toilet, smells like a toilet, and flushes like a toilet --but you want a fish tank -- then it's a fucking fish tank. Especially if the seller puts "fish tank" in the title of the ad.
This ain't ebay, bitches.
Friday, August 22, 2008
If you're the guy who found this site by searching for "fetal position alzheimer and sucking thumb video" please seek help. You won't find it here.
So, what of the absence? I've been hard at work writing a TV spec script for NBC's "The Office". No, you won't see it air. But you can read it -- and I'd be happy to send it along. If you're interested, just shoot me an email, or leave a comment with your email address.
Stupidity will abound in the near (ish) future. I promise.
Tuesday, July 22, 2008
Seriously. Who supports Stonewall riot victims anyway? That is so not what Jesus would do. He might stone Stonewall victims, but never support them. Shame on you, Mickey D's. Shame on your tolerance and compassion.
The best part of the site -- without a doubt -- is the comments section, a finely honed hodgepodge of stupidity, so utterly devoid of rational thought that I would be remiss not to share some of the gems. These comments are 100% real and unedited, written by real people... with really low IQs:
"because McDonald's had taken a stand to support the activist gay agenda that is destroying the core of family values in the U.S. we will take a stand to support McDonald's competitors such as In-n-Out and Chick fil-A."
“I have 5 days a week my house filled with children of various age and many days it’s McDonalds for dinner due to time restraints. NOT ANY MORE. I will not spend my hard earnd money to support a group of people that is trappling my beliefs and leading our futur generations in to a lifestyle that will kill them. I will not come and spend a dime there nor will I let any of my friends or aquaintends do so. what ever I can to stop this support of nglcc I will do. Children are too precious to be perverted like that. one of many who still have a sense of morality”
“YOU DID NOT BILD YOUR COMPANY ON HOMOSEXUAL PEOPLE! IT WAS BUILD ON FAMILY VALUES! MAN,WIFE.CHILDREN!MOSTLTY CHILDREN! THEY DON’T COME FROM HOMO PEOPLE!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!”
Oh, and the list goes on... And on and on. Practically forever. This is totally the last time I'm taking political cues from a clown and a guy named "Hamburglar."
Thursday, July 10, 2008
Wednesday, July 9, 2008
In other words, the flood gates are wide open.
I, for one, don't see the point. Plenty of companies have already crossed the line, even in the age of traditional domain name suffixes. Why encourage them? Take penisland.net, the web's premiere destination for custom pens. Or therapistfinder.com, which sounds like Facebook for rapists, but is really a directory of licensed psychologists.
The point is... we don't need companies, like Coca-Cola, for instance, buying up customized domain names. Like www.drink.coke. It's too hard to remember. And more importantly, too easy to fuck up. Take RIM (Research in Motion), a mobile communications company, who, in an effort to better attract prospective employees, uses the customized domain: www.rim.jobs!
Now I don't mean to say opening up domain names is a shitty policy -- although, in the case of "rim.jobs" it most certainly is -- I'm just saying, it could get dicey. It will get dicey. And before you know it, the Internet will be overrun with lewd and lascivious smut.
SMUT. On the INTERNET. Imagine that!?
Monday, June 23, 2008
Not a great commercial. But it would have made an excellent safe sex PSA. I imagined it saying something like, "Even if you don't get caught, you might get burned." And then some really depressing shit about how syphilis feels like a tiny dragon is living in your urethra. Instead, it resolved on a heartwarming tagline: "Every Day Matters." Which doesn't really have anything to do with 14-year-olds humping (but it's a whole lot safer than their old line "It's All Inside.") I'm counting triple entendre... at least.
My point is, the whole message is dubious. I don't remember JCPenney's clothes being particularly easy to get in and out of. Except for maybe those JNCO jeans, but that's 'cause you could fit your entire body in one of the pant legs. And the only similarity between having sex in your parent's basement and shopping at JCPenney -- so far as I can see -- is the fact that if you fuck on a musty couch for long enough, you're bound to get some pennies lodged between your ass cheeks. And then, theoretically, you could use your ass pennies to shop at JCPenney. Which is kind of nice, if you think about it. It sort of brings the whole campaign full circle.
Wednesday, June 18, 2008
Tuesday, June 10, 2008
With Obama making all sorts of terrorist fist jabbing motions on live television, it sort of makes you long for the days of Al Gore sucking Tipper's face in front of everybody. Okay, maybe not "long for", but you get where I'm going. A little tongue never hurt anyone.
On a side note, Fox News has yet to mention President Bush's "terrorist chest bump" with the naval cadet at commencement. Maybe tomorrow.
Thursday, June 5, 2008
Will someone make this man leader of the free world already? I mean come on! The other candidate (Osama, is it?) hasn't even addressed this shit! Forget socialized medicine. The war. The impending recession. Get these dehydrated babies some goddamn bottled hot water. And it better not be lukewarm, or like, room temperature. Everyone knows thirsty babies only drink scalding water. Out of bottles.
Seriously, though. Alzheimer's is a serious issue. I shouldn't be making fun of a crazy old man. He needs support. And lots of pills. And probably some hot bottled water to wash them down.
Thursday, May 29, 2008
Wednesday, May 28, 2008
Then, there's Edward Smith. A man you've probably never heard of. He hasn't won any awards. And he sucks at basketball. He is, however, encroaching on one of Wilt's records--only not with women... with cars.
That's right. Ed likes to fuck automobiles. In fact, he's been caressing cars since the age of 15. Currently, he's got a steady, live-in girlfriend: Vanilla. A white Volkswagen Beetle. But he's not one to settle; Ed's had sex with over 1,000 cars. Most recently, a 1973 Opal GT, named Cinnamon, and a 1993 Ford Ranger Splash that he calls Ginger.
I guess the only question left--aside from how the hell he does it--is why? Why cars?
According to Ed: "When I turned 13 and the famous Corvette Stingray came about, that car was pure sex and just an incredible machine. I wanted it. There are moments way out in the middle of nowhere when I see a little car parked and I swear it needs loving."
Loving? I swear cars don't need anything. Except maybe gas and the occasional tune up. They certainly do not need Ed's greasy dick shimmying in and out of the tailpipe. I don't care how loud the engine is purring. It's not telling you to stick it in.
Tuesday, May 27, 2008
Think that's bad business? Sometimes it's helpful to put things in perspective.
Imagine if Taco Bell required costumers to bring their own roll of toilet paper, citing rising sales of the 89 Cent Cheesy Double Beef Burrito.
Now that's a shitty policy.
Thursday, May 22, 2008
To answer in reverse order: caring is debatable. But, if I haven't posted in a few days, you might find updates on my Twitter page. It's where I'll write anything and everything that comes to mind (in 140 characters or less.)
Some people write things like "Eating pizza at UNO's. Yum." on their Twitter page. I will not be taking this approach. Unless I'm eating hamster testicles on Fear Factor, you won't hear about it. I will, however, be posting random thoughts and off-color commentary. A lot like this blog, only shorter, and surrounded by fluffy white clouds (you'll see what I mean when you get there.)
Tuesday, May 20, 2008
Sort of uncanny, right?
But then, my train of thought was unceremoniously derailed. Do me a favor: turn your speakers on, head over to Yahoo! and click on the exclamation point on the logo. [Seriously, do it.]
An exclamation point that yodels?? I defy you to tell me that's not the most obnoxious goddamn thing on the face of the earth. If there is something stupider out there, I'm all ears.
Monday, May 19, 2008
Whenever I try to edit a post you tell me, "We're sorry, but we were unable to complete your request." Listen, you don't have to lie. I know you're not sorry. And I know you didn't really try to complete my request, so "unable" isn't all that accurate either.
I wish the error message said it like it is. Maybe something like, "Oh, looks like you can't edit your posts. Tough shit. There's no support staff. But you can try your luck at the rinky-dink Blogger Error Code Message Board. Sure it's staffed by morons who have no intention of answering your question. Sure the chances it will actually help you are remote, at best. But it makes us look like we're trying (even though we're not)."
By the way, I'm fairly certain there's no such thing as Blogger support staff, which more or less precludes the fact that you care.
P.S. Please stop taunting me with incomprehensible error messages; "bX-yipc2c" means nothing to me. And you don't know what it means either.
Monday, May 12, 2008
Go fuck yourself, San Diego.
Friday, May 9, 2008
Beverly Hills Chihuahua is Disney's latest forey into steaming bullshit that even children can't appreciate. The trailer begins with a sweeping, overhead shot of the ancient Aztec empire. Majestic Mesoamerica: the falls, the mountains, the stone step pyramids. Then, we hear the raspy drawl of a narrator: "My name is Bobby. I am descended from an ancient line of proud warriors. My ancestors went into battle alongside Aztec soldiers... " So we're clear, your great, great, great, great, great grandfather was named Montezuma, but your name is Bobby? Questionable, at best.
Shortly thereafter, we find out Bobby is a chihuahua. And then we learn he and his kin have infiltrated the highest rungs of society--the elite of Beverly Hills, apparently--before breaking into a creepy synchronized dance routine slash salsa/rap song. And that's about all I can tell you, because my eyes started watering, and I think I had a mild brain aneurysm.
The MPAA may approve of this trailer, but don't. You should probably sit down for this.
When I came to,
I guess the only question is, what will they think of next? Oh, that's right, Beverly Hills Chihuahua 2.
Wednesday, May 7, 2008
Judge Sherman Ross tried to assemble a jury of peers for a woman accused of possession of a marijuana on trial Tuesday. Ross said he realized something was wrong when juror No. 2, Cornelia Mayo [the lady with the pothead sign above her head], didn't return from a 45-minute break. Before the judge could file a bench warrant for the missing juror, his bailiff got a call from police notifying him that Mayo was being booked on a charge of smoking marijuana outside the courthouse.
Granted, marijuana affects the memory--that's what Half Baked says, right? I can't remember. Anyhow, if you're serving on a jury, and the case is about marijuana possession, I'm guessing getting arrested for marijuana possession during the trial pretty much disqualifies you from jury duty. But it could be worse, Cornelia Mayo. It could be far worse.
Imagine you were a juror for a murder trial. Everything's going great. (Well, for you anyway. Obviously not so great for the dude who was murdered.) Anyway, it's been a tough case. And you head outside for a much needed lunch break. After a few bites of your meatball sub, you decide to decapitate a few pedestrians walking by the courthouse.
You would get so fired.
Thursday, May 1, 2008
That's right. Law Day. Fuck May Day anyway, right? Today, George W. Bush declared:
"In accordance with Public Law 87-20, as amended, I do hereby proclaim May 1, 2008, as Law Day, U.S.A. I call upon all the people of the United States to observe this day with appropriate ceremonies and activities. I also call upon Government officials to display the flag of the United States in support of this national observance."
Is it just me, or should a man who's committed as many crimes as Bush not be allowed to invent holidays about obeying laws? He asked Americans to "renew our commitment to the ideals on which this great Nation was established and to a robust system of ordered liberty."
In case you were wondering, "ordered liberty" is Orwellian for "you're free to do as you're told." Now I wasn't a big fan of laws before, so maybe I'm biased, but if you ask me, George W. Bush proclaiming Law Day is like a haggard old prostitute declaring STD Awareness Day. And I'd sooner trust a lady of the night than I would a Yale graduate you can't speak in public without smirking like a four year old.
[Source: The White House]
Sunday, April 27, 2008
The only lingering question: is the computer desk for white people white? Or does the computer desk for white kids actually have a computer? Either way, I'm offended. Amused is probably more accurate, actually, but let's go with offended. I'm offended.
Thursday, April 24, 2008
But for fuck's sake, when you put candy in soda it rains liquid sugar!! It's like miracle. A gooey-coke-geysery-miracle. Yay! Let's videotape it and take lots of pictures. And we'll all wear blue ponchos, and put it on YouTube. Maybe we'll make the top ten, and oh, sweet Jesus, I'm all sticky now... and wet... and... man, what the hell are we doing with our lives?
Wednesday, April 23, 2008
First stop: San Fransisco. My company threw a party at the W Hotel for one of our clients. After the party, the manager of the hotel told us, (and this is a direct quote), "We have never had so many broken glasses. Ever."
The following morning, half-drunk and bleary-eyed, I took the olde-tyme cable car. Yes, that cable car--the one they turn around manually by leaning on it until it begins to lurch clockwise. During the ride, I did not see the house from the show "Full House." Yes, I looked.
As I rode the "subway" out to the burbs, it struck me how unimaginably windy the tracks were. They weave in and out of people's back yards like the Colorado River. It's called eminent domain; knock some goddamn houses down.
My friend and I plop down at a bar. We order sangria. More specifically, we order two GIGANTIC pitchers of sangria. Despite our aptitude for guzzling alcohol, the old female bartender swiftly emasculates us by reminding us we're drinking wine.
I hop a plane to LA. For some inexplicable reason it is colder than San Fransisco. (Okay, not inexplicable; I'm sure it has something to do with cumulus clouds, or moisture, or El Nino, but to me, LA is south, it should be warmer.)
I eat Chinese food at a place called "Mao's" in Hollywood. No one seems to mind that the restaurant is littered with pictures of the Chairman in crazy Hitler power poses. Or that the waitress is a hipster with red hair and a lip ring. Or--and this is the worst part--that the duck sauce is brown and tastes like Pete Sampras' feet.
At a gay bar in West Hollywood some guy introduces himself to me three times. Each time he uses the exact same opening line. The third time, after I tell him he's already done this twice, he looks embarrassed, and tells me, "I'm really bad at this," to which I reply, "I'm straight." That's when he stopped introducing himself.
At some point in the night, my friend is roofied. We discovered this when he decides to urinate in a can and take a nap in the bathroom in the fetal position. Not that I'm suggesting he should have slept in a can and urinated in the bathroom. But still, something was amiss.
Back to NY on Virgin America. I'm sure you've heard the stories: mood lighting, lounge music, sassy flight attendants, leather chairs. You may not have heard about the in-flight chat feature, though, which is easily the best part. I tried to stike up a conversation with an old lady in first class who looked like Cruella de Vil; she ignored me.
Now I'm back. And it's like 80 degrees in NYC. Go figure.
Monday, April 14, 2008
When I first got to NYC, about a year and a half ago, these people stood out like bat-shit-crazy sore thumbs. On my way to work one day I saw a guy pretending to give a live TV weather report right in the middle of a busy intersection (only without cameras, or a microphone, or a fucking clue what he was talking about.) He just kept saying words like "precipitation" and "easterly winds" completely out of context. Another time, in Duane Read, I noticed a lady rummaging through the candy isle mumbling incoherently. Finally, she settled on some sort of industrial-sized bag of Twizzlers, before turning to me and explaining how the FBI was after her, and that she needed Twizzlers for her escape. Then, at Penn Station one day, while waiting in line for tickets, I noticed a man walk calmly up to a trash can, reach in for a Big Gulp, and suck the last bit of liquid through the straw like a Shop Vac, before tossing it aside nonchalantly.
And then, there's my favorite. The craziest of the crazies... the elevator lady. Yes, that's the actual elevator lady. Someone else, obviously captivated by this woman, uploaded a video of her to YouTube. There's 8 million people living in NYC, but strangely it makes perfect sense that I found her in about 30 seconds by typing "crazy NYC subway lady" into Google. I've never seen anything like the elevator lady.
She was furious, sneering across the subway platform at a normal-looking couple standing in front of an elevator. "Fuckin' elevator. Fuckin' idiots. Think they're taking the elevator. Those idiots," she spat.
This went on for some time. I doubted the elevator lady knew this couple, but she seemed thoroughly invested in their lives. I was intrigued so I kept listening. She chuckled to herself and threw up her hands. "Hey morons!" she shouted, through cupped hands. A few people turned at which point she went back to a quiet mumble. The couple across the platform was completely oblivious.
I was convinced the show was over. But then, out of nowhere, like she heard some sort of crazy-person-dog-whistle that only she could hear, she bolted off, straight toward the couple. I wondered if I should warn them. I decided against it. What would I say? "A crazy lady might push you in front of a subway"? I didn't want to be liable for whatever was about to happen. Instead, I just stood there and watched:
She march right up to them and immediately got to work, trying her best to jar the pair of unsuspecting strangers from their quiet, sane existence. I couldn't hear what she was saying, but her hands were doing most of the talking, anyway. As she spoke, the man looked confused. But as she went on, pointing and blabbering, a look of concern overcame him. Then, the crazy lady began to make emphatic hand gestures at the elevator. Stomping her feet.
Suddenly a train pulled into the station. The lady took off as if nothing had happened. The couple looked relieved, and unbelievably perplexed. I decided to approach them.
"What did she say to you guys?" I asked.
"She said something about the elevator being out-of-order. But way crazier than the way I just said it," the man's wife replied.
I nodded. I looked at the elevator; it looked fine. Moments later, as my train chugged into the station on the opposite track, the elevator door opened and a group of passengers filed out.
"Fuckin' idiots," I thought to myself, smiling, as I boarded my train home.
Monday, April 7, 2008
Lucky for you, I speak rabbit. And chicken. Here's what went down.
White Rabbit: Fuck you, bunnayyyyyy!
Spotted Rabbit: Fuck me? Fuck you!
White Rabbit: Oh, it's on bro.
Chicken #1: BYAAAAAH!!!
White Rabbit: Ow! That's my ear, asshole.
Chicken #1: You just got saaaaaaaaaacckked.
Chicken #2: Just keepin' the peace, guys.
Spotted Rabbit: We were just having som---
Chicken #2: KEEPING THE PEACE!!
Spotted Rabbit: Man, someone's been eating growth hormones.
White Rabbit: Seriously...
Chicken #1: Say it again. I dare you.
Chicken #2: That's what I thought.
Thursday, April 3, 2008
And by "warm greeting" I mean he stood there alone, daydreaming about crinkle-cut french fries, while everyone else was having the best time ever.
[Via: Some German site that I can't read]
Wednesday, April 2, 2008
It appears Virgin and Google have teamed up to send 20 earthlings to Mars, beginning in 2014. And not just any earthlings... YouTube-earthlings. But don't take my word for it; take it from the big, British virgin himself, Richard Bronson:
As you can see, this will not be a joy ride. The goal is colonization. Permanently. On Mars. They've even picked the future "Plymouth Rock" of the Red Planet: the Lunae planum area of the north side of Kasei Valles (wherever the fuck that is.)
Overall, I think it's a great idea. With one glaring exception. Is it just me, or is YouTube the worst possible place to advertise this? Shouldn't they be flyering Harvard, or MIT, or you know, like NASA, or some shit? What caliber of space traveler do they think they're going to attract from YouTube? The most popular video this month (with over 4 million views) is the trailer for Ben Stiller's new movie, "Tropic Thunder". It's not like these idiots are watching lectures about particle physics. Those videos have like 12 views. Collectively.
I don't know about you, but I don't want the "Leave Britney Alone" kid to be the first human on Mars. Come to think of it, I don't want anyone to go to Mars based on a 30-second YouTube video. Imagine some aliens land on Mars and see our YouTube colony! We'd be the laughing-stock of the entire galaxy. Maybe even the Universe.
I'm sure a lot of "planning" went into this and whatnot, but maybe they should call the whole thing off. I'm not comfortable with KevJumba in space.
Tuesday, April 1, 2008
Sunday, March 30, 2008
One should never have to negotiate for government cheese.
I hadn't been there in some time. Maybe a few weeks. The franchise owners at my local Subway must have noticed that I'd been boycotting their store. And they must have relayed this to the corporate office, cause they've been trying to win me back ever since with their new advertising campaign; a mind-numbing jingle that haunts my dreams.
Since the "5 dollar footlong" campaign launched I've eaten several Subway sandwiches. I don't see the trend ending either; they have this big sign out front that reduces me to Pavlov's dog whenever I walk by. Worst of all, I think they know that I'm powerless to inexpensive, lengthy food. I swear I spotted this sly little grin on the cashier's face last time he rang me up. Shifty bastard.
He definitely knows.
Thursday, March 27, 2008
Tuesday, March 25, 2008
Here are the facts: Bats hang out in pitch black caves year-round. When they leave their dreary, subterranean dens, they seem to keel over and die. Why am I not surprised?
First off, bats are just about the weirdest looking thing left on the planet.
Yikes. It's furry and translucent. That's a winning combo. The truth is, weird looking things inevitably die off. Take the dodo bird, for instance. It looks like an albatross raped a pigeon. EXTINCT. Or the woolly mammoth. Some people say Native Americans killed them off. Nope. They're just ugly. Think about it, what's uglier than an elephant... that's right, an elephant covered in shaggy, brown hair. EXTINCT.
As for bats, I'm pretty sure it was Darwin who said, "animals that look like miniature-pterodactyl-mice will perish." It's probably on page 1 of that book he wrote that Creationists hate so much. The only time furry, translucent creatures get any ass is when they're in dark caves. It's a lot like how drunk people--who would otherwise find each other revolting--hook up in dimly lit dive bars. If you can't see who you're banging, it's hard to object.
And that, my friends, is why bats have lasted so long. It's the caves. Plain and simple. If they keep leaving their caves, venturing out into broad daylight, they will inevitably, and steadily, decline as a species.
Wednesday, March 19, 2008
Let recap: A homeless man broke into the HOMELAND SECURITY offices in BROAD DAYLIGHT on a FRIDAY AFTERNOON. And then, he took a dump in, not one, but SEVERAL rooms before escaping without a trace (or is it skid mark?)
He must really hate our freedom.
Friday, March 14, 2008
And you thought Americans were fat enough.
The last time I craved meat-wrapped candy was, well... pretty much never. But since they're only 52 dollars for a package of 36, I'll take none. Thanks Lollyphile, don't quit your day job. Oh, wait. You already did. And you started a company called Lollyphile. Here's the back-story, from their website's about section:
"We started waaaaaay back around Halloween of 2007 when we found ourselves with a lot of absinthe and no candy. One thing led to another, and we ended up getting picked up by a few candy boutiques and building a website, which got way more business than we'd ever expected it would."
No shit. Your business started with a bottle of absinthe and no candy. So you were drunk/hallucinating and decided, "hey, let's put some pork on a lollipop." And now you're rich 'cause a bunch of idiots are willing to pay $52 for a box of pork-pops.
I don't care what you say. That's the American Dream.
Tuesday, March 11, 2008
I have no idea what that means. But I do know this:
$110 a barrel. 20 gallon tank. Carry the 1... I'd say the price to fill up an SUV today is roughly equivalent to 45 seconds with one of
Now, I sort of understand paying $4.00 per gallon on gas. It's basically the same as a gallon of milk. And squeezing utters is a whole lot easier than drilling oil wells in the middle of the desert. Especially with all the bullets whizzing by. But 5 grand an hour for a hooker? That's just absurd. It's 2008. Hookers are free. It's called Craig's List: Casual Encounters, Governor... or should I say Eliot?
He hasn't officially resigned, but Google's already replaced him. And Google pretty much knows everything.
Monday, March 10, 2008
These rash little motherfuckers seem to have conspired against me city-wide. You probably think I'm joking. "Oh that's funny. Pigeons don't conspire," you'll say. No. It's not funny. And yes, they do. I swear upon all that is holy, at least once a day, a pigeon flies two inches over my head without warning. I'm sick of it. I'm sick of their poor judgment and utter disregard for my safely. I'm also sick of their white, pasty shit falling from the sky--but that's another story.
Listen pigeon, if I'm walking down the sidewalk, and you're pecking away at a morsel of rye, there is no reason--I repeat: NO REASON--to flip out, flap your wings frantically, and take off like a scud missile in the direction of my face.
I don't deserve this. Please stop.
If one more of you reckless, irresponsible bastards so much as jostles a hair on my head, I'll be forced to plant bread crumbs soaked in arsenic around the city. Either that, or I'm going to get a hat fitted with those anti-roosting bird spikes. Maybe getting impaled will teach you to calm the fuck down.
Wednesday, March 5, 2008
In other really-old-white-guy news, Larry King attempted to move gracefully on national television. As it turns out, teaching Larry King how to dance is like trying to teach a quadriplegic to walk. He looked like a robot with a short circuit. At one point, when Janet Jackson attempted to pry his stiff, ossified arm from the side of his lifeless body, he mumbled, with a discernible hint of despair, "I'm a struggling Jew" before giving up altogether. If you watch one video for the rest of your life, make it this one:
Interestingly, the feeling I get when I watch Larry King dance is the same feeling I got when John McCain kissed his wife after his victory speech: some things are just not meant for public consumption.
Tuesday, March 4, 2008
Friday, February 29, 2008
Of all the things that happen once every four years, you, February 29th, are undoubtedly the worst. The earth has one job: Revolve around the sun. But since it can't do that properly, we have to add a day onto the calendar once every four years. You are that day. You realize this, don't you? You're a mistake, February 29th! A technicality.
My real issue is not with you, though; it's with your people. You know who I'm talking about. The leap babies. Every time I meet one of your snooty, unfunny offspring, I'm reminded why I hate you. Did you know that it requires an unhealthy amount of self-restraint on the part of humanity to smile and nod when one of your bastard children exclaims his age, as if it's really funny when he says he's turning 6 when he's actually 24? Well it does. When your people were 8, and they told people it was their second birthday during show and tell, it was cute. When they're 40, and they joke about being underage to the bartender, it's sad and pathetic. And you're responsible.
You're also fucking up the month song. Bigtime. It starts off like a fucking Dickens novel, but then you come along and ruin it.
Thirty days hath September,
April, June, and November;
All the rest have thirty-one
Except February alone:
Which has twenty-eight 3 years in four,
Till Leap Year gives it just one more.
Are you kidding me? You need half the song to explain that? When I have kids, and I teach them the month song, it's gonna be different. None of this Leap Year favoritism. It will end, "except for February, because the Gregorian calendar is a piece of worthless shit."
That's about it, I guess. See you in four years.
P.S. I don't recall anyone asking for an extra day in February. Ever. It's fucking cold, asshole. If you want your own special day, the least you could do is come back in the spring.
Wednesday, February 27, 2008
Since most people don't believe toothless, unshaven hobos who smoke crack, Larry--perhaps aware of this--offered to take a polygraph test, even though no one asked. For some reason, whitehouse.com (not to be confused with whitehouse.gov, though that's exactly what they want you to do) took him up on the offer. Larry was asked two questions. First, "Did you perform oral sex on Obama in 1999?" to which he answered "Yes", and second, "Are you lying when you say you performed oral sex on Obama in 1999?" to which he answered "No". So what were the results?
Tuesday, February 26, 2008
But this time, Pepsi's gone too far. If you thought "It's the Cola" was vague and stupid, you'll really enjoy their new slogan: More Happy. It's bad enough that Pepsi tastes like crap. But if I have to hear "More Happy" for the next several years I'm going More Kill Myself.
In a pathetic effort to lend credibility to the campaign, Russell Weiner, VP of cola marketing at PepsiCo, notes, "One of the nice things about the word ‘happy’ is it’s really multidimensional."
'Cause the word "happy" means so many things to so many people. You know, like joy, and stuff.
Oh, I got it! Joy! The Joy Of Pepsi... no... the Joy Of Cola! What? That was already a tagline? Fuck it, just go with "Yep" before someone else takes it.
Monday, February 25, 2008
Maybe I missed something, but since when is shameful offensive fear-mongering frowned upon? And another thing, what kind of name is David Plouffe? Plouffe sounds like one of those stupid words copywriters make up to describe how soft diapers are. Campaign managers need to be tough; they need to fight back. When your opponent releases a photo of you wearing a turban you don't accuse them of fear mongering, you release a photo of them wearing a turban! Jesus. This isn't rocket science.
Obama, you can thank me later. Preferably with a low-stress cabinet position (you know, like Director of FEMA or something.) Oh, and for the general election, here's some fodder:
If McCain nuzzling into Bush's chest like love-starved puppy isn't enough to get a Democrat in office, then I'm afraid nothing is.
Tuesday, February 19, 2008
It's perfect. But it got me to thinking: what if all online dating sites (even the really creepy, niche ones; ok, who am I kidding, just the really creepy, niche ones) had better taglines?
Well, in honor of St. Valentine, albeit five days late, I give you: The Top Ten Weirdest Online Dating Websites (and what their slogans should've been.)
Current Slogan: Where the classy, attractive and affluent meet.
New Slogan: Where shameless gold diggers meet clueless rich dudes.
Current Slogan: The world's largest site for adult babies, adult diapers, diaper fetish, infantilism, plastic pants and adult baby clothes.
New Slogan: Hey, you shit in your pants too? Let's go out!
Date My Pet
Current Slogan: Date Me. Date My Pet.
New Slogan: We can't openly condone bestiality, but you get the idea.
Current Slogan: Farmers, Ranchers, Ag Students & all of Agriculture, Horse, Livestock Owners & all Animal Lovers, Cowboys, Cowgirls, Rodeo Fans and Country Wannabes
New Slogan: Two words: barn sex.
Meet An Inmate
Current Slogan: Lonely Attractive Inmates in the USA Seek Penpals
New Slogan: Experience the joy of prison companionship (minus the painful anal rape.)
Current Slogan: Where tall friends and singles feel at home!
New Slogan: Because you’d crush normal-sized-people.
Current Slogan: Boldly eschewing the shackles of conventional popularity, Nerd Passions is a place to embrace your nerdiness!
New Slogan: (Pretty much anything in Elfish and/or Klingon will do.)
H-Date (Herpes Dating)
Current Slogan: Time to starting dating again...
New Slogan: Join the ceespool!
Current Slogan: Find your smokin' match.
New Slogan: Because no one else really understands Funions.
Current Slogan: A community to meet the "Right" person.
New Slogan: Being wrong about everything never felt so "Right".
Sunday, February 17, 2008
I wondered how NF would stand up to Google so I typed "fart" into the search bar. I couldn't think of anything better on the spot. Here's what NF.com came up with.
The girl at the top gnawing on a shoelace notwithstanding, the search results weren't half bad. And while fart ringtones are enticing, I think we both know, I went straight for the fart machine.
I closed my eyes and clicked. And then, just as I whipped out my credit card, I stopped, and slid it quietly back in my wallet. A simple typo brought me to NF.com, and then, entranced, I almost purchased a remote-controlled fart machine.
NF.com must be doing something right. Because that's never happened to me on Google.
Wednesday, February 13, 2008
You'll notice, he's just about eye-level with his trainer's balls. But don't let his stature, or his lifelong proximity to testicles fool you, 'cause he can lift, count 'em, TWO 1.5 kg dumbbells. If you just did the math, or you know what a kilogram is, you're probably thinking, "hey, that doesn't sound like much." Which, I have to admit, is exactly what I thought.
But then I saw Romeo standing next to what I can only assume is a toothpick...
And his trainer holding him up like an Oscar statuette...
And him struggling, like a constipated Sumo wrestler, to lift what look to be the same weights they give to old women during pool aerobics...
And I was convinced. He is the strongest midget in the world. And then I realized, being the strongest midget in the world is like being the fastest snail. No one cares. But Romeo, if you're reading this, I want you to hang in there. Once Howard Stern catches wind of you--and believe me, he will--you'll be getting more ass than you can handle.