UNIVERSAL DONOR: MA VIE EN CROUTE
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Universal Donor
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You are just a number to me! And that number is: PAGES UD MADE: My Books Page My Reviews Page My Reference Page My Music Page My Pictures My Store UD-RELATED PAGES: My LiveJournal My MySpace music page My Flickr page My del.icio.us page My Last.fm page My Amazon Wishlist HEAVY ROTATION TV on the Radio: Dear Science Walkmen: You & Me Fleet Foxes: Fleet Foxes Ratatat: LP3 Beach House: Devotion BLOGS ETC claude le monde nuncstans rock 'em stock 'em tomato nation postmodern drunkard tuckova 22 ghastly mess constintina total virility fuzzysquid drunken bee stacey nightmare elyse from ANTM stereolabrat dark side points jf_franklin 123 i love you READ NOW brotherhood 2.0 NOT BLOGS ETC qwantz (dinosaur comix) go fug yourself the burg cat and girl book of ratings married to the sea icanhascheezburger fire joe morgan fivethirtyeight.com READ NOW hospitality on parade WEIRD LOVE dead amusement pks craters! all content © 2002-2008 Jeremy Broomfield 
Hosted by: HostRocket.Com Comments by: YACCS PRAISE & REVIEWS "[UD] is a genius." --Christian Oates "[Claudia] is fucking awesome, and [UD] is a genius. And vice versa. You should all buy Fear Not." --Tricia Howey MOTTO egeo huic vigorum MY WRESTLING NAME Titan Gently MY PUNK NAME Razor Ection 
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Tuesday, December 23, 2008
WIPING YOUR ASS WITH BABY WIPES IS THE NEW BLACK
A long time ago, a friend of mine came back from India extolling the merits of two poop-related features of that wondrous nation. First of all, she was mad for squat-johns (you should really go look at the wikipedia page right now. I'll wait here). Which I gotta say I'm pretty persuaded by a lot of the pro-squat arguments, but I can't see them getting installed in a lot of American households anytime soon. How fucking precious would those early-adopters be? I picture a Maude Lebowski-type giving a tour of her pied-ŕ-terre: "And here's my bathroom, nothing unusual here," flicking on the light and lingering long enough for the guest to get an eyeful. "Whoa. Is that a bidet on your floor?" "Oh, what? Oh! No, silly! Don't tell me you haven't seen a squat-john before? Oh they're just too too superior! American are such poop-phobic Puritans. I can't believe you've never even seen one! Sigh!" But anyway. The second thing my friend loved about pooping in India was the lack of toilet paper. She described with approval (but not too much detail) how she washed her dirty bits with water from a bucket provided near the squatty poop-hole (which I'm pretty sure makes it a "rinse," not a "wash," but whatever). I don't know what look was on my face when I heard this, but it was probably the look you have when you are trying to calculate the volume of rubbing alcohol you would have to employ to ever feel clean again after putting your hand in a communal butt-water bucket in a pestilent third-world petri dish of a country. (Sorry India!) Seeing the paralytic doubt clouding my face, she went on to justify the use of water vs. toilet paper by saying "if you had sticky mud on your leg, you wouldn't use a dry clump of paper to get it off, right? You'd use water." And you know what? I had to agree. Furthermore, I had to admit that if I got actual shit on my leg, I would be much more likely to use water to remove it than toilet paper. That was when I truly understood that toilet paper is: retarded. Totally retarded. Wasteful, ineffective, abrasive, indefensible. I don't want to use a butt-water-bucket, but now I don't want to use toilet paper either. What to do? Enter the flushable baby wipe. Faithful readers might recall that I've blogged about Kandoo before, and with typical disdain. But after hearing some outdoorsy types talk about the advantages of damp wipery -- and after seeing very macho soldier types using wipes in Generation Kill -- I now believe that Baby Wipes are about to tip. All that's needed are some high-profile adherents to provide social proof for the behavior (I'm looking at you, Brangelina), and a better product (a lot of baby wipes are not flushable. WTF? Who wants poopy cloths in their garbage cans?), marketed to adults. I think this is about to explode. I don't think toilet paper will ever fully disappear, but within a decade, it will seem, at best, a poor compromise for when baby wipes are unavailable or impractical. DON'T CALL YOUR EX BEFORE NEW YEAR'S Many of you will get lonely around New Year's because of the pressure to kiss the nearest person at the stroke of midnight. You may feel strongly tempted to reach out to an ex (or a less significant intimate acquaintance) as a bulwark against a crushing sense of solitude. They weren't that bad, right? Maybe you broke up with them in haste, or in a moment of anger. Maybe they deserve a second chance? DON'T DO IT. It's not worth it. Why start the new year by reestablishing a connection that you will just have to sever, full of remorse, when you return to your senses? And if the ex has already reached out to you? Same thing. Don't. Play Pictionary with your uncle or something -- the loneliness will pass before you know it. Or, if you can't stomach the deprivation of someone else's saliva, make out with a random person on the street -- a gutter punk or something -- and just walk away. Tuesday, November 18, 2008
AIRLINE TRAVELERS
So on one of my flights back from the Caribbean, I witnessed a bizarre exchange between two passengers. I must have missed the moment that touched off the conflict, but when I tuned in, this French Architect-Looking Guy was placing something into the overhead compartment above the Tweedy Businessman, who looked like a skinnier version of Donald Rumsfeld: BUSINESSMAN: [unintelligible, but aggressive.] FRENCH ARCHITECT-LOOKING GUY: I am zorry -- what did I do wrong? BIZ: It's just courtesy. FRENCH: I don't understan'. BIZ: I'm not trying to engage you. Just sit down and behave yourself. FRENCH: (Momentarily stunned.) I waz be'aving myself. BIZ: I'm not engaging you. You're engaging me, now. FRENCH: (Totally baffled, sits down next to his girlfriend, two rows ahead.) The only logical explanation for what I saw was that Frenchy had, like, touched BizMan's property, up there in the bin. BizMan's stuffy, matter-of-fact rudeness, combined with his totally bizarre verbiage -- "engage"? -- made me want to hurt him. But because hurting people physically is wrong, I felt a seldom-used part of my brain spin up: the part that crafts triumphant, withering monologues that leave foes limp and cause spontaneous applause from onlookers. I used this skill very often in my teens, mentally lacerating all manner of tormentors. I have never actually spoken one of my mental paragraphs aloud, ever. But for your amusement, here are my two imagined drafts, which were to be given to the Rude Businessman, to punish him for his poor ambassadorship: THE PASSIVE AGGRESSIVE BUDDHIST VERSION UD: You are a sad man, with sickness in your soul; a slave to your pride, your possessions, your ego, and your anachronistic, haute-bourgeois notions of courtesy. No matter how you try to convince yourself that you are happy, at some level you know what I say is true. Your soul-sickness poisons everything you touch, and this makes you a very unpleasant person. I could never wish harm on the sick and enslaved, and there is a chance that one day you may awaken from your sleep. Until then, I wish you peace, joy, and freedom from suffering."THE SPOOK VERSION UD: (matching BizMan's pace and walking next to him, looking forward.) Hey. I saw you speak to that man on the plane. Now, I can't be sure where you learned to talk that way. But if you learned it where I think you did, you should know better than to speak that way in front of civilians.BIZMAN: Excuse me? UD: You will not be warned about this again. BIZMAN: I don't understand what you're talking about! UD: (Pauses for three seconds.) This conversation never happened. (Walks away immediately, preferably through a door marked "Restricted Access") Friday, November 14, 2008
RAIN IS DUMB
Rain is good for crops, rain is good for the desert, rain is good for Manhattan sidewalks drenched with horrid midsummer dumpster effluvia. Rain is not good for when I'm sitting on a beach with only a towel, a cell phone, and a very big book. Cruel rain, why did you choose this beach to drench? I can see that in your cumulonimbus caprice you spared the neighboring strand. Fie. I could not have run to shelter, for when I run I look common. I am wet. And worst of all, I will receive no sympathy from my temperate continental readership. "Oh what's that? Did Little Lord Fauntleroy get some wawa on his silken pantaloons? Pray, instruct his governess to fetch a stout rod with which to thrash him, and the jar for collecting his tears." MILLIONAIRES ARE DUMB According to this article, a chap named "Baby" (or "Birdman"), who runs the Cash Money record label, gave profitable artist Li'l Wayne a briefcase full of cash for his birthday. $1,000,000 cash, to be specific. Hey -- Baby Bird Guy? You are a thoughtful and generous person, there can be no doubt. But you know who could really use $1,000,000? How about almost anyone in the world other than Li'l Wayne. Seriously. Pick someone at random from a list of the world's population. The odds you will pick an existing millionaire are lower than your odds of hitting the actual lottery. This makes me almost exactly as ill as people who rend their garments and empty their piggy-banks over the mistreatment of various animals -- be they livestock or test-subjects -- while seemingly unconcerned about the vicious mistreatment of HUMAN BEINGS in (e.g.) the nearest penitentiary. HUH? Was that a weird transition for you too? INTERVENTION If you haven't seen the episode of Intervention starring Allison the all-day aerosol-huffer (see some blog I found for a recap), you have not fully bathed in the fecund pool of contemporary reality television. So many shows ensnare feckless B-list celebrities in situations that force them to consider which is more important: 1) a fleeting table-scrap of fame, or 2) whatever threads remain of their shredded dignity. Their decision is obvious from their presence on the airwaves, as I'm sure there is a clause in celebretard reality-show contracts specifically prohibiting dignity, under penalty of law. A&E's Intervention shows people in the grip of addictions so dehumanizing that dignity is like a long-forgotten gewgaw at the back of the drawer in an attic, and fame a total abstraction. But the moeny-shot is that it often (though I've heard not always) shows an unlikely -- but real -- happy-ending-style return to dignity. Unlike Dancing with the Stars, which always ends like a burst hemorrhoid. Just watch the humanity: YouTube parts: 1, 2, 3, 4, 5. A RETAIL STORE IS A BAD PLACE TO RETAIN THE CAPACITY FOR LOVE Recently, at more than one big-box retail shithole, a bored, atonal cashier has called me for my turn to consume by saying "May I help the following customer?" My immediate thought was: who? Shouldn't a name follow that statement? As in "may I help the following customer: Bob Carver" or, for another example, "hobos will be fellated by the following person: Ann Coulter"? The statement should not be succeeded by silence or slack-jawed eye-rolling until I approach. May I suggest a substitute for "may I help the following customer?"? It's a word with much to recommend it: it's succinct, easily understood, and proven effective over the course of many decades: "next". Try it. Until you do, I'm gonna start shouting it in response to your long-winded nonsense. I will change the world with my curmudgeonly vigilantism. Thursday, October 09, 2008
THE HISTORY OF THE PAIN
Longtime readers might know that since my early 20s I've suffered from terrible, if intermittent, heartburn. I've used many appealing analogies over the years to communicate the sensation, e.g.:
So for years and years and years I either (when I was smart) took a prescription stomach-acid reducer like Prilosec or (when I was dumber) gobbled handfuls of Tums to manage the immediate flare-ups of glass-shard agony. But over the years the problem got worse, and led to a problem called Barrett's Esophagus, which means (to quote Dr. Lexus) my shit's all retarded. Esophageally speaking. THE UNDERLYING PROBLEM But that's only part of it! The GERD and Barrett's are both symptoms of a hiatal hernia, which is not quite as gross as it sounds. See, at some point in my life -- we're not sure when -- my stomach attempted to defect from the region of the torso in which it had long resided. It moved upward in a desperate break for freedom, but, as it was attached from below by the pylorus and duodenum and so on, it could not get far, and got wedged in the hole in my diaphragm like a fat man trying to leave by the bathroom window. It petulantly refused to go back where it belongs, and though one time this massage dude stuck his hand under my ribcage and pulled it back into place, it slipped back up after a few days. Barrett's (cellular changes to esophageal cells) can lead to esophageal cancer if your cells continue bathing in flamboyant acid fountains for too many years. Surgery is usually indicated to fix the hiatal hernia, and it usually works, too. THE TESTS THEY DID Two tests I had were interesting enough to mention briefly because they sound kinda sci-fi: 1. The Momentary Cyborg Test. They implanted a monitoring capsule into the lining of my esophagus during an esophagoscopy. The capsule measured the amount of acid squirting out of my stomach and transmitted a pH reading to a phone-sized device I wore on my belt. For two days, I had a constant readout of how acidic I was, right there on my belt for all to see. 7! 6.3! 3.5! 2.1 oh my god ouch! Eventually, the capsule just detached and went on its disposable merry way. I gave the receiver to the MD, who was like: oh, look, you have acid squirting into your esophagus in great quantities. UMM YES I KNOW DUDE IT BURNS ME LIKE ANGRY BEES. But thank you for making me a cyborg temporarily, because that was cool. 1. The Radioactive Breakfast. To check if my stomach processed food at a normal pace, the Medical Establishment fed me RADIOACTIVE EGGS and then had me lean against a gigantic glorified Geiger counter for two hours. The thing looked positively Soviet, as did the technician, whose name was Igor, for real. THE SURGERY I'M GETTING So the tests said I'm a go for the surgery, which is laparoscopic (which means done through tiny holes, not giant slashings). Before you click the next link, I will warn you that it's not only gross, it's weird.The procedure I'm getting is called a fundoplication. The weirdly wrapped part of my stomach will keep the whole mess from sliding back up into the Northern part of my torso, and hopefully the gushing pain-fountain will be stilled evermore. AFTERMATH The surgery is next Thursday, the 16th of October. I'll be kept overnight to ensure that I don't start hemorrhaging or whatever, and then I'll be released into the arms of a non-sedated adult. I'll be drinking only fluids for two weeks, and then only soft foods for another two. There is a chance I will never be able to swallow gigantic, poorly-masticated hunks of gristly flesh again, but if I puree, finely chop, or just chew my damn food I should be okay. Also, there is a chance I may never burp or vomit again. And that's the unkindest cut of all. Wish me luck! POST SURGERY UPDATE: Here is a picture of my incisions. They made five holes. Tuesday, September 16, 2008
I am always disappointed by my reaction when people die. Even when it's somebody I knew fairly well, I don't usually cry and I don't usually lose sleep. Of my relatives, I've really only experienced the deaths of two grandparents, and those each happened during the callowest of my teenage years. In adulthood, I haven't yet lost anyone close enough to make me cry about it -- at least not until I got swept up in the emotional manipulation of the memorial services: nothing makes me cry more than seeing other people cry. So I worry sometimes that I'm cold, heartless, selfish, uncaring, even though I don't feel that way.
Usually, when someone dies, I think: "Yes. This is how it is supposed to be." When I think of all the ways it's possible to die, and the effort so many of my friends have put into self-destructive acts, I find it pretty miraculous that any one of us made it past 30. But most of the people I've known since high school are still alive. (I can think of one suicide, one car crash, and one overdose. But I'm probably forgetting some, right?) Still, I hear of death and think: "yes, this happens." Sometimes I even react to news of impending death, whether of the gravely diseased or the self-destructive, with a similar stoicism: "yes, they will die, as will we all." Am I sick, spiritually advanced, or in staggering denial of my own feelings? I read David Foster Wallace's Infinite Jest for the first time back in 1998, starting about week before I graduated from college. The first time I read it, I thought it was one of the funniest books I had ever read. The second time I read it, about a year later, I thought it was one of the saddest. I was right both times. I loved IJ from page one, and I read everything Wallace wrote thereafter. A lot of my writing style was cribbed directly from DFW, and I was so open about my love of his work that many of my friends wrote me notes of condolence on hearing of his death. I was reading Infinite Jest, again, on the day he killed himself. My friends knew how upset I'd be before I really began to feel it. But I feel it now. As is probably obvious, I'm not spending too much time crafting this half-assed eulogy, and over time I'll probably understand my grief more. But here's what I think I know so far: I love Wallace's writing style because it mimics with terrifying accuracy the way my own personal mind works. The wild, obsessive digressions, the panicked self-questioning, the endless speculative fantasy-spinning, and the total fascination with the inner walls of my skull. I didn't ape his style because I thought it was cool -- it was more like he showed me 1) it was okay that my mind worked the way it did, 2) it was acceptable to transcribe it a little more faithfully, and 3) here's how you can do it. Like many Americans, I feel selfishly, ridiculously entitled to be entertained (this is one of Infinite Jest's major themes), and therefore I feel cheated of his future work in the same way I feel cheated by the untimely deaths of Elliott Smith and Heath Ledger. But this death hits me harder. Even though I'm sure we would have found each other insufferable in person, I feel like I lost a great spiritual teacher and friend. And in keeping with the other great theme of Infinite Jest, I feel the impossibility of communicating how I really feel. It feels like a wad of newspaper in my gut. Most writers intuitively understand and accept this impossibility like fish accept water; it's so obvious and all-encompassing that it is unremarkable. And while Wallace understood the fact too, he couldn't keep from flailing against it like those Asian carp that keep jumping into people's boats. I could have watched him flail for years. But now I will just have to try on my own to ensnare the world I see with an endless ribbon of mixed metaphors, braiding sentences around the cotton-candy maypole of life. Thursday, August 28, 2008
OPERATION KABUKI FACE
Eating my spicy soup at a restaurant on Bedford Ave, I had that old familiar feeling that I got from growing up in Soho: hatred of the bridge and tunnel crowd. In this case, it was a stockbrokery type with his sorority-type girlfriend. He was touching her face a lot -- apparently attracted, moth-like, by the shiny whore-polish she had liberally applied. He was also doing that back of the neck-clamping I-own-this-woman thing that makes me want to learn to castrate someone through telekinesis. On good days, I try to sit with my intolerance, to understand its origins deep within my flawed self. On other days, I just grimace like a Kabuki or Noh actor, or someone grossly afflicted with a facial tic. Usually, if I make the face, I have the decency or self-control to look away from the person who caused it. But now I am thinking that it could be used as a form of social control, to keep the people I don't like from my neighborhood. Obviously, if I do it alone, I will just look like a crazy person, so the participation of like-minded people is essential. When you see a rampaging fucktard in the hood, make a kabuki face. I expect this to be more successful than the machete-attacking strategy allegedly employed against bike-riding hipsters by certain residents of the South side of Williamsburg. This is because the hipster population, being mostly composed of spoiled white folk with overblown feelings of entitlement (like me, like me), will respond to physical attacks like Londoners during the Blitz, going about their hip little biz and whistling all the while. Monday, July 21, 2008
DISPATCH FROM OUR CORRESPONDENT IN CHINA
(July 20, Qingdao, China) The Chinese government has declared martial law in Qingdao. But don't worry, it's only for one day: the day of the Olympic torch relay. This is why we have a pregnant Australian woman sleeping on our sofa. Let's call her Yinky, since that's what her parents apparently christened her, although I still have trouble pronouncing it. She'll probably call her own child Numbat or something. Anyway, she is not allowed to return to her hotel, which is in the Relay Zone, until after the relay is finished. It seems they mistook her for some sort of terrorist. Her husband is in the Zone, but he is not allowed to leave. Fortunately our apartment is just outside the Zone, so we are still free to shelter terrorists. From the window we have a magnificent view of the Sea Wall protecting the Olympic Marina from algae terrorists. In fact, we can see the algae building up outside the Wall -- but like our Australian friend Yinky, it is unable to enter the Zone. The system works. * * * At about five past ten Thursday morning, a charming little student named Reginald* -- who I used to teach every Sunday without incident -- attempted to organize a mutiny in my co-worker Don's class. "I'm the teacher now," said Reginald, rising from his seat with real authority, "I'm taking over the crass." There was an immediate chorus of "Shut up, Reginald!" from the Siberians. Seeing that he lacked the support of his fellow children, Reginald did the only thing an unsuccessful mutineer could do: he pulled out a life jacket, proceeded to inflate it, and finally put it on, doubling his already ample girth. Rendered speechless for a moment, Don finally asked "Reginald, where did you get this?" "This? Oh, my palents give to me." Apparently Reginald's Mommy and Daddy, protective of their dysfunctional son as only the Chinese can be, had equipped him for literally any eventuality that might befall him at Summer Camp. Fortunately, Reginald's very strength is also his greatest weakness. His Attention Deficit Disorder leaves him vulnerable to the paradoxically calming effects of common stimulants like caffeine and amphetamines. Don happened to have a Starbucks Bottled Frappuccino in his pocket. "Remember how you like coffee, Reginald?" Within minutes he was slumped, barely conscious, on the floor. And since he was still wearing his life jacket, Don was fairly confident no harm would come to the little scamp. The world is safe again -- until tomorrow. That is the news from China. -- Katie Legs, China Bureau Chief and Engrish Teacher * Some names have been changed to protect our correspondent's cover. But not "Yinky." That shit is for real. -- UD Tuesday, June 24, 2008
BOREDOM HAS MANY PALLIATIVES, BUT NO CURE
PLOY #1: Autodidacticism ...Or as it appears to the cynical: unfocused, yet obsessive, wikipedia surfing. I admit it's not a conscious ploy, it's just how I scroll, baby. To give you a glimpse into my autopedagogical syllabus, here is a list of the wikipedia pages I visited in the span of three attention-deficient months at work: Bear Witness to My Affliction! PLOY #2: Wikipedia editing I burned out on this one REAL FAST. Not a great treatment for boredom. PLOY #3: Deprivation I am planning to start -- and then abandon halfway through -- a month of systematic abstention from various foods, activities, or behaviors: Week 1: no wheat Week 2: no meat Week 3: no posting to this blog (ha! kidding!) Week 3 for real: no more abstention Week 3 goddamnit be serious: no... flensing ? I don't know, man. I guess I really just wanted to stay away from wheat for a week. Why do I hafta make a big honking deal out of everything? BORED BORED BORED. PLOY #4: Religion I took the Belief-O-Matic quiz at beliefnet.com, and it told me what religions I am most likely to jibe with: 1. Theravada Buddhism (100%) 2. Unitarian Universalism (96%) 3. Neo-Pagan (83%) 4. Secular Humanism (81%) 5. Liberal Quakers (79%) I will now accept solicitations from these sects, such as they are. That should be fun! PLOY #5: Pegging I was reading an article in the Village Voice's Queer Issue about how many straight men are finding that they enjoy getting fucked in the ass. In 2001 Dan Savage had a contest to coin a term for the act of a woman penetrating a man using a strap-on, and "pegging" won. It's a great term, though when someone first asked me if I knew what it meant, I pictured a sex act involving the namesake (and mascot) of my high school. I know the Voice hardly counts as mainstream, but my unerring sense of cultural trends (and this) tells me that pegging is about to tip. You're gonna start seeing it mentioned, explored, and deplored everywhere. You heard it here first: 2008 is the Year of the Peg. Well! In looking for ways to help accelerate mainstream awareness of this beautiful, loving practice, I considered many options before reaching the eventual solution. Since Lance Armstrong's wonderful LIVESTRONG project has had a really good run, I called them up about transitioning the yellow-rubber-bracelet brand to a new awareness-promoting cause. After having our lawyers work with theirs, it's official. The yellow bracelet has been rebranded. Ladies and Gentlemen, I give you: PEGSTRONG!  The purpose of the PEGSTRONG bracelet is to promote awareness of Strapped-On Assfucking. People who love to peg or get pegged can share their affinity through prominent public display of a PEGSTRONG (formerly LIVESTRONG) bracelet. It will be clear to all who see it that you live by the PEGSTRONG motto: "Never be shy -- Let the santorum fly!" And now for the best news! You don't even have to buy the PEGSTRONG bracelet -- you may already have one! It will take a while for the official new PEGSTRONG bracelets to be manufactured and distributed to quality retail outlets nationwide. However, due to the special nature of our arrangement with LIVESTRONG, all LIVESTRONG bracelets automatically became PEGSTRONG bracelets as of midnight, June 15, 2008. (As you can imagine, the intense legal and administrative work leading up to this event kept me from posting to the blog this last month. And as ever, I appreciate your continued patience.) So! When you see someone wearing their LIVESTRONG (now PEGSTRONG) bracelet in public, especially if they are male, remember to congratulate them on their bravery. For a large segment of the straight male population, it's still kind of a big deal to say you take it in the ass -- even if "it" is a rubber or plastic toy worn by a woman. Reward that courage! Call out to them and show your support! Raise your fist and shout with pride: "PEGSTRONG!" Wednesday, May 14, 2008
HEALTH BOOKS BY MY STEPMOTHER
• Attention Deficit Disorder: A Fake Disease For Lazy People Who Won't Try • Depression? Everyone Gets Sad Sometimes, IT'S NORMAL CHICKS DIG "CLOSURE" Or so they say. After a breakup, a girl I know wanted closure. She called and called the boy who broke up with her, unsure of their status, until one day, in a public park, he shouted "I DON'T WANT TO BE WITH YOU ANYMORE." Pow! Closure. But was it really closure she was seeking? To just about everyone else, the status of their relationship was clear. I've known a lot of people who chase down seemingly irrational strands of hope far beyond the limits of dignity. Do they really not know it's over? I don't think so. I think they're looking to walk away with a moral victory, albeit a kind of pathetic one. What could be worse than a partner who breaks up with you using care, tenderness, love, and grace? THAT'S THE PERFECT PARTNER! Don't say goodbye to me, say hello! Keep saying hello forever! Gah! Women recover from breakups by having other women tell them that they were too good for the bastard, anyway. No matter how educated, intelligent, or spiritually advanced a woman is, when she is in pain, she wants to hear this. Madeleine Albright wants to hear this. So what do you do with a dude who is kind and loving when he leaves you? Your ladies got no fodder! Well, go make it happen! If you can manipulate him into being a jerk -- or doing something even moderately jerky -- you will gain that precious moral superiority, and you can move on knowing that he had that secret seed of jerkiness inside, and you're glad you found out NOW. Then you can pull that comforter around you a little tighter and sip that Sleepytime Tea in your sweats while your bestest galpals cuddle you in shifts. Boys, the "perfect" breakup is a myth. You will always fall short because falling short is what is required. If you are not made into some form of monster, it hurts too much. And if you don't step up and provide sympathy fodder, she'll have to make shit up, cobble something together from old suspicions and petty gripes, and her fabrications will forever taint her moral victory! Is that what you want? If you ever loved her, you will do this. You probably don't have to shout humiliating things at her in public, but give her SOMETHING. Break up with her via text message! Fuck her sister! Slash her tires! Your kindness is KILLING her. Wednesday, April 23, 2008
WHY I LOVE MY NEW DENTIST
I've had bad luck finding a great dentist who still takes my bottom-shelf dental insurance. My old one wasn't great, but he didn't even tell me he had stopped taking my insurance until I got hit with big copays. Well clouds and linings, my friends, because my new dentist is hilarious. She is constantly joking around, but it's a little nervewracking because a) her "jokes" are very dark, b) she always says them while holding a sharp or high-RPM implement in her hand, and c) she's Russian. I thought my old dentist was unprofessional because he'd always complain about how expensive his equipment was. I had no idea how unprofessional a dentist could be. Feast your eyes on these pearls from my new dentist, culled from only three magical sessions, and remember to imagine all of these quotes in a THICK Russian accent:
RockemStockem: also, I don't want to be buried RockemStockem: cremate all the way Universal Donor: yeah, obviously Universal Donor: me too Universal Donor: i don't want to rise up and eat brains Universal Donor: NO THANK YOU RockemStockem: tots RockemStockem: also I want my ashes to be divided up and distributed amoungst my friends RockemStockem: -- NOT spread or scattered -- RockemStockem: and put into small urns made out of hand painted eggshells RockemStockem: in order to burden as many people as possible Universal Donor: haaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaa RockemStockem: can you just imagine? for the rest of your life, RockemStockem: everytime you move apts or whatever, RockemStockem: you have to walk this precious thing RockemStockem: and totally make sure it doesn't break BIOLOGY CLASS RockemStockem: so when you're really pregnant, don't you worry that the baby is just gonna fall out of your vagina? Universal Donor: Um, not unless you are giving birth to a snakebaby RockemStockem: OMG! Like on V? Universal Donor: for example. RockemStockem: what if I thought I was having a human baby, but instead just as I gave birth it was a snake RockemStockem: and nobody knew, RockemStockem: and I was pushing and then an evil snake monster just slithered out of my vagina Universal Donor: you're making me hungry BUG UPDATE On my way into the office bathroom, I see a ghostly skittering presence retreat from the opening door, weirdly ghosting around a corner. It looked like a waterbug, but somehow... different. Mammalian, almost. I rounded the corner to confront this nightmare beast and it was clearly a waterbug, but of a color I had never seen before: greyish, glisteny, mottled. I smashed it with my foot and smeared it around a bit. It is also possible that I yelped a bit in uncontrolled limbic dismay. My report to the receptionist goes like this. Still shaken, I say: "I just killed the weirdest waterbug. It was like albino sort of, grayish. It was awful." "Oh my god, another one?" "Yeah." "Where was it?" she asks, narrowing her eyes. "In the men's room." "Hmmmmm..." she says. "What?" "Yesterday there was one in the women's." "Gross. Did you kill it?" I ask. "Yeah. We sprayed it with white furniture polish." "WHAT?" I gasp. "But... but... but THEN what did you do?" "It looked dead." She mews. "Did you smash it?" "You know I don't like going near bugs." "So what, you polished it and hoped for the best?" "No! Joe flushed it. He picked it up with a flyswatter and flushed it," she says. "So you put the wounded WATERbug back into the lifegiving WATER that is its very element?!?!?! Why didn't you smash it?? YOU MUST SMASH WHILE YOU CAN. What are you, a James Bond movie villain? You'd probably try to drown Popeye in a vat of spinach! Fuck. Well. I killed your zombie bug this time. Please don't ever make me do that again. " I mean come on now! |
OTHER REVIEWS: John from Cincinnati Menomena LATEST BOOK REVIEWS: The Game Moneyball One-Upsmanship Siddhartha You need the Fear Not Guide to Life. Buy it already. ($4) Now available! The Broomfield Variations CD ($10) or go to The UD Store 
MY IMAGINARY GIRLFRIENDS Chan Marshall Rotem of the IDF Eleanor Friedberger Amy Goodman Bernardine Dohrn ('69) Maya Rudolph Joanna Newsom Imogen Heap Caroline Dhavernas Shana Rae Ray DISALLOWED FOREVER "I could tell you, but then I'd have to kill you!" - "from whence" - "...the exception that proves the rule" - any use of the question "spit or swallow?" - the phrase "drop trou" - fake-o reviewer verbs: "penned" for wrote "helmed" for directed "lensed" for whatever - "expat" - the euphemism "passed away" - pronouncing merci beaucoup as "mercy buckets!" (see also: "grassy-ass!") PET PEEVES "confinscated" - trying children "as adults" - "drownded" |
