UNIVERSAL DONOR: MA VIE EN CROUTE
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Universal Donor
don't make me give you a ham sermon, see?  feed it up!
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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 Ratatat: LP3 Fleet Foxes: Fleet Foxes Band of Horses: Cease to Begin Krauss & Plant: Raising Sand Death Cab for Cutie: Narrow Stairs 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 hospitality on parade OMG WEIRD LOVE dead amusement pks craters! all content © 2002-2007 Jeremy Broomfield 
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Saturday, June 29, 2002
My friend Zorgot drinks his coffee black. I don't think this makes any sense, because if I have the option of adding fat and sugar to something, I'll take it. His logic is this: "at some point in the future, I'll want coffee, but there won't be any sugar or milk around, so I might as well get used to black coffee." I think he sees this as similar to the idea that you should know how to drive stick shift because someday you may need to use a car that's not automatic. But it's more like deciding not to wipe your ass because someday you might not have any toilet paper, and you'd better get used to being dirty.
Wednesday, June 26, 2002
I tried five times to write a post about sex education and the stupidity of people who think that abstinence is the only acceptable form of birth control to teach children. Every argument I wrote seemed so mind-bendingly obvious that I gave up. Can you teach kids to stop fucking? You might as well try to put a rainbow in your pocket, or tell water to stop being wet, or ask a zombie nicely not to eat your brain. IT'S NOT GONNA HAPPEN.
Children fuck because nature demands it. If you're a religious type, I think it's safe to say that God demands it, too. (The bible has shown us that God loves a good fuckin' -- just ask Lot and his two teenage daughters!) And though kids really treasure advice from gym teachers, they won't stop fucking because health classes "promote" abstinence. There's just too much damn pressure building up! Sharks gotta swim, bats gotta fly; teenagers gotta fuck until their genitals are bloody. So why not teach them to put a thin barrier of rubber between their blood-gushing hoo-hahs? Please be reasonable. Tuesday, June 25, 2002
It seems certain gossip mongers have been spreading the rumor that I'm some kind of superhero. Although the idea that I possess an endless repertoire of mega-powers that might someday turn my life story into the biggest money making summer blockbuster of all time is one that I've been slow to discredit, I now find myself in the uncomfortable position of having to stop these verbal stone throwers in mid-toss. Let me get right to the point: I AM NOT A SUPERHERO. While my ability to have lightning fast mood swings may seem like a gift from the peaks of Mt. Olympus, I assure you it is trait that has less to do with Zeus than Zoloft. As for my incredible skills relating to consuming sweet pint glass after pint glass of the tea of Long Island, my accusers should speak with my liver, as I am certain it would not be the first in line to laud nor thank me for that. And to those who have pointed to my ability to instantly develop claustrophobia upon entering anything whose fuzzy borders seem to be coalescing into the undotted outline of a committed relationship, I say credit in this case is owed not to superhuman powers, but to a dysfunctional suburban upbringing. I hope this puts an end to the whispers that have been floating in the air, and that I can now go back to a life of brilliance in multitasking and swiftness in collating without arousing undue suspicion.
Everyone's least favorite subway characters:
Mr Thuggypants. Ooh, look at me. I am so tough. Look at my pants. They are so big. Don't look at me! I'm ANGRY! I got big pants! Bigger than yours, you fuckin' punk. Look at me! What the FUCK you lookin' at, bitch? Miss BabyBeats. Hey lady -- if your child is crying, he probably just needs to be lulled to sleep with a nice maternal. . . ASS-KICKING? What the--?! Maybe you should just calm down a -- WHOA! That's gonna leave a -- JESUS LORD FUCK! You can't do that to a child, can you? Put down that Snapple, lady, and. . . damn, can you stop hitting your child for even a nanosecond? Your arm looks like a hummingbird wing. Why don't you take a deep breath -- OH SHIT! It's my stop. Later. Baron Von Two-Seats. Hi! I'm a really important businessperson, and I need two seats to myself. It's because my cock and balls are SO HUGE that I cannot compromise them by drawing my knees any closer together. I have a giant, important cock, so BACK OFF. Johnny Hipsterface. Hey, look at my pants! No, really, I'm not gonna get angry like that other guy. Look at my shirt while you're at it -- clever, huh? I wasn't really a member of the Bridgehampton Girls Choir! You like my hair? Yeah, I can leave it all greasy and shit because I don't have a job. Like my zipper boots? Look how cooooool I am. I'm going to a SHOW! I'm drunk! Why won't anyone stab me? STAB ME IN THE EYES! Monday, June 24, 2002
I'm a patriot, but I can't join the Army. I'm classified as 8F, which means I'm twice as unfit as a 300-pound pegleg with a heart murmur and a glass eye. Right now, a quick mental scan reveals moderate to severe pain in about 40% of my body parts. I don't suppose Army boots come standard with arch supports, do they? And forget about those giant canvas sacks of gear -- I have a bad back. I bet guns are heavy, too. Criss-crossed bandoliers of armor-piercing ammo look wicked cool, but I can already feel my spine compressing and my lower back spasming. I'd be on the ground, screaming for a medic on the first day of boot camp.
So what about military intelligence? Isn't there a part of the army where all the nerds go, just hustled past the grunts and the exercise? I'm a big ol' smarty-pants, at least as smart as Doogie Howser's character in Starship Troopers, who got assigned to a division called "Games & Theory." That's right up my alley. (Except he was a psychic -- do I need to be a psychic to play Army games?) Also, if it's hot, I need air conditioning. I need a comfortable bed, not too soft, not too hard. And an ergonomic chair. And a fast internet connection. Okay, listen. Is there any capacity in which I can serve my country. . . on a 24-hour morphine drip? Because I think that might work for me. Ooh! How about Veteran? Can I be a Veteran? Yay! I am so very proud to be able to serve my country. Which bed is mine? Thursday, June 20, 2002
In today's busy modern world, few of us have time to waste on dipshits and morons. Over the years, I've developed a near foolproof system for figuring out which people I never want to see or speak to again within five minutes of meeting them. Like, for example, any of the many guys that hang out on the street and say, "Smile," to me when I'm walking by, as if I were pissed off before, but now that some layabout who passes the day standing on the goddam corner has reminded me to look happy, my spirits will be suddenly lifted. 1) No. 2) Get a belt and an operation to have your vocal chords removed. These men believe they are charming and graceful, when often they are actually unemployable and inarticulate. Then there are the kinds of girls who think it's attractive to walk around with a layer of flesh-colored liquid caked on their faces, creating a "foundation" on which to justify my utter and immediate distaste for them. These women are the kind that think John Grisham crafts literary pearls and frat boy cum is a suitable eye make-up remover. I have nothing more to say about them. Anyone who says anything like, "We should just bomb it off the map," "I don't care who gets in 'cause I don't vote anyway," "I'm going to give part of my winnings to the church," or, "Oh yeah, I'm totally into music. I love Nickelback," deserves a swift death at the hands of a black bear. Ditto anyone who has ever stood up at a talk show taping and said to someone on the stage, "You think you look good, but you don't," or any variant on such poetry. Uh-uh. Go away. We won't serve you here.
Hey dude. Yeah, you, buying the lottery ticket. I got an idea: instead of you buying that ticket, how about I eat your brains? At least that way, I get a delicious snack; it's clear that your brains aren't doing you any good. I have a nice sharp saw right here. The procedure is quick and. . . well, actually it's quite painful. And I'm not going to use the saw at all, so it will take a while. I'm just gonna chew through your thick-ass skull.
Yo, cell phone guy! Shouting into your Nokia about small-caps and SUVs! Could you possibly move that phone a little teensy bit to the left? That way, I can chew off your ear and suck out your brains with this straw -- I don't feel like gnawing at all that greasy hair. Geez, could you lower your voice a bit, too? Nobody cares about your "boat" except you and your boat dealer. Give me your wasted brains, you overfed fratboy dick-eater! SHUT UP! Ok now everybody: just rip off your heads and shake your brains into this bag. I don't have the time to do this on a case-by-case basis. Just hand them over. None of you deserve what you've been given. Wednesday, June 19, 2002
Do you know this cereal ad? The setting is a suburban mall. A piece of Shredded Wheat is taking a survey. He stops a middle-class shopper in her early thirties:
---- WHEAT: Excuse me, ma'am. . . . LADY: Yes? WHEAT: True or false: "I enjoy frosting in the morning." LADY: True! (more stuff happens, etc.) ---- And that's when all the holes in my head start gushing blood. I have no problem with anthropomorphic foodstuffs; they're pretty standard ad fare, and if I started questioning them. . . well, the universe might just cease to exist, I guess. So you can have your talking wheat chunks. What absolutely flips my shit out is that this mall lady DOESN'T EVEN THINK TWICE before saying that yes, she loooooves to eat frosting for breakfast. FROSTING! Glarrgle! This is a fit, slender, woman with a semitrendy hairdo and maybe even some capri pants. Frosting is sugar and Crisco. You don't eat frosting for breakfast, lady -- no one does. NOBODY EATS FROSTING FOR BREAKFAST! It is vital to my sanity that this one thing be true. Nobody, except maybe trailer-dwelling unemployed potheads -- but they're not even awake in the morning. So how can this wheat and lady team pretend that frosting for breakfast is normal? Instead of what it is, which is a sign of a SERIOUS EATING DISORDER. Frosting? For breakfast? Jesus fucking Christ's BALLS. Tuesday, June 18, 2002
Once you start a project as a short-form observational humorist, you notice that everything is crazy, and then you become crazy. The universally irritating Andy Rooney "have you ever noticed..." cliché is a natural outgrowth of questioning our society's most basic assumptions. Because, you see, people don't notice their basic assumptions. This is the foundation of late 20th-century stand-up comedy, isn't it? Is that what I've become? Oh god help me. Hey Guys! What's up with tigers? Huh? And what's up with manholes? What's the deal with all-night copy shops? Hey! What's up with those dial-a-psychics? Hey, where are you going? Wait! What the FUCK is up with candy bars? Ha ha, they're CRAZY! What's up with housecats? What's the deal with office supplies? What's up with the government? What's up with YOUR FACE?!? AAARRGGHH!
Monday, June 17, 2002
We watched When We Were Kings the other night, which rocked. Hey, you know who used to be a tremendous badass? Like, a real, honest-to-god, shit-kicking Bad Mother Fucker? George Foreman. No, seriously! Before he started knocking out lipids, he used to knock out real, live dudes. Big ones, too, like heavyweight champ Joe Frazier, who he put in a blender set on "pulp." They showed footage of him working out with the "heavy bag" -- he smashed it flat. They showed a promotional photo of him before the big fight in Zaire, and he looked meaner than Mike Tyson. If George Foreman (1974) had hit me in the head, my head would have left my body and traveled all the way around the world fast enough hit George in the back. At which point he would have eaten salad out of it.
All that is a far cry from George Foreman (2002). What happens to a man that turns him from the scariest person on earth into a harmless muffler shill and infomercial profiteer? Some say he never recovered from the fight. Some say he is actually a pod person, an alien replicant of the old George, and that the real George is hiding out somewhere, waiting for the perfect moment to emerge from hiding and exact his revenge on the evil alien cloners. But I like to think that maybe -- just maybe -- his transformation has something to do with a guy named Jesus. Friday, June 14, 2002
A friend sent me the following synopsis of the Scooby-Doo movie, thinking it might appeal to me:
"After cracking their case, tensions boil over among Fred, Daphne and Velma, who quit Mystery Inc. and go solo. Two years later, the gang is invited individually to Spooky Island amusement park to investigate what's turning visitors into homeboy-talking zombies." It sounds interesting, except for the fact that zombies don't really talk, see? They just moan for brains. And how do you moan like a homeboy? "Brizz-ains! Brizz-ains, nigga!" I don't think so. You see, it's just that kind of unrealistic detail that can ruin an otherwise believable crime-fighting dog movie. Wednesday, June 12, 2002
5 Things Recently Overheard on the Street that Reinforced My Smug Sense of Superiority and Disdain for Others:
5) Girl (enthusiastically to friend): "...and they're brother and sister and they always wear red and white." 4) "I know, right? Faggots be doin' ALL KINDS of nasty shit." 3) Drunk Blonde Girl (whorishly): "I know. I've got a big black butt. I know. This shit is big. Everybody says so. I'm proud of this big black butt. Gurgle, gurgle." 2) Some old Polish guy with one of those deformed, alcoholic noses: "You better stand back 'cause when I see her I'm gonna punch her in her fucking mouth, and I mean that." 1) "Wassup? Let me talk to you for a second. Slow down. Where you gotta be? Can I come too? You in a hurry or somethin'? Oh, so now you can't stop and talk? (getting louder) What -- you think you look that good? Man, didn't nobody want to talk to you no way. I don't even like skinny girls, sweetheart. See, I'm not even wit dat. Sheeee...." (pause) "Hey! Hey! Wassup? Yo, can I talk to you for a second..."
Unlike Republicans and French people, I have no problem with immigrants. However, I do have a problem with tourists, specifically German tourists. I work near Times Square, and it is not possible to get lunch without navigating a roiling sea of confused blond idiots. Hey fleischkopf -- here in America, we don't tuck in our t-shirts. And we certainly don't wear brand-new Disney t-shirts all the time. We don't wear those gay-ass gladiator sandals. And we damn sure don't look so amazed all the time!
I have hated German tourists with a startling passion ever since I worked at the MoMA. It's the little things, like the fact that when they count on their fingers, they start with the thumb -- what's up with that? And the way their clothing screams "Mug me! Humiliate me in front of mein kinder!" And they'd always walk in and ask "is this the MoMA?" as if there weren't about FIFTY BILLION SIGNS THAT SAID "MoMA" ON THEM! Gah! Made me wanna grab them by their stupid neck wallets and slap them like cartoon characters. I understand that tourism is economically important. But why can't they just wire us their money and LEAVE US ALONE? Tuesday, June 11, 2002
What is Ozzy without Sharon? Nothing. It's clear that Sharon has been running the show for years. Sure, Ozzy is the "talent," and without him there wouldn't be a show at all. But without Sharon, Ozzy would have disappeared twenty years ago. You see, Sharon is the Emperor Palpatine to Ozzy's Darth Vader. Ozzy can't organize a full sentence, much less a giant music festival. He goes along with the gag, thinking he's the boss. But he's so not the boss. So, um, Sharon is also the Angela to Ozzy's Tony. See?
But Ozzy's getting old and his faculties are in precipitous decline. The Emperor needs a new apprentice. Cue little Kelly! Did you catch her at the MTV Movie Awards, stumbling around the stage, lip-synching to her heavily vocoded vocals, trying like hell to sex up the mic stand? Oh it was weird. Sweet Kelly. Save yourself before it's too late. Your mom will ride you until you're bloody, forcing diet pills down your throat to treat your "issues," as they say. You want to be on backpacks and lunchboxes? Want a video directed by Gregory Dark? Want to end up just like Daddy? You will. Your mom will squeeze every possible dollar out of your bulbous little bod, and when the public's attention wanders, she'll hustle Jack to a makeover and forget you were even born. You poor, poor, poor, rich little girl.
I must direct your attention to a "prediction" post I wrote in April. The Daily Show had a segment last night about the same damn thing. Usually, I love being right. But sometimes it's just no fun at all.
Monday, June 10, 2002
Sometimes, birthdays demand that we give a gift. Sometimes, we are too cheap to buy a gift. So sometimes, we buy a card. In the card store, we survey the treacly mess of pre-felt emotions and witless doggerel. We feel superior to the people who rely on such things to share their love. Then, we buy a card that says "Happy Anniversary, Grandma!" or "Now You Are 5!" or "Happy Bar Mitzvah," pleased for a moment that we have found a way to express our distaste for greeting cards -- with a greeting card! Wah ha ha! What delicious irony! Those fools at Hallmark would surely seethe at such misuse of their precious gewgaws!
Bah! We are the fools! Hallmark cares not why we buy their cards -- only that we give them our money. And look! We just did! Friends, I beg you: buy me no cards. In return, I will buy none for you. If I have an emotion to express, I will get out my construction paper and crayons, maybe some glue and macaroni. I am perfectly capable of generating my own ironic expression of the hollowness I feel where my emotions should reside! No longer will I line the pockets of billionaire greeting-card fatcats! Friday, June 07, 2002
Girls! Please! If you like a guy, never never NEVER ever ask what he's thinking if you have just had sex. I know it's tempting; he's got that faraway look in his eye, a dumb smile on his face, and maybe, just maybe he's thinking about how wonderful you are in every way. But I promise you: he's not.
If you are incredibly lucky, the guy will lie about what he is thinking. But too often, in the spirit of honesty, he's gonna just go ahead and tell you. And it's probably something horrifying, like these personal, post-coital gems: - How do you spell "aaight?" - The stomach is the great equalizer, because it turns everything into vomit. - Why are children ever tried "as adults?" - Why does Bill Paxton keep getting work? (see also Andie Macdowell) - From now on I will throw pennies into playgrounds, because kids love finding pennies! It's nothing personal -- the male mind is just revolting like that. It doesn't mean that we don't care about you! But it's really just better for everyone involved if you don't ask, mmmkay? Thursday, June 06, 2002
Why does Pair Networks (our host) suck balls? You come here for wit, you come for solace. You come to huddle wretchedly under the sheltering canopy of our oilcloth greatcoat -- um, metaphorically speaking. And what do you get? A slap in the CyBerFace. DNS error? Fuck Pair Networks. "World Class Web Hosting?" More like World Class Web BALL-SUCKING. Ha ha ha! Now that's what I call wit!
Oh hey-- did I tell you guys about the GIANT FLYING ROACH? Man. I guess I did. Flying. Roaches. Fuck. It looked like a prune traveling in Matrix-style slow-motion across the room, but it sounded like a playing card in bicycle spokes. I am shuddering right now. However horrifying zombies are, they damn sure can't fucking fly. This morning I woke to find that our Heroic Third Roommate was sleeping in the living room with the AC on. Which is madness, brotha. When August arrives with weeklong spans of 95 degree heat, we will all be prostrate in the living room like immigrants in a shipping container. But come on. It was a humid 74 degrees last night. The AC is set to 72! Get a grip! Get in bed! Turn on the fan! And don't give me that "oh, whoops, I guess I passed out" crap. I know your tricks, HRT. I am ON to YOU! Wednesday, June 05, 2002
I don't live in a tropical rain forest, nor do I live in a garbage-filled, third-world hellpit. So I think it's only fair to ask that I don't have to have GIANT FUCKING FLYING COCKROACHES invading my apartment. We were watching The Mothman Prophecies when the hideous rattling monster flew in our front window, as if the movie weren't spooky enough without a thematically appropriate 3-D visual aid.
Almost nothing scares me -- not snakes, spiders, airplanes, heights, "bad" neighborhoods, or even anthrax. But cockroaches are the stars of my own personal Carnival of Terror. I can't even look at this link without wanting to die. It is, like most phobias, irrational. I know that they cannot harm me. But I was just starting to get over my fear when somehow. . . THEY LEARNED TO FLY?!!? THE FUCK? Turns out that PW is as freaked as I am by the creatures, so we teleported into different rooms and listened as our heroic third roommate did battle with the kraken. It was ominous; loud smashing noises and curses interspersed with long peroids of silence. At one point we heard a report: "I think he's wounded!" Ugh. Should killing a bug really be a multi-step process? It took about half an hour before he was able to lure it outside and drop an anvil on it, or something. Or maybe he bribed it to leave us alone and bother the neighbors instead. I don't really want to know. All I know is that I am never going to eat food in the house or leave the windows open again. Ever. Tuesday, June 04, 2002
I played my very first live musical show last night as my cowboy alter ego, Tex. After years of people taking potshots at me, calling me lazy, dumb, or just plain scairt (Texan for "scared"), I proved 'em all wrong with one strum of my mighty guitar. The accolades rained down like so much radioactive fallout. "You must play again!" came the squeals of delight. "Ooh sexy boy," cried one passionate lass, "more, more!" One fan just babbled incoherently and spat drool on my cowboy shirt.
This is how it starts, people -- The juggernaut of fame. Steamrolling towards me as surely as cancer. First, the shows. Then the reviews, and the true fans. Then the tentative deals. Then the loss of the sense of humor. Then the contracts, money, and hangers-on. Then the ex-wives, drugs, depressions, and bankruptcies. Then the shitty comeback tour. Ugh. I've seen enough episodes of "VH1: Behind the Music" to have learned these 3 cardinal facts about fame and money: 1. Getting famous does not make people happy. 2. Getting rich does not make people happy. 3. In fact, both seem guaranteed to make people rather miserable. So forget it! Those of you who saw me play last night, cherish and coddle your memories like wounded squirrels! Scribble your impressions and sell them to Rolling Stone! Tell your grandchildren! Because I will never be sucked into your terrible trap of fame! Fuck off! Fuck you! Let go of my shirt! Monday, June 03, 2002
Girls, take it from me when I tell you that dating rock stars is HARD. I've been doing it for years, and there isn't a day that goes by that I don't wonder, "What kind of rock star mess have I gotten myself into now?" Take my brief fling with Liam Gallagher. I spent countless hours wrestling empty bottles of Jack Daniels from the vice-like grip he maintained even after the liquor had lulled him into a comatose slumber, and I endured endless coke binges (my own, not his) in order to stay awake on the nights he spent rambling on and on about nothing in unintelligible, low class British speak. When I had finally had enough of his stories about nights spent "pissed" starting "rows" and getting "nicked," I left Liam behind for a better life with Elliott Smith. But things hardly improved. Rock stars are sad, empty people; Elliott was so miserable that I considered slitting his wrists myself. When I realized that he had simply replaced heroin with me, an addiction so potent I feared he'd never shake it, I decided to break the cycle myself by simply disappearing without a trace. I've heard rumors that he still asks about me, and the moments when he regales old mutual friends with stories from our shared past are some of the few times he smiles. More recently, I've been dating "Howlin'" Pelle Almqvist, and I'd have to say this is the happiest I've been in years. He does for me what Iggy and Richard (Ashcroft) never could, which is simply love me for me. Perhaps it's the Swedish breeding, but Pelle has a certain softness about him that I've never found in men from this side of the pond. We've gotten quite serious, Pelle and I, and in the quiet moments after we've just made love and the shadows are making slow trails across the ceiling, I know that my latest rock star mess (and possibly my last -- I hear from friends who can't keep a secret that Mr. Almqvist has been covertly shopping around town for rings. Sorry Pelle! I promise to pretend to be surprised.) isn't a mess at all. It's a little something Pelle and I call true love.
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You need the Fear Not Guide to Life. Buy it already. ($4) 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" |
