All right. So it's officially going to be Obama versus McCain. Quite frankly, I could give a damn. Not only do I know little if anything about the democratic process, I'm beyond uninterested. People, especially people in Los Angeles, give me a lot of flak for this. They say it's my duty. I'm sorry, but I just don't feel comfortable going into a booth and pressing a button based on who I dislike less.
The above is only the tip of the iceberg for the reasons that I'm probably not going to vote in November. Another is the fact that I am registered to vote in New York, but currently reside in LA. But I would probably not vote even if I was back in New York. The place I'm registered to vote is a senior citizen home that always smells of Polident and urine. The booths are operated by women generally between the ages of 80 and 100, many with clearly visible catheter bags (hence the urine smell).
Whenever I mention to someone that I'm not going to vote, they always give me hell. Political people love to throw around that "Vote or Die" crap. I like when they do this, because then I get to tell them that "Vote or Die" was coined by Benjamin Franklin during the revolutionary war. Circumstances were a little different back then. People had to vote for a strong new country, or they may face certain death at the hands of the British. I'm not sure how I know this, but I rarely ever get to seem like I read anything other than Buffy The Vampire Slayer comics.
If I was going to vote, I guess I'd vote for Obama. That's what Hollywood tells me to do. I don't know about you, but I don't want to live in a country where we can't look up to movie stars for sociopolitical guidance. They, along with Obama's legions of upper-middle class white liberal college students, talk about him as if he's the second coming. Is anything really going to change if he is elected? He is still at the mercy of the of Lobby Groups, Congress, and the ruling elite of corporate CEOs. Plus, he's financially in debt to the donors who got him there, who ironically, are other corporate CEOs.
I love talking to crazy old racists who think Obama's election will trigger the black uprising. Sure they're crazy, but their theories are so damn entertaining. One old man told me that when Obama is giving his victory speech, he's going to utter a phrase that signals the start of the rebellion. Kind of like that scene in Hotel Rwanda, where a radio DJ says "It is time to cut down the tall trees", and everyone grabs their machetes.
Since I'm ranting on politics, I thought you should know my qualifications. I minored in American History at a city college where I maintained a solid 2.5 GPA. I regularly follow such reliable news sources as The New York Post, Access Hollywood, and old Doonesbury comic strips.
As progressive as I like to think myself to be, there is a part of me that wants to vote for John McCain. Don't get me wrong, another eight years of a republican in the White House would most probably trigger the Apocalypse. Who wouldn't love to be in the afterlife and be able to say they died in the Apocalypse? Nothing else would come close.
Surviving in the post-apocalyptal is even more alluring, because then we'd all be living in The Road Warrior. There isn't a guy in this country, I don't care how liberal they claim to be, that can't say that that prospect isn't kind of cool.
I also think McCain being president gives us great potential for entertainment. It's well known that he spent years as a POW in Vietnam. But we don't know the extent of what he endured there, or whether or not it had any lasting effects. How funny would it be if he started having flashbacks during the White House Easter egg hunt, goes all Rambo and starts snapping necks? I don't wish harm to anyone, but that sight would be worth it all.
But like I said, I'm not planning on voting. Besides all of my previous statements, I also don't believe a single word of what either of these men say. Not one. Honesty is a foreign concept in American politics. To quote the recently deceased George Carlin "If honesty was suddenly introduced into American Democracy, the entire f@#king system would collapse".
So this started me thinking. Who was the last politician, of any nation or era, that truly lived up to the promises made on the campaign trail? Right off the bat, I knew it wasn't going to be an American. After a lot of reading and soul-searching, I believe I found the answer.
Now stay with me on this...Hitler. Adolf Hitler.
I'll acknowledge that Hitler was the embodiment of pure evil and hate, a dictator who had to be stopped at all costs. But people forget that he became Chancellor of Germany in a legal, democratic election. And he did it with the revolutionary campaign platform "If I'm in charge, I'll get rid of the Jews.
No one can say that the guy didn't keep his word. He probably would have finished the job if the war went on another year or two. He was halfway there. When the war started there were approximately 12 million Jews worldwide. The Third Reich took out 6. That's half of the Jews on earth in six years. And they didn't get the camps running effectively until '42, so that cuts it down to three years. I'll once again acknowledge his evil, but he kept to his campaign promises with amazing, if ruthless, efficiency.
I was in Germany a few months ago. While en-route to Amsterdam I spent an afternoon in Frankfort. All I did was wander around looking for people old enough to have been former Nazis. Then I just stared them down. I wasn't looking for an excuse or apology or anything, it just felt good making them uncomfortable.
Amsterdam, by the way, is amazing. The entire city is like that bunker in Platoon where they were smoking pot out of shotguns. You wander the streets at night,and you know that everyone there is out for either drugs or hookers. I wasn't therefor hookers. I don't look down upon or judge anyone who pays for sex. It's simply just not my thing.
But having a healthy sense of perversion, I decided to check out a peep show. I grew up in New York during the Giuliani years, so I missed out on seedy Manhattan. The peep shows in Amsterdam are in the round. A dozen or so small booths around a rotating bed where a girl pretends that what she's doing isn't making her dead relatives weep.
For starters, the entire place smelled like bleach. That should have been my red flag. I opened up an empty booth and was treated to the sight of a paper towel dispenser and wastebasket. That's where I checked out. I had reached my perversion limit. And this is coming from a guy who gratified himself four times a day for much of his youth, even when I was sick. I'd be lying in bed with a fever and hallucinations, but I'd be working it. By that fourth time it basically a wet rope. I'd have to stretch it out with one hand and stroke with the other.
The drugs in Amsterdam are glorious. Forget the pot and hash, that's kiddie stuff. Mushrooms were legal. They're sold in stores like they're oranges. There were about a dozen different varieties, and I was determined to try them all. My only freak-out came at the wax museum. I lost it and ran back to my tiny hotel room, where I spent three hours pulling up the carpet looking for microphones. It was the 2nd worst psychedelic experience of my life. The 1st involved acid and a midnight double-feature of The Thing and An American Werewolf in London.
Holy crap, how did I segue from politics into stories I swore no one would ever know? I need sleep.
Am I the only person who thinks that this movie is a shameless rip-off of Schindler's List?
http://www.apple.com/trailers/paramount/hotelfordogs/trailer1_large.html
1 thing about Minneapolis that Smokeland missed
Everyone in Minneapolis is like Lloyd the Bartender from The Shining
The Glory Hole Tour Across America:
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TV Letdown
Discovery Channels's The Deadliest Catch: I turned this on because the TV Guide said it was about men catching crabs. Hoping to get some advice, you can imagine my dissapointment when it was literally about guys catching crabs...the kind you eat. Not the kind that I am currently afflicted with.
This isn't the first time that this has happened to me. In high school I hooked up with this girl named Melanie at a house party. We were going at it in a back bedroom. To this day, Melanie claims that she told me repeatedly that she had crabs, and that I should take whatever precautions were necessary. I was really drunk and the music was very loud, so I couldn't hear a damn thing.
It was another day or two before the itching really started. At first I assumed it was some of the normal chafing, a problem I've always had by the way. When I was a little tyke, I had incredibly dry skin. And the focal point of my itching was in fact, my penis. I scratched so much that I wore away much of it's natural elasticity, causing my urethra to be open all the time. This led me straight to the emergency room when my refusal to ingest liquids made me severely dehydrated.
The condition was particularly troublesome in the bathtub, when the soapy water would seep into the wide-open hole and burn the likes of which I can't even describe. But that's not even the worst part. The only way to stop the burning was to suck out the offending liquid with a long straw. A surgery eventually corrected the problem, using flesh scraped from my gums to line my urethra.
So there I was, seventeen years old with a bad case of crabs. I was too embarrassed to tell my parents, and there was no way in hell I was going to the clinic to buy the special shampoo. I decided that the best remedy was to simply shave down. I picked up the best razor the pharmacy had and went to work. Unfortunately I was so nervous that my attempt left me with horrible nicks and razor burn that hurt worse than the crabs.
Too traumatized to make a second attempt, I went to my cousin and best friend, Ira. After some cajoling and the promise of $100 dollars and ten of my dad's vicodins, Ira donned rain gear and shaved me down with an electric razor until I looked like a tall infant.
Oh yeah, despite my initial disappointment, I found Deadliest Catch to be a pretty entertaining show.
This isn't the first time that this has happened to me. In high school I hooked up with this girl named Melanie at a house party. We were going at it in a back bedroom. To this day, Melanie claims that she told me repeatedly that she had crabs, and that I should take whatever precautions were necessary. I was really drunk and the music was very loud, so I couldn't hear a damn thing.
It was another day or two before the itching really started. At first I assumed it was some of the normal chafing, a problem I've always had by the way. When I was a little tyke, I had incredibly dry skin. And the focal point of my itching was in fact, my penis. I scratched so much that I wore away much of it's natural elasticity, causing my urethra to be open all the time. This led me straight to the emergency room when my refusal to ingest liquids made me severely dehydrated.
The condition was particularly troublesome in the bathtub, when the soapy water would seep into the wide-open hole and burn the likes of which I can't even describe. But that's not even the worst part. The only way to stop the burning was to suck out the offending liquid with a long straw. A surgery eventually corrected the problem, using flesh scraped from my gums to line my urethra.
So there I was, seventeen years old with a bad case of crabs. I was too embarrassed to tell my parents, and there was no way in hell I was going to the clinic to buy the special shampoo. I decided that the best remedy was to simply shave down. I picked up the best razor the pharmacy had and went to work. Unfortunately I was so nervous that my attempt left me with horrible nicks and razor burn that hurt worse than the crabs.
Too traumatized to make a second attempt, I went to my cousin and best friend, Ira. After some cajoling and the promise of $100 dollars and ten of my dad's vicodins, Ira donned rain gear and shaved me down with an electric razor until I looked like a tall infant.
Oh yeah, despite my initial disappointment, I found Deadliest Catch to be a pretty entertaining show.
PT Cruisers
Let me preface this by saying that I, Sydney John Pellegrino, am the proud/ashamed owner of a 1992 Hyundai Stellar. When I put the keys in the ignition, the engine keels over like a Portugese soccer player after just having been breathed on by an opponent (that's right, I'm talking to you Ronaldo, Queen of the Pussies). And while the Hyundai lineage seems to have been bolstered, upgraded, ENHANCED, in recent years, I am well aware of the fact that 1992 was not a good year for the Stellar vintage.My car is a shit box. That's what I'm trying to say here.
Still, regardless of my vehicle's shortcomings, that doesn't give anyone, hummer or hybrid alike, to cut me off, ridicule me, and ride me from behind like Roseanne Barr on Tom Arnold. This includes you, PT Cruisers, who as of late, have been the most egregious offenders in terms of road ridiculousness. I can't count on any of my fingers or toes, how many times I've been violated by the over-aggressive behavior of the drivers of these cars. It's a disturbing trend, one I think I've only begun to comprehend.
I think the idea of what the PT Cruiser represents (or fails to represent) is at the root of the problem.
When a potential PT Cruiser driver - from my experience, typically a middle-aged, single woman - shows up at the dealership to pick out the little bundle of joy, they see a car that reminds them of their childhood. A car their father drove. A car from old sepia-toned photographs with plenty of flannel-clad folks. A car whose backseat saw more action than Rambo and Liberace combined. They see a time when things were easy - including themselves - and life hadn't quite beaten and mashed them into a puree comprised of post-divorce melancholia and unfulfilled promises. The PT Cruiser, for them, is the good times that have all since dissipated after losing custody of the kids.
It's only after a few weeks of driving that these poor, poor souls come to the realization that these cars don't immediately drive onto the set of Bugsy when you turn over the ignition. The gas mileage is shit. And that their parents are still dead. As is the hope of jump starting their lives with the promise of a new version of something old. The retro wet dream that so many baby boomers still fill their huggies with. The big disappointment.
And this says nothing of the men who drive these cars. But I'll save that for another time.
R.I.P. Hyundai Stellar. You were too good for this world.
And that's how it is,
Syd
Still, regardless of my vehicle's shortcomings, that doesn't give anyone, hummer or hybrid alike, to cut me off, ridicule me, and ride me from behind like Roseanne Barr on Tom Arnold. This includes you, PT Cruisers, who as of late, have been the most egregious offenders in terms of road ridiculousness. I can't count on any of my fingers or toes, how many times I've been violated by the over-aggressive behavior of the drivers of these cars. It's a disturbing trend, one I think I've only begun to comprehend.
I think the idea of what the PT Cruiser represents (or fails to represent) is at the root of the problem.
When a potential PT Cruiser driver - from my experience, typically a middle-aged, single woman - shows up at the dealership to pick out the little bundle of joy, they see a car that reminds them of their childhood. A car their father drove. A car from old sepia-toned photographs with plenty of flannel-clad folks. A car whose backseat saw more action than Rambo and Liberace combined. They see a time when things were easy - including themselves - and life hadn't quite beaten and mashed them into a puree comprised of post-divorce melancholia and unfulfilled promises. The PT Cruiser, for them, is the good times that have all since dissipated after losing custody of the kids.
It's only after a few weeks of driving that these poor, poor souls come to the realization that these cars don't immediately drive onto the set of Bugsy when you turn over the ignition. The gas mileage is shit. And that their parents are still dead. As is the hope of jump starting their lives with the promise of a new version of something old. The retro wet dream that so many baby boomers still fill their huggies with. The big disappointment.
And this says nothing of the men who drive these cars. But I'll save that for another time.
R.I.P. Hyundai Stellar. You were too good for this world.
And that's how it is,
Syd
And here is the rest of it.
Random thoughts for discussion
There is a part of me that believes a percentage (not a large percentage, but a percentage nonetheless) of white voters are only voting for Barak Obama so black people will have nothing more to bitch about. It makes sense, doesn't it. If he's in the White House it means they've done it. They've reached the highest level, what else is there to possibly gripe about?
I can clean your house...and dream.
My name is Benihana Flying-Dragon. I come here for better life...and
to find American Girl Superstore! I clean for powerbroker in dainty
lingerie from Craigslist Ad, because it is their will, and they feed me
sweet Rice Crispie Treat (tm), but some day, I will be more than
fetish-clean Asian 'girl.' Someday, I too, will be Jessicra Srimpsron...
All About Me!
A mini-bio of Dr. Mordechai Rosenbaum
Note: I have written this in the 3rd person to sound less pretentious.
Morty, as he prefers to be called is a successful orthodontist with a private practice not far from his home in the Long Island suburb of Great Neck. Before anything else, Morty is proud to state that every year he upgrades to the new Toyota Prius.
Raised in the Red Hook section of Brooklyn, Morty developed a crippling inferiority complex in grade school because of the constant teasing by his fellow students about his biblical namesake. As the second of four children born to Eastern European immigrants, Morty’s parents were less than helpful in building up their son’s poor self-image.
After high school, Morty did his undergraduate work at CUNY Queens College, where his classmates included Jerry Seinfeld and Paul Reiser. Though they weren’t the best of friends, Morty says that they were definitely the kind of guys you could say hi in the hallway to.
While attending dental school at New York University, Morty met Linda Greenblatt. Though it wasn’t exactly love at first sight, Morty says that Linda eventually wore him down. They were married immediately after graduation.
After completing his internship, Morty and Linda opened his first practice in Staten Island. He worked on the teeth of a rapidly growing patient base and Linda did the secretarial work as well as handling all financial aspects of the company. Morty often makes light-hearted jokes about his trust to let a Jewish woman handle the money. These jokes always end with Morty drifting off and staring into a corner for thirty seconds.
The business expanded and eventually became the Great Neck office of today which has seven employees and almost one hundred devoted patients.
Morty and Linda have three beautiful children. First came twin girls Jessica and Ashley, who attend Vasser and Brandeis respectively. Both girls pledged Alpha Phi Gamma sorority and rose to become treasurer. Both Jessica and Ashley drive BMW’s and list “Coke Zero, my new nose, and the 47th Street Diamond district as my three favorite things ever”.
Though he loves his daughters, Morty (with the aid of three glasses of Chivas Regal) describes them as “insipid, JAP bitch, spoiled brats who tell me they hate me and ask for money in the same breath. They’re trying to drain me financially and mentally through the scrotum”. He is also distasteful of the twins’ decision to take their mother’s last name of Goldblatt.
Morty's youngest is his 12-year old son, Jacob. Jacob is an honor roll student at East Great Neck Middle School, and receives bar mitzvah training at Temple Beth Chaim. Morty tells me that he and Linda are planning a Lost-themed party.
Jacob is also into sports. Since the age of 7, he has played in the East-Central Nassau County youth soccer league. Despite Jacob’s protestations that it aggravates his asthma and that he has always hated soccer, Linda insists that it is good for his cognitive development.
Morty would describe his current life as in a “transitional period”. Though dedicated to his wife, he admits that the last time they were intimate was that time “Linda took one for the team in the car at Niagra Falls”.
Morty’s hobbies include waking up at 5:30 every day to go work out at Bally’s (at Linda’s insistence). His favorite time of the day is after the last patient leaves and Morty is free to take a few hits from the nitrus-oxide tank before going home to face his family.
In short. Morty is a middle-aged, sexually frustrated, spiritually repressed, financially abused, average Jewish professional from Long Island.
Note: I have written this in the 3rd person to sound less pretentious.
Morty, as he prefers to be called is a successful orthodontist with a private practice not far from his home in the Long Island suburb of Great Neck. Before anything else, Morty is proud to state that every year he upgrades to the new Toyota Prius.
Raised in the Red Hook section of Brooklyn, Morty developed a crippling inferiority complex in grade school because of the constant teasing by his fellow students about his biblical namesake. As the second of four children born to Eastern European immigrants, Morty’s parents were less than helpful in building up their son’s poor self-image.
After high school, Morty did his undergraduate work at CUNY Queens College, where his classmates included Jerry Seinfeld and Paul Reiser. Though they weren’t the best of friends, Morty says that they were definitely the kind of guys you could say hi in the hallway to.
While attending dental school at New York University, Morty met Linda Greenblatt. Though it wasn’t exactly love at first sight, Morty says that Linda eventually wore him down. They were married immediately after graduation.
After completing his internship, Morty and Linda opened his first practice in Staten Island. He worked on the teeth of a rapidly growing patient base and Linda did the secretarial work as well as handling all financial aspects of the company. Morty often makes light-hearted jokes about his trust to let a Jewish woman handle the money. These jokes always end with Morty drifting off and staring into a corner for thirty seconds.
The business expanded and eventually became the Great Neck office of today which has seven employees and almost one hundred devoted patients.
Morty and Linda have three beautiful children. First came twin girls Jessica and Ashley, who attend Vasser and Brandeis respectively. Both girls pledged Alpha Phi Gamma sorority and rose to become treasurer. Both Jessica and Ashley drive BMW’s and list “Coke Zero, my new nose, and the 47th Street Diamond district as my three favorite things ever”.
Though he loves his daughters, Morty (with the aid of three glasses of Chivas Regal) describes them as “insipid, JAP bitch, spoiled brats who tell me they hate me and ask for money in the same breath. They’re trying to drain me financially and mentally through the scrotum”. He is also distasteful of the twins’ decision to take their mother’s last name of Goldblatt.
Morty's youngest is his 12-year old son, Jacob. Jacob is an honor roll student at East Great Neck Middle School, and receives bar mitzvah training at Temple Beth Chaim. Morty tells me that he and Linda are planning a Lost-themed party.
Jacob is also into sports. Since the age of 7, he has played in the East-Central Nassau County youth soccer league. Despite Jacob’s protestations that it aggravates his asthma and that he has always hated soccer, Linda insists that it is good for his cognitive development.
Morty would describe his current life as in a “transitional period”. Though dedicated to his wife, he admits that the last time they were intimate was that time “Linda took one for the team in the car at Niagra Falls”.
Morty’s hobbies include waking up at 5:30 every day to go work out at Bally’s (at Linda’s insistence). His favorite time of the day is after the last patient leaves and Morty is free to take a few hits from the nitrus-oxide tank before going home to face his family.
In short. Morty is a middle-aged, sexually frustrated, spiritually repressed, financially abused, average Jewish professional from Long Island.
The Dr. documents his journey while wacthing the unwatchable
MY THOUGHTS WHILE WATCHING THE 80TH ANNUAL ACADEMY AWARDS
By Dr. Mordechai Rosenbaum
Early Questions
-What is it about the Oscars that makes my balls retract into my stomach?
-How come the dominant thought floating through my head while watching this is “How drunk would I have to be to fuck a chick with a tail?”
- Why do I find myself constantly flipping back to Mr. Holland’s Opus on American Movie Classics?
Ways to make the Oscars more entertaining #103: Segregation.
The entertainment level of this show is somewhere between A Yugoslavian circus and hijab videos on Youporn
I should point out that as I type THIS SENTENCE, the show has been on for roughly twenty-five minutes.
Yes, there’s the clip of Cuba Gooding Jr. setting his race back sixty years with his acceptance speech that bordered on minstrel. But we can never forget the star of Boat Trip and Radio.
I remember reading once that any night where Woody Allen was nominated, he made a point of playing clarinet in a New York Jazz Bar. Mental note: Woody Allen is a jazz-loving faggot.
Javier Bardem just won for No Country For Old Men. The Academy just filled their “Awards given to a minority” quota for the night. The rest of the show should be nice and milky pure.
Just watched some weird gospel-like song performance. May have been Stevie Wonder, I don’t know. They must have gotten some kind of special permit to let this many black people be in one room with so many rich white people.
Owen Wilson is on stage. It’d be hilarious if Dennis Hopper is in the audience covertly jiggling a baggie just to fuck with him. Then Hopper calls Owen a pussy lightweight and that the amount of junk Owen got caught with would have lasted roughly 4.6 seconds if left lying around on the Apocalypse Now set.
Watch, now some douchebag anchor on ABC is gonna refer to Owen Wilson “bold” and “courageous” decision to appear on an awards show only a year after his minor stint in rehab.
Just to re-iterate. There are pussies in the drug world too. Owen Wilson is a pussy. Dennis Hopper is a demigod who could swing his dick like a lasso and impregnate sorority girls from across the room.
Alan Arkin...you know what? I can’t say shit, I like the guy. The In-Laws, great stuff. But he looks like that creepy Jewish Uncle who was still un-married at 60, worked at the OTB, volunteers at your junior high school, knew a disturbing amount of info on Jem and the Holograms, and would spent an hour picking out the tallis that he likes best at shul.
Best Supporting Actress: Tilda Swinton for Michael Clayton. God damn, she is ugly. She looks like something I was eating at the beach and dropped.
Okay, it’s no secret that Jon Stewart is Jewish. But is it me or does he seem like the kind of Jew who would volunteer to run the gas chambers just so he could live seven weeks longer than the group he was rounded up with?
I think Joel Coen and Howard Stern are the same person.
This is all bullshit. Ninety percent of these movies we won’t remember by next year. But the New Bev is selling out midnight screenings of Zapped.
Best Director award is coming up. Oh god I hope Marcus Nispel wins!
Ways to make the Oscars more entertaining #310: Have the cast of idiots from Best Week Ever hang around on folding chairs at stage left and make horribly unfunny jokes about everyone else’s horribly unfunny jokes. And everyone just ends up getting more and more flustered until they’re all sweaty and stuttering until even the people watching the show at home alone are really uncomfortable.
7:03 PM. Seth Rogen and Jonah Hill. The sheer amount of Jew emanating from my tv makes me crave a can of Doctor Browns Black Cherry. Apatow probably gets a check just for these guys appearing on the show for forty seconds.
Best Actress Winner - Marion Cotillard in La Vie en Rose. Yeah, I have no idea who this chick is. Hot though.
They’re showing a montage of every Best Picture winner cut to the theme music from Dragonheart. Congratulations Universe: another point to you.
Yes. I was just able to correctly identify the theme music from Dragonheart.
7:38 pm. AFI shoutout by Robert Boyle. I’m not gonna knock the guy, but what kind of filter did they shoot him through? He looks like an old lesbian.
Penelope Cruz is like the hottest ugly girl I’ve ever seen. I’m mildly repulsed by her but I would still jump at the chance to ravage her. I’d fuck the ugly right out of the bitch.
Oh, who’s this eunuch with the velvety voice singing to these fruits dressed like Marianne Faithful?
I just realized that almost everyone on this show so far has been like 26 years old tops. That’s why they keep cutting back to the shot of Nicholson in the audience. He’s the only old-timer who can stomach this.
My theory about what was happening at this exact moment of the Oscar show 35 years ago:
They’re giving Frank Pierson some fucking award. But no one cares cause all the cool guys are haning out in the loading dock: Steve McQueens drinkin’ straight whiskey. Nicholsons slamming some production assistant doggy style over a workbench, Dennis Hoppers running in circles cause his mescaline kicked in and he thinks he’s a turkey, and Warren Beattys waving an eightball in front of Natlie Wood’s face so she’ll give him a rimmer. A young produer named Jerry Bruckheimer is ushered into a crypt beneath the stage for his meeting with Satan to go over the paperwork for their upcoming merger.
HOLY SHIT! How long has Hillary Swank had AIDS?
They didn’t have Roy Scheider up there with the dead. You have no fucking concept of how angry that makes me.
I like this Amy Adams chick. I liked her ever since she played the retarded girl that Leonardo DiCaprio fucked in Catch Me if You Can.
Did the Oscar Band just play Cum on Feel the Noize?
That was the best thing in the entire show!
I think it’s good that Ellen Page didn’t win. Cause that would have been it. She would have peaked at 20. If she was smart she would have won and then went straight home and sliced her own fucking throat.
Why’d they have to show that shot of Daniel Day-Lewis winning like 20 years ago? Now I don’t want him to win. I did before, but now I don’t. He has one already, fuck him.
Well there goes that hope. It’s minor, though. Defeinately not worth of the the save until I delete file in the tivo of my shattered dreams.
Johnny Depp looks like the kind of person our mothers warned us never to get into a car with.
Scorsese looks like the fucking Ringmaster from Dumbo.
Coen Brothers/ No Country... I can’t even say shit. I got no problem with this. These guys made a movie that didn’t have a fucking ending and made us believe it was brilliant. Who has the sack to even try to do soomething like that?
Holy shit, Joel Coen looks like Winston with a pompadour. (inside joke, don’t worry about it)
8:48 PM PST - the show ends. Hey, is anyone else fucking psyched to watch A Raisin in the Sun starring Sean Combs tomorrow night on ABC?
By Dr. Mordechai Rosenbaum
Early Questions
-What is it about the Oscars that makes my balls retract into my stomach?
-How come the dominant thought floating through my head while watching this is “How drunk would I have to be to fuck a chick with a tail?”
- Why do I find myself constantly flipping back to Mr. Holland’s Opus on American Movie Classics?
Ways to make the Oscars more entertaining #103: Segregation.
The entertainment level of this show is somewhere between A Yugoslavian circus and hijab videos on Youporn
I should point out that as I type THIS SENTENCE, the show has been on for roughly twenty-five minutes.
Yes, there’s the clip of Cuba Gooding Jr. setting his race back sixty years with his acceptance speech that bordered on minstrel. But we can never forget the star of Boat Trip and Radio.
I remember reading once that any night where Woody Allen was nominated, he made a point of playing clarinet in a New York Jazz Bar. Mental note: Woody Allen is a jazz-loving faggot.
Javier Bardem just won for No Country For Old Men. The Academy just filled their “Awards given to a minority” quota for the night. The rest of the show should be nice and milky pure.
Just watched some weird gospel-like song performance. May have been Stevie Wonder, I don’t know. They must have gotten some kind of special permit to let this many black people be in one room with so many rich white people.
Owen Wilson is on stage. It’d be hilarious if Dennis Hopper is in the audience covertly jiggling a baggie just to fuck with him. Then Hopper calls Owen a pussy lightweight and that the amount of junk Owen got caught with would have lasted roughly 4.6 seconds if left lying around on the Apocalypse Now set.
Watch, now some douchebag anchor on ABC is gonna refer to Owen Wilson “bold” and “courageous” decision to appear on an awards show only a year after his minor stint in rehab.
Just to re-iterate. There are pussies in the drug world too. Owen Wilson is a pussy. Dennis Hopper is a demigod who could swing his dick like a lasso and impregnate sorority girls from across the room.
Alan Arkin...you know what? I can’t say shit, I like the guy. The In-Laws, great stuff. But he looks like that creepy Jewish Uncle who was still un-married at 60, worked at the OTB, volunteers at your junior high school, knew a disturbing amount of info on Jem and the Holograms, and would spent an hour picking out the tallis that he likes best at shul.
Best Supporting Actress: Tilda Swinton for Michael Clayton. God damn, she is ugly. She looks like something I was eating at the beach and dropped.
Okay, it’s no secret that Jon Stewart is Jewish. But is it me or does he seem like the kind of Jew who would volunteer to run the gas chambers just so he could live seven weeks longer than the group he was rounded up with?
I think Joel Coen and Howard Stern are the same person.
This is all bullshit. Ninety percent of these movies we won’t remember by next year. But the New Bev is selling out midnight screenings of Zapped.
Best Director award is coming up. Oh god I hope Marcus Nispel wins!
Ways to make the Oscars more entertaining #310: Have the cast of idiots from Best Week Ever hang around on folding chairs at stage left and make horribly unfunny jokes about everyone else’s horribly unfunny jokes. And everyone just ends up getting more and more flustered until they’re all sweaty and stuttering until even the people watching the show at home alone are really uncomfortable.
7:03 PM. Seth Rogen and Jonah Hill. The sheer amount of Jew emanating from my tv makes me crave a can of Doctor Browns Black Cherry. Apatow probably gets a check just for these guys appearing on the show for forty seconds.
Best Actress Winner - Marion Cotillard in La Vie en Rose. Yeah, I have no idea who this chick is. Hot though.
They’re showing a montage of every Best Picture winner cut to the theme music from Dragonheart. Congratulations Universe: another point to you.
Yes. I was just able to correctly identify the theme music from Dragonheart.
7:38 pm. AFI shoutout by Robert Boyle. I’m not gonna knock the guy, but what kind of filter did they shoot him through? He looks like an old lesbian.
Penelope Cruz is like the hottest ugly girl I’ve ever seen. I’m mildly repulsed by her but I would still jump at the chance to ravage her. I’d fuck the ugly right out of the bitch.
Oh, who’s this eunuch with the velvety voice singing to these fruits dressed like Marianne Faithful?
I just realized that almost everyone on this show so far has been like 26 years old tops. That’s why they keep cutting back to the shot of Nicholson in the audience. He’s the only old-timer who can stomach this.
My theory about what was happening at this exact moment of the Oscar show 35 years ago:
They’re giving Frank Pierson some fucking award. But no one cares cause all the cool guys are haning out in the loading dock: Steve McQueens drinkin’ straight whiskey. Nicholsons slamming some production assistant doggy style over a workbench, Dennis Hoppers running in circles cause his mescaline kicked in and he thinks he’s a turkey, and Warren Beattys waving an eightball in front of Natlie Wood’s face so she’ll give him a rimmer. A young produer named Jerry Bruckheimer is ushered into a crypt beneath the stage for his meeting with Satan to go over the paperwork for their upcoming merger.
HOLY SHIT! How long has Hillary Swank had AIDS?
They didn’t have Roy Scheider up there with the dead. You have no fucking concept of how angry that makes me.
I like this Amy Adams chick. I liked her ever since she played the retarded girl that Leonardo DiCaprio fucked in Catch Me if You Can.
Did the Oscar Band just play Cum on Feel the Noize?
That was the best thing in the entire show!
I think it’s good that Ellen Page didn’t win. Cause that would have been it. She would have peaked at 20. If she was smart she would have won and then went straight home and sliced her own fucking throat.
Why’d they have to show that shot of Daniel Day-Lewis winning like 20 years ago? Now I don’t want him to win. I did before, but now I don’t. He has one already, fuck him.
Well there goes that hope. It’s minor, though. Defeinately not worth of the the save until I delete file in the tivo of my shattered dreams.
Johnny Depp looks like the kind of person our mothers warned us never to get into a car with.
Scorsese looks like the fucking Ringmaster from Dumbo.
Coen Brothers/ No Country... I can’t even say shit. I got no problem with this. These guys made a movie that didn’t have a fucking ending and made us believe it was brilliant. Who has the sack to even try to do soomething like that?
Holy shit, Joel Coen looks like Winston with a pompadour. (inside joke, don’t worry about it)
8:48 PM PST - the show ends. Hey, is anyone else fucking psyched to watch A Raisin in the Sun starring Sean Combs tomorrow night on ABC?
SCHNABEL STUNS WITH NEXT MOVE: SONIC THE HEDGEHOG BIOPIC
Oscar-nominated director and painter Julian Schnabel (Basquiat, Before Night Falls,
The Diving Bell and the Butterfly) may have just decided to take on his most challenging
subject yet. The renowned filmmaker, whose works seem to profile cultural bastions and
the Worldly, will next be seen taking a good, hard look at the biography of the oldschool Sega character, Sonic the Hedgehog.
Though the character is, indeed, a videogame, he is adamant that the film itself will be completely live-action and will emphasize 'realism.'
The Truth About Space
Yes. Space. That Black shit in the sky.
I sacrificed valuable masturbation time searching the heavens through youtube. This is what I got.
All videos below have been authenticated. Especially the bottom one.
Get Paranoid.
I sacrificed valuable masturbation time searching the heavens through youtube. This is what I got.
All videos below have been authenticated. Especially the bottom one.
Get Paranoid.
My Wife's Period
Now, before you get all riled up and sweaty in places that only dictators and hula girls get wet, let me say something.First off, Teesha and Eddie, if you're reading this (God help me if you are), your mother is a saint, and in no way is this article a slight against her. Your mother, from her bushy brows down to her hammer toes, to me, is a perfect, shrink wrapped gift from God. Don't let anyone tell you different, myself included.
Also, for those of you reading this, please do not think that this is some kind of exploration into the more graphic and lurid (and beautiful?) world of female menstruation. Rather, it's more a matter of timing than it is of some of the realities that come with a woman's natural egg expulsion. What I'm trying to say without sounding like a drunken frat boy who has roofied so many drinks at the party that he's managed to inadvertently poison his own drink and is only ten seconds away from a coma (and involuntary anal sex with the guy who everyone thought was TOTALLY straight ) -- is -- I don't care about the bleeding or the bloating or the fact that for five days my wife whispers to me while we sleep, vowing that she's going to murder and mount me with the help of her new lover who just so happens to be a taxidermist. I care about one thing: the ticking clock -- whew.
They say a man's sexual peak is roughly in his late teens, possibly up to his mid-twenties. And a woman's starts late-twenties, sometimes pushing into the late thirties.
I'm 54.
My wife is 58.
And yet I'm all but certain that she hasn't even hit her stride when it comes to these aforementioned figures. While there are some nights when I can just as easily crawl into a good Mccarthy novel, take a shot of Tylenol PM, and trundle into dreamland - not unlike the frat boy but without the tender tush - my wife consistently feels the need to tap me on the shoulder and let me know that it's time to tussle. On most nights of the week, I have no problems with this, at least not mentally. My body might have other thoughts on the matter.
But when it's a few days shy of the arrival of the crimson express, that's when things start to go downhill. Or uphill maybe. Not sure if that constitutes sexual innuendo or not...REGARDLESS...All I know is that on the twenty fourth of every month, my Palm Pilot sounds the alarm, alerting me of what's to come. An intensive, non-stop fuckfest - my wife's desperate attempt to get as much sex in before she retreats into the recesses of ladydom. Twenty-four hours before D-Day ( I suppose P-Day is more fitting) my wife becomes a stock car driver, bumping and grinding her way to the finish line. In these twenty-four hours, I am a skid mark on her path to pleasure.
She is not unlike a squirrel storing up nuts for the winter, or a bear stuffing its face with camo-clad NRA members before hibernation. She completely consumes me.
The reason for this coital bombardment is beyond me. That critical, selfish, sinister part of me assumes that she's trying her hardest to put me out of commission for the same length of time that she has her period. Which it actually does. I find myself hobbled and having to take handfuls of arthritic medication and consuming liter upon liter of any ginseng drink I can find just to get through the following week.
Once I have the time to sit down and enjoy a nice cup of oolong, the Times, I realize that this isn't the case. It can't be. Does she really want to punish me? Does she truly feel that God has placed this burden on her ovaries and she is going to impose an equally painful punishment upon me? (My apologies to the ladies reading this. I know what you go through is so much more painful than anything I could dream up). Not Melinda. It's not in her nature. And I know that.
This delicate yet virile spark plug would never, even in the darkest depths of her subconscious, want to hurt me. I know this. She's not doling out punishment, she's not trying to grind me into a fine powder. She simply knows that with every fleeting laugh, every passing smile, every bump, every bruise, every glass of spilled oolong, every one of Rusty's messy 'accidents', every racquetball lesson, every thunderstorm, every kiss, every touch, everything, it's going to come to an end sooner than later. And she simply wants to lap all of it up before it's too late. And for this, I can't blame her. I can only do one thing:
Pray for menopause.
And that's how it is,
Syd Pellegrino
Found Music
I found this behind a milf.
Upon loading into my computer, I discovered the artist is
DJ TROUT FISHING IN AMERICA, JR.
Track: Tinhorn Screw
http://chalicerecording.com/ninjas/tinhornscrew.mp3
Please read the full review and add your own.
After only listening to the first fifteen seconds of this track, I know
the artist made music its bitch.
Upon loading into my computer, I discovered the artist is
DJ TROUT FISHING IN AMERICA, JR.
Track: Tinhorn Screw
http://chalicerecording.com/ninjas/tinhornscrew.mp3
Please read the full review and add your own.
After only listening to the first fifteen seconds of this track, I know
the artist made music its bitch.
Editorial: SPRING 2014 FASHION PREVIEW...
...j/k. It's still SOOOOO '08. But it's hard to tell when setting your pupil upon Leroi Jankowitz's frock (pictured). My crew and I were out and about this weekend, on the trail of some serious trend-setting, be it Emily Bissett's haute Nipple-Free BodySuit (a one-piece of latex and tar with no holes for anything but nipples) or the new baby-blue-and-sand tone stretchy waistbands of Chanel's OldWetty; a decidedly upscale take on the Depend adult diaper, lined with Swarovski crystals and the embryos of baby seals that have already been impregnated by other seals. Ravishing, dahhhling!But it was none other than Mr. Jankowitz, thrice turned away from "Project Runway" (this season, he admittedly slept though the call after a heavy night of Rollos and poppers) that made our disposable Walgreen's cameras glitter the greatest...
Few could even pull off his look. At nearly 7 feet tall, 285 lbs, he, today, seems not incongruous with the neoclassicism of a young Audrey Hepburn--an unprecedented vision of strong lines, floor-length gowns with the cleanest silhouettes and a flawless, timeless sense of beauty that could transpose any fashion into the forefront. Hepburn herself, were she not dead from cancer, would truly feel that the 'torch' had been rightly passed should she have bumped into Mr. Jankowitz at 4:11 am this Saturday on Sunset Boulevard.
Alas, she couldn't, so we did our own investigating. Though it was dangerous work at first; I was nearly stabbed by Mr. Jankowitz's stately 'wife' 'Swingin' P' and it was only after I told them both that I wrote for TMA that they eased down...and asked for five dollars. I obliged.
When I asked Leroi what many in my situation would have asked--how he envisioned that the bejeweled-semi-zebra-print-gold-chain-knee-high boot would jive so utterly brilliantly with the rest of the ensemble without overwhelming it, his response was simple, confident, recalling a young Yves Saint Laurent: "One word: My ass. Do I have ham in between my teeth? Do I smell like dicks? Oh, nice, there's still some ham in my purse..."
Indeed there WAS ham in his purse! Literally and figuratively. The ham-colored purse was that 'special something' that made the line backer look-alike look more like a fashion maven than anything else. And the side of raw ham was fabulous--so bold, so...animalistic!
Our interview ended abruptly, as Leroi disappeared into the back of an alley and then momentarily reappeared to make take the gun. I still have it! Note to self: I must be returning that to him (hopefully every sequin is intact).
With a flourish, a light vomit, and then an unexpected burst into the early morning traffic, this week's trend-setter was sure to light the day on fire. With big, wavy flames of sequin, cheap metals, and flamable fabrics. Here's to you, Leroi Jankowitz--I know we'll some day meet again, perhaps in Milan, perhaps at Denny's.
Study our snapshot. See how he works it, right down to those meaty fingers with wildly terrifying press-on nails. Notice that he is unafraid of textures, like plastic, tin, or fake zebra, and that tying your shirt off into a knot is back--in a gargantuan way. See the tiny, useless belt-thing over his brazen short-shorts--go out, get one, NOW, or you'll be behind the times before Leroi's thrown up his breakfast and made his first fifteen dollars of the day. See that there is sensuality in the leg; we don't see much of it--he knows just how to be conservative and get us with how he 'holds back'; control is key in dressing yourself without looking trashy--but it does peek out from those tiny shorts, and over those menacing boots.
And, at last, look at that smile. Charm, wit, charisma. THAT will surely be the staple of fashion in 2014. Yes, Leroi, you may have ham between your teeth, but your star shines so bright that I only see your bacon--
Finger
German for finger.
And other one liners I have planned
regarding the contents of my apocalypse bag.
Like most Americans, you owe me two adderall.
And like most Americans, I often point to things. I do this with my finger. I don't go into much detail, but I state: that's why the terrorists hate us. I'm pretty good at this. I consider myself aware.
As a conspiracy buff, I also consider myself prepared. If not overly prepared. Some doubt this upon first viewing my apocalypse bag, fashioned by The North Face. I don't let this deter me from what my therapist knows to be true, which is that I am on the right cocktail, and shouldn't stray from my meds. Either way you're gonna be all over me and my adderall, and I rub your face in it.
I'll most likely be peaking. And hyper and anxious because I already know what I'm gonna say, every fucking time, I save your fucking life. Because I knew! I fucking knew it was gonna go down like this. I told you so.
I will point this out often.
And if I haven't told you how the worlds gonna end, then... get used to this kind of attitude, I put some in the bag, along with all the other things you thought were stupid.
And without further confusion, here's every one liner I have to say regarding the contents of my Apocalypse bag (fashioned by The North Face), in order of usage, to you and your dumb face.
1. Is this wall looking to get grappled? Let's not forgot about those two adderall you owe me.
2. Don't even ask me, it's a bottle of addys. I'll sell you some, but I'm only taking Canadian. Whatever they use, and however silly it seems.
3. This is my last machete?
4. Only one head fits in this gas mask. Flawed design.
5. Don't break those night vision goggles! They're Russian.
6. This Eton Grunding FR250 Silver AM/FM/Shortwave Radio, Flashlight, and... ain't gonna wind itself.
7. If the sun comes back, I honestly, scouts honor ( I say this out loud and hold my fingers up as well.. I went back and forth over the last four years and debated wether to actually pull the scouts honor crap, and then there's this bit about how I actually do have expired Tama-flu, because I lie about this for several days, until the bird flu is even more overwhelming than the radiation, but I don't know if we'll be up-wind, or what. Either way Its the same stunt I pull with the Thyroid capsules (they came with the mask). I'll be so wacked out on xanax and whatever else I traded that switchblade I promised you, that, like, you're the one who looks silly when Jihads start raining Koreans from the sky, and you thought I... I betray you a lot. You can have my spare compass, if you're still convinced it just didn't work that one time. Only. And not the fifteen other fucking times).
8. Mayan interrupting something?
9. This baton was an amazon.com purchase, and expands two feet, into the same thing. I threaten you with it, and force you to disrobe. If you're not bitten, I don't knife you with my switch blade, and WE MOVE ON. If bitten, stop here and never come back.
There were explosions I never mentioned. It's pivotal.
Terrible things are said and you're deaf. I think you're starting to turn.
It's my birthday. We play it off. I tongue you at midnight.
I will admit to something. It will sound genuine.
I want sex by 2013. It's not a promise or a threat.
I lie about my symptoms.
I enjoy none of this, and your cough improves.
Mayan anything, is worthless and heavy.
The NorthWest Territories, depending on the mood.
Tin Foil blankets suck. Kuru becomes seductive.
We don't always agree, but I don't care. Never did.
Lets not forget what's fashioned by The North Face, and strapped to my back.
Emoticons are a sign of weakness.
-Smokeland Mitch Gayler
P.S. The image above is the second result in a google query, under images, for images. The first was a hack job.
P.P.S. It only felt appropriate. After all, finger in German is finger. I could be wrong about that.
THE BLOG TO END ALL BLOGS
Just click. I was blown away.
That link below is my new homepage.
http://bayberyl.blogspot.com/
That link below is my new homepage.
http://bayberyl.blogspot.com/
This is our anibortion. (Our abortion's aniversary.)
Dear Gaylord,What must I do to make times so sweet once again?
Your very own,
Lidet.
On Valentine's Day & RPC-II, Sightings Of...
CALL ME OLD-FASHIONED but I always thought that an elbow-macaroni encrusted heart cut from construction paper, still gooey with the always tempting edibility of Elmers, was considered The Bar for Valentine's Day gift-giving. After a hard day of getting it up the poop chute on Betamax for diet cracker endorsements and exercise, it had always been customary for me to come home to find said-Valentine sitting on the floor where our coffee table would be if we had one. This was OUR tradition and, really, it is the nature of tradition itself that so enriches these holidays, is it not? But I digress. It's the 90s now. Times are ticking and the clock is a-changing. And my husband, "Jamal" (he asked me not to use his real name and shit but he's only 13 and has to ask me for permission to use the stolen internet on our fake computer anyway, so I'm pretty sure he wouldn't ever find out if I told you that his name is really J'mall. Sidenote: He's still in 4th grade and his teacher says the window of opportunity for him to learn to read is closing faster than that raccoon's jaws around her left ankle. His strengths are in microbial diagnostics and egg hatching. Something tells me he's going to be a hugely successful famous world leader or money glutton like Donald Trump...or a really enthused volunteer pornstar like me. Shoot for the moon, I say. Even if your rocket crashes, you can get high off of the fumes.) Where was I?NEVER PEE IN A PUBLIC RESTROOM BELOW THE MASON-DIXON LINE or you're libel to become infected with RPC-II (Redneck Peehole Critters, Second Strain). My neighbor and best friend, Black Velvet, went on a camping trip this past December, during a blizzard. (She claims it gives your body something to hate other than itself.) She went it all alone. I didn't think that was a good idea by any means. She tried to get me to go. I told her I'd rather die in the non-comfort of my barely-house. She spat on me. I tied her up and left her in my basement (*which is really somebody else's house's basement--that's the genius of it) for two nights. I meant to do it for just an hour but I fell asleep for those two days, and when I woke up, she had left for the wilderness. She's been alone her whole life. Legend has it that she was born without any parents and raised herself since she was a 0 year-old. Now, it's damn hard to believe THAT, but what I do believe is that she was raised by a pack of old Chinese ladies who made her watch the same Sesame Street tape four times every day. (It wasn't even a real Sesame Street; it was bootlegged look-alike puppets with fully developed pubic hair chatting about how to replace lost teeth in Vietnam.)
Here's a photo I've got of her (In this particular picture, she is watching the last member of the pack of Chinese ladies that raised her being burnt to death, as is tradit
ion when you turn 101 in our neck of the woods. RIP Hester Chen. "Jamal" actually took this picture. He's a genius of light and shadow. Actually, I take that back. I took the picture.So, this being Valentine's and all, I do miss Black Velvet and I hope if she made it to Antarctica, she'll at least eat some penguin for me. I got a postcard from her last Tuesday:
She seems hunky dory despite the RPC-II; my degree in handwriting analysis tells me that she's found love with a fair-but-ill-tempered man (Sean Penn?)--as you can see she dots her "i's" with hearts. She remembered her cursive, which is important. And the postcard smelled like a Dunkin' Donuts dumpster, so she must be getting plenty to eat. But she also broke my heart, as she must still harbor a grudge against me for telling her I'd rather die than accompany her, and then locking her up in a well for two days, as she writes "we still (symbol for not equal to) friends."Alright, so speaking of dotting one's "i's" with hearts and what-not, let's get back to the tricky business at hand--the changing tide of our nation's Valentine's Day. As mentioned, for the past six years, J'mall and I have exchanged homemade valentines (in his case, schoolmade--and graded), and then exchanged bodily fluids.(Last year, he told me that when we move somewhere big and fancy when we're super rich, he's gonna pork me in each room of the house. Right now, I told him I'd settle for each corner of the room we live in.) So, simplicity has been love's beacon of hope...
...until Jennifer Hudson came along and fucked it up. This year, you see, my husband wants not only my love and my thick diamond encrusted bosom to lay his head across. He doesn't want a card from Hallmark, candy, new shoelaces, chairs for the ping-pong dining room table, not even a cute gigantic stuffed animal. (I just had a major craving for penguin; man I hope Black Velvet comes around to seeing things my way and hauls some delicious Emperor penguin blubber back across the Mohabi for me...) NO. What does J'mall want to commemorate our years of love and semi-devotion and blackmail? A 'capelet,' that thing that J. Hud wore to the Count Chocula Festival. What really upsets me is that our love has never been about material things, because we have (a) never owned anything or (b) just stolen the things that we pretend to own. I know a shimmering metallic capelet is different than all that; he wants it to be HIS. It's not enough for me to make one out of tin foil, like fancy food, folded into a swan. And it's sure not gonna be right if I lift the item. It has to be new, store-bought. The designer's name has to end in a vowel, he says. Like a dumb-ass, I said 'If you wanna look like Elvira, why don't you just wear some fake vampire teeth?' (you know, the wax kind...). He stabbed my chest with a fork, and then ATE MY NIPPLE. We took pictures after we got high and made up and it was funny. It was actually taken by Hester Chen, right before her 101th birthday and live cremation:
I told J'mall I was going to tie him to the toilet and feed him Dran-o until he shat out my poor nipple. But the next morning, it hurt a whole lot again. And then, we hatched a Valentine's Plan! We are suing Jennifer Hudson, as well as the Count Chocula Festival, and with our winnings, we indeed plan to buy a wonderful capelet, and for me, something special. No one ever really thinks they're going to hit the jack-pot, make it big, sue the living capelet out of a celebrity for inflicting unprecedented damages upon undiscerning gradeschool husbands. But this is our day. It is our United States of America. Some people dream of driving a speedy Corvette should they ever have the dough. Or travel the world. Or space. Or bite the head off a living bat (that's Black Velvet's dream).
What do I want? Oh, I'm pretty modest, I suppose. But, with these supposed funds we may or may not receive, I am going to buy a beautiful magenta Taser, 11,000 volts of hot pink lady sex. I'm going to see if I can cook a pork chop with it. Or if I can get J'mall to hit puberty faster. But mostly, I think I'll just attack rich women with it and steal their purses, so that we may buy more and better capelets, bigger tasers, and tastier penguin blubber, should the chance arrive!!
In the end, Valentine's day isn't just about love. It's about loving what you want to get your hands on.
And, as of this posting, I'm still waiting on J'mall to shit out the remainder of my nipple. I've sort of given up on it...but I learned something about giving up--it's for the retarded. Real people will fight and take Jennifer Hudson's money and really make something of themselves. Never give up on your dreams. You never know when you'll be able to get the money to buy yours. Here's a picture of mine:
Love, Lidet.
HEATH LEDGER
This really affected me. Twelve year old girls are blogging about it everywhere. I don't even know if I can continue this post. It's turning all Elliot Smith in here... I don't want this to affect my afternoon pretzel.
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