UNIVERSAL DONOR: MA VIE EN CROUTE
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Universal Donor
We can ill afford another Klendathu  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 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 
WHO LINKS TO UD? • from Technorati • from Google • from Yahoo and here's something weird: my place in Humor 3-space |
Tuesday, July 30, 2002
I have mellowed with age, haven't I? I used to hate sports, but I now suspect that I was really just extending my hatred of jocks and sports fans, who certainly deserve to spend eternity trying to catch footballs made of magma. Sports are no problem, taken with the right perspective (i.e, my perspective). It's just that sport mooks are, universally speaking, the most shockingly dull and tasteless people on the planet.
How do you spot a mook? The tip-off is the gold chain around the neck. I suppose it's possible to buy a tasteful gold chain, but I doubt it. Russian women certainly can't do it. And I swear that all baseball players and their fans must walk into jewelry stores and ask: "do you have any ropy gold monstrosities, preferably with a Jesus attached?" Would you be caught dead in Buttafuco pants? Me neither, but the mooks cornered the market just in case. Why is everybody in America so fat? It really makes me yarf. And I'm sure it's been pointed out that if you want to see the fattest of the fat, you should go to a sporting event, where the orcas swarm to gawp amazedly at people who can walk ten feet without getting out of breath. Hmm. I think it's logically demonstrable that watching certain sports makes you fat. Do yourself a favor, Jabba -- watch tennis. Those Williams sisters sure do kick ass. Monday, July 29, 2002
I am ready for the chips in my brain. I am ready, ready, ready for testing. I want the banking chip, the internet chip, the television and radio receiver chips. I want the chip that connects to my optic nerve and with a tug of my earlobe superimposes a video signal over my vision. I want a telephone in my head: a microphone in a tooth and a speaker wired into my ear. I want a stun gun built into my index finger. Are you listening? I want maps. You know that Flaming Lips song I always have in my head? I want to hear it in my head. I know that these things are far off, but I'm VOLUNTEERING for testing. Skip the bunnies and rats, start drilling already! If, by accident, you turn me into a drooling vegetable, that's ok. And if, by accident, you make me into a superpowerful telekinetic mind-reader, that'd be fine too. If you can make it so I can walk through walls or turn invisible, that would be the best of all. But whatever, I don't care, just do SOMETHING to my brains! Stab, poke, cut! Insert, improve, INTENSIFY! I want to fry motherfuckers with a single glance! I want an umbrella that pops out of my shoulder, while you're at it. And I want you to hollow out my left leg and fill it with a lifetime supply of concentrated morphine so that I will never ever feel pain again.
Friday, July 26, 2002
Hey-- having trouble hearing the schmuck on the other end of your cell phone call? Why don't you try shouting? Or maybe your friend is loud in your ear, really loud, so loud I can hear the stupidity dribbling out of his face-hole? Why don't you try SHOUTING AT YOUR CELL PHONE A LITTLE MORE? Yeah, you're awesome. I love you so much, babe, don't ever change.
Also, whenever we rent a DVD, the sound is so badly mixed that we have to ride the volume button the whole fucking time. I'm thinking of attaching a goddamn compressor to the system, and how retarded is that? Maybe it's the PS2. Maybe a real DVD player doesn't have this problem? If I'd known that I never would have bought this stupid thing because if I have to watch one more second of HRT running down pedestrians in GTA3 I'm gonna seriously pee on the stupid box. Also, I have a question about those secret hideouts that evil criminal masterminds have: I understand why they want a hidden island fortress. And I understand that it's gotta have cool hidden landing pads and giant vault-like doors and shit. But where do you find the contractors for that kind of work? Can you imagine how much work it must take to dig a complex into the side of a mountain? How are you gonna keep that a secret? The way contruction workers talk, good luck. Oh wait, I guess you could just kill them once they're done. Or zombify them and make them into your evil army or something. Also, how do you coat a man's bones with metal? Also, WILL YOU TURN OFF THE GODDAMN AIR CONDITIONER WHEN IT'S 65 DEGREES OUTSIDE? WHAT THE FUCKING FUCK? ARE YOU MADE OF LAVA? Wednesday, July 24, 2002
Again with the ladies from Au Bon Pain. Their turnover is very high, so like every month or so there's some new girl slouching behind the register, trying not to damage her foot-long fingernails as she miscounts people's change.
The job seems so poigniantly miserable, so abjectly, soul-hammeringly awful, that I'm overcome by sympathy for the trickling stream of unskilled ladies who stamp my coffee card with such care. When I approach the register, I can only imagine that my face melts into a mask of care, generosity and love. Because one after the other, these girls are TOTALLY ON MY JOCK. I'm like the superduper mackdad of the APB. I walk up, it's coy smile and eye-flutter time. There are fumbled attempts at small talk. Flesh touches flesh as change and receipt are pressed into my hand. Overly sincere good wishes are shouted at my back as I depart, and once I'm gone they slouch back to face the endless parade of assholes. It's enough to break your heart. Tuesday, July 23, 2002
Someone asked me what I thought about aliens, specifically space aliens. Like most intelligent people, I have a grasp of how big the universe is. How big is the universe? Infinitely bigger than I can actually imagine. Ok. So according to my calculations, there are other living things in the universe. The problem with most people you see arguing for the existence of extraterrestrial life is that they seem to have been raised on a diet of paint chips and benzene. They talk about their theories, experiences, and abductions, and if you believe in aliens, you can't help but feel stupid by association.
But come on now. The reason aliens seem so unlikely to most people is that in movies and on TV: - they always look like taller, smoother humans; - they all speak english; - they are either murderous or benevolent; - they abduct and probe people, but only Americans. Which is all artistic shorthand, alien-as-metaphor bullshit. Just forget everything you think you know about aliens, and start over. You could be inhaling aliens right now; the Earth could be coated with a fine layer of aliens! Maybe cancerous tumors are made of aliens! Who knows? We don't, but let's keep an open mind and STOP LOOKING FOR BIG-TITTED ALIENS TO FUCK. Thursday, July 18, 2002
I don't understand how people can have sex in the summer. I'm not talking the kind of "summer" they have in Canada or England. I'm talking Brooklyn in August, broken air conditioner, film of liquid covering your whole body, might-as-well-grow-gills-because-there's-more-water-in-the-air-than-there-is-air summer.
I mean it, though. Sex in the summer? What a ridiculous idea. The last thing I want to do in the summer is exercise. (Well, actually, exercise is the last thing I want to do, ever. In fact, it probably will be the last thing I do; if I ever step on a treadmill my heart will explode like a soggy, gore-filled piñata.) I hate sweating, and I just don't understand the point. Sure, sex feels good, but does it really feel that good? It couldn't possibly. But here's the weird part: I have definitely had sex during the summer. In fact, I think I've LOTS of sex during summers. What the HELL was I thinking? I guess that's the whole point: I wasn't thinking. I think maybe there's something primal that takes over where sex is involved; something that overrides common sense. Hmm. Interesting theory -- it would certainly explain some of the stinking, toothless hobos Pussy Willow drags home from the street to satisfy her summertime urges. Ha! I guess that's why they call it "heat," right? Wednesday, July 17, 2002
I'm a futurist. I love technology, I love progress, I love new solutions to old problems. I tend to privelege ideas just because they are novel (see my entry on Laser Guillotines). But this recent problem with Blogger has really helped me see how we have built our digital house on a foundation of lint. Our reliance on tech has become so narcotic that one electromagnetic pulse could send the nation into drooling, barfing seizures of tech withdrawal. Remember how freaked out I was about y2k? You all called me crazy, and maybe I was -- but at least I was prepared.
So there's a problem with posting new posts and I freak out. I know that you, the reader, are absolutely FLIPPING YOUR SHIT wherever you are, totally at a loss for what to do, scrolling down your "favorites" or "bookmarks" menu over and over again every five minutes, checking to see if there's a new post, and dying a little each time you see that same stupid post about The Matrix. "Oh God," you think. "Where's UD? Is he hurt? Hello? Can he hear me? HELLO? CLICK ONCE FOR YES AND TWICE FOR NO!! AARRGH" Heh. Yes, that really is what you sound like. So howbout the help on the Blogger site? They seem to be telling me that the problem will just "go away." Ha! That's what they said about the zombies, and didn't they just KEEP ON COMING, no matter WHAT WE DID? Well, I fixed the zombies then and I fixed the Blogger now. Tune in tomorrow for more exciting shit. Tuesday, July 16, 2002
Friday, July 12, 2002
In my Matrix sequel, the Agents wear gold Adidas tracksuits and have sneakers that turn into roller skates.
Wednesday, July 10, 2002
Ah, cologne. It's so refreshing to step into an elevator with a man who loves his cologne. After shaving, try a little dab of fragrant liquid to soothe your irritated pores. But don't stop there -- get your hands nice and wet with the stuff, and smear it on your chest. Take a stick of dried cologne and swipe it vigorously under your arms, because nothing in this world is worse than the smell of natural sweat. Do you want to smell like a gutter whore? I didn't think so. So cup your palms into the shape of a bowl and fill the bowl with cologne! Dump it into your lap and massage it into your genitals, allowing the excess to coat your legs and feet. Oh, it burns, but grit your teeth and await the joyful smiles that will greet you all day as people detect your delicious chemical aroma! You're quite the sophisticate! You don't just walk into the office, you OWN the office! Your smell fills any space and lingers after you've gone like a rotting plague victim. Is this immortality? Is there a better way to advertise your idiocy without saying a word? I suppose you could wear sandals with socks, or a belt AND suspenders. Or a t-shirt with a logo on it, or a pair of weight-lifter's Buttafuco pants. But what about the blind, who can't see your clothes? Only with gallons of harsh, seizure-inducing chemical stinkum can you alert every living thing in a five-block radius that YOU ARE A RETARDED FUCKING RETARD.
Tuesday, July 09, 2002
Rants for hire: You give me a topic, I'll blather insanely for your pleasure. Seriously, if you hadn't noticed, I've got an opinion on everything. Here -- I just asked my coworker for a topic, and after casting her eyes lazily about her desk, she spied a take-out menu. "Menus," she says, feeling triumphant. Hah! Listen up.
If you go to a diner, why do you even bother looking at the menu? With the exception of some local specials (crabs in Maryland, grits in the South) every diner has the same goddman food. Burgers, sandwiches, eggs, pancakes. What the fuck are you expecting? Like maybe they have Lobster Thermidor? Even if they did have Lobster Thermidor, are you gonna order it from Sally's All-Nite Grub Lot? Do you even know what Lobster Thermidor is, you uncultured gimp? Put down the greasy menu and order the same damn thing you always do. No need to deliberate like you're sending a man to the gas chamber. Jesus. HURRY UP ALREADY. And another thing. When you tell a waiter what you want to eat, you don't have to POINT TO THE ITEM ON THE MENU LIKE HE IS SOME RETARDED FOREIGNER. And even if he is a retarded foreigner, it's not like it takes a lot of brains to be a waiter. Any fool can understand "Braised Lamb Cubes in a Tarragon Reduction with Sundried Tomato Ragout and Sherry-Dipped Polenta Shards" without your goddamn visual aid. In fact, you could probably get away with saying "I'd like the lamb" and they'll know what you're talking about. Quit pointing at the menu! Curl that finger back in! FUCKING HELL WILL YOU DECIDE WHAT YOU WANT AND ORDER ALREADY? Thursday, July 04, 2002
Look out your window, lucky New Yorkers, and what do you see? If it's daytime, then you probably see pigeons, pollutants, and suicidal portfolio managers plummeting to well-deserved deaths. But! If it's nighttime in the city, you can feast your eyes on the biggest floating bacchanal since the fall of Rome. Look! Across the street, the Porn Addict is at it again, flogging his dick raw despite the Sam's Club tub of moisturizer. Over to the left, the Young Lovers over can't seem to get enough of each other. What the hell is Mr. Suitcases doing with those suitcases, anyway? It's a mystery, all right, and as soon as this cast comes off, I'm gonna see what he buried in the courtyard flowerbed.
You've watched; we've all watched. When the infomercials come on, who among us doesn't head for the strategically placed pair of binoculars next to the best window? But New York City is a peer-to-peer voyeurism network. Do you understand how p2p works? It means you can't just download, people. You must UPLOAD. About to snort coke off a hooker's ass? Throw open the blinds! Just got out of the shower, need to apply lotion to your entire body? Don't be shy, stand by the window, take your time! Masturbation does not have to be the solitary act of a lonely loser when there are at least a hundred people who can see right into your goddamn window. Time for your fix, oh junkie across the way? Let your neighbors see how the other half lives, turn on a light for once! Don't worry about being recognized on the street -- the unwritten voyeur rule demands that what we see in your bedroom stays in your bedroom. Or kitchen, whatever. Clean the windows, take off your clothes, and burn the curtains! It's fucking Independence Day! Share the goddamn wealth, you hideous zombie freaks! BRAAAAIIIINNNNNS!!!! Tuesday, July 02, 2002
There is nothing more lame than talking about the weather. When a conversation turns to the humidity, it's a sign that the speaker has just stopped giving a shit. It's elevator talk; the kind of conversation you're willing to commit to when you know you'll only be talking for 15 seconds.
Or is it? Isn't weather the only universal topic, the bridge between any person x and any other person y? It's always there as a default even between friends, and can serve as a placeholder until a more challenging topic is found. If there's a disconcerting lull in an otherwise compelling exchange, who doesn't fill the space with a quick "gonna rain later" or whatever? Still, I mistrust the topic of weather, and I try to avoid it at all costs. BUT JESUS CHRIST IT IS HOT. I walk outside and the sweat leaves my body in fountain-like jets, dampening the small unconscious children who litter the street. My Zippo stopped working because the atmosphere is hotter than my lighter's flame. And when I finally got my cigarette lit, the burning smoke was a cool relief from the environmental air. I can't stand eating food, I can't stand to be awake, and I can't stand, period. I can't be funny, and I can't be smart. I'm tired. I'm tired. I'm tired. Wake me in November. |
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" |