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 
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Wednesday, November 27, 2002
I've got problems. While masturbating yesterday, I was picturing a woman. Usually, guys use concrete visual aids for masturbation, but that was impractical at the time, so I had to use my "imagination." (This is easy for women because they rely almost completely on fantasy while self-pleasuring -- which explains why they have difficulty relating to the "need" for porn.) I wasn't so much imagining as I was remembering, because even though I'm totally creative, it's still easier to access images from last weekend than to actually do the mental work of undressing some random person. (Does it bother you to think that somewhere, someone might be thinking of you while they wank? Seriously. Think about that.)
But so anyway at some point I realized that, though I was still masturbating, I wasn't thinking about sex or the naked woman. I had started thinking about databases and graphs. Yep. Specifically, a scatterplot of New York state poverty information from 1990-2000. I ejaculated with the force of a stepped-on ketchup packet. Heh, no, not really. I take it as a good sign that my onanistic progress was impeded by the statistical intrusion, and that I had to refocus my thoughts in order to finish. Obviously I've been reading too much Edward Tufte. But Jesus. If you're one of those people who say they "don't believe in A.D.D.," this prurient anecdote should change your stupid mind for good. Happy Thanksgiving. See you on Monday. Tuesday, November 26, 2002
If you see me walking while using my cell phone, walk directly up to me and hit me in the nuts with a bat. I won't see you coming. Haven't you always wondered how somebody could do something as stupid as stepping into an empty elevator shaft? Now I understand. With the phone at my ear, the feet are on autopilot, the eyes unfocus, and my consciousness enters "cellspace." If you want my wallet, just pluck it from my pants. Yes, my pants are tight, dude, but dig, dig! Take my dick while you're at it -- I WILL KEEP FLAPPING MY TALKHOLE. I'm Mr. fucking Magoo out there, walking on girders as they're hoisted skyward, a step away from the abyss until a plane flies by and I step onto the wing. Hitler and Cicciolina could be fucking in a blood-filled kiddie pool, and I'd stride right on by.
Ooh and don't you hate when you see those gabbing spiffed-up bitches with their frosted hair, calf boots, and wool coats? Blah de blah I have lots of money but I don't really do any work and blah ded blah my cell phone conversation is soo important that I CANNOT stop walking while I talk to you because you are my BESTEST FRIEND IN THE WHOLE WORLD! Glarrgle! I hate walk/talkers when I see them. And yet when I do it, I am completely oblivious to the possibility that other people are hating me. Because nobody hates me! Everyone loves me! I have a cell phone! Monday, November 25, 2002
I've been neglecting you, my sweets, and I know it. It's my nature, you see: my attention wanders like an unsupervised child at a carnival. I want to warn you of so many things, to protect you from the monsters behind the corner that you're too blind to see, to kill the bad parts of you like a psychotic vigilante kills rapists, to hold you in my powerful arms and lull you to sleep with songs of picnicking teddy bears. Rest easy! I have the answers! Who let the dogs out? I did. Dude, where's my car? Right there, behind that Montero Sport, about five miles away from the curb but that's ok -- you learned to drive late. It's getting hot in here, so take off all your clothes, cuz I know I'd walk A THOUSAND MILES if I could just see you tonight.
But I can't be everywhere at once. I can't change your freaking diapers. Get up, get on your feet! Go to the store and buy some damn milk, because I'm tired of pouring a bowl of cereal only to find the carton empty but still in the fucking fridge. Oh man, you never look stupider than when you try to pick up something that you think is full but is actually empty and your arm goes whooshing to the ceiling. My heart breaks and breaks. You know that feeling you get when you try to staple some paper together but the stapler is empty? That hollow non-click is an encapsulated echo of every tragedy ever played, every tale of loss and woe, every ka-chunnnn where there should be a ka-chunk. Keep your staplers filled, my loves, keep your staplers filled. I'm not scared. The gulf stream is just the pattern that remained after God swirled his index finger in the oceans to test their temperature. Then he licked his finger clean and that's why we have salty taste buds. Then he sucked a hobo's dick and that's why we have Pussy Willow. I promise to shoot you all if you ever become zombies. I will act with mercy and speed to spare you the agony of undeath. As you crumple to your rest I will imagine a smile of gratitude on your patchy, worm-eaten faces, and I will smile in return. Wednesday, November 20, 2002
Add this the towering stack of reasons I don't want to be famous: famous people can't dangle their babies over balconies without every motherfucker in the world calling them "wacko" or "cracko." Look, I've seen some fucked up shit on America's "Funniest" Home Videos, everything short of some TrailTrash dad sticking his kid in the garbage disposal for a laugh and a shot and an oversized check. What's the big deal? People fuck around with their babies because the damn things are made of rubber, hence the common term "indestructible rubber baby." Why can't famous people endanger their children in peace, just like normal people? Or kiss their big-bootied fiancés without the staccato soundtrack of a thousand flickering shutters? And who the fuck decided to call Michael Jackson "Jacko" anyway? I bet it's a Rupert Murdoch thing -- those aussies love nicknames more than they love fisting dingos.
If I were famous I couldn't puke off a roof without some overeager tabloid cub scooping up a sample all Egon Spengler-like and having it tested so that all the world could see how much Aleve is in my bloodstream. I couldn't adjust my itching nutsack without being dubbed "Scratcho" in an article titled "Broomfield Can't Sweep Away Crabs." If I were famous I couldn't drown a bag of bunny rabbits without "angoring" those buzzkill alarmists at PETA. Forget it. I will toil in blissful obscurity, puking, scratching, and drowning as I please. The masses can eat a dick. Tuesday, November 19, 2002
I like to let movies take me for a ride. I can suspend my disbelief so well that I can justify even the most outlandish breaks in consistency. It takes a lot to pull me out of a movie's world, and even when directors explicitly remind me that I'm watching actors on a screen, I happily adjust my viewing framework to fit the new position. I believe every special effect like the eyewitness account of a nun.
But if I could change one thing about movies, I would make depictions of vomiting more realistic. Know what I mean? You're watching a movie, and you're totally in it, dude, and then some character walks unsteadily to some railing and spits out a mouthful of clam chowder. Bullshit! What, are we children? We don't know what puking looks like? I'll grant that there are different kinds of puking, and that ONE of those kinds may look like a dude spitting out a mouthful of soup. But most of them look more like a brief burst of sewage from a powerful hose. Yes, I have thrown up a lot, so I know. My weak stomach voids itself at the first twinge of nausea -- none of this brave fight to keep food down. I learned how to throw up my senior year of college, when a girlfriend showed me how to get the spoiled chicken wings out of my body and put an abrupt end to my agony. Vomiting is an awesome tool. Actually, a more awesome tool would be some soft rubber fingers on a stick that you could use to induce vomiting in a more sanitary way. Okay, I just invented it! It's called the FingerStick! And the slogan is: "Don't feel sick -- FingerStick!" Hm. That may need some work. Anyway, I'm getting off track here. Special effects can do anything except make an Eddie Murphy movie good. So why can't vomit be given its due in the age of digital filmmaking? I WANT PIXELS OF ROPY HURL. This is the stupidest thing I've ever written. I should be digitally removed from your consciousness. Thursday, November 14, 2002
When the subway announcer says "we are being held in the station due to a sick passenger at ___ Street" what he really means "DEAD passenger spread over 100 feet of tracks at ___ Street." One time I saw a crew cleaning up the remains of a "sick" passenger at 42nd St with mops and gloves and biohazard bags. A puddle of foamy red liquid was all that was left. I almost "got sick" in the sense that Brits mean it. Ugh. Do you know how many people get creamed, smashed, mangled, torn, spindled, grated, serrated, and bisected in the subway each year? It's a lot more than you'd think. I know because I know these things. Damn, I know a lot of things.
In the old days, if you described someone as a "confirmed bachelor" you were saying he was queer as a three-speed walking stick. By which you meant he was a homosexual. A "kick in the pants" was really a kick in the balls. A "flapper" was really a "slut" and a "war hero" was really a murdering morphine addict. Some things never change, though; when a girl asks if you want to "come in for a cup of coffee" she still means "won't you please come up and put your penis inside me?" Girls are much hornier than boys. A lot of people don't know that. Girls lie more than boys, too -- about 80% of the time compared with boys' 10% (Source: Your Mother). I know that sometimes it seems like I know everything, but that's ridiculous! I have many questions for the world. For example: why don't I have nightmares? Can zombies be killed with some sort of fast-acting aerosolized nerve agent, or will they only be stopped by blunt trauma to the head? And finally, can anyone explain to me why girls love the taste of ballsweat so much?? Wednesday, November 13, 2002
Isn't it ironic that the first time I plan to post to this blog -- nay, to even read this blog -- in weeks (months?), it's the same day that Universal Donor has decided to remove my name from the masthead? Yes. It. Is. I never knew having a life would come at such a hefty cost.
Which, conveniently, brings me right to my point. The one about my job becoming an unwelcome stranger in my life who has made himself at home, urinated on the sofa, used all the spoons to scrape the crap from between his toes each night before putting them back in the drawer and applied all the cheese in the apartment as deodorant before forcing my head into his right armpit. Not only do I have to interrupt my sleep for this shit in the morning, I now find myself interrupting my drunk for it at night. Sometimes, ALL NIGHT. I am forced to endure elevator conversations which not only veer toward mundane but actually run head-on into dumb-as-fuck, as well as emails that I can only assume a clan of troglodytes and a slightly smarter group of their chinchilla friends got together to compose. The difference between an office and a party thrown with the sole purpose of celebrating mediocrity is about the width of a pubic hair. But at least I’ve got my blog at the end of the day. At least I’ve got my blog.
Ha! That got your attention, didn't it? My putative co-blogger Pussy Willow hasn't posted to this site for eons, and I think it's time we all stopped pretending that she ever will. I've removed her name from the main page, but her posts are still in the archives and she can still post if she feels like rising from her knees long enough to find a computer. This change has been a long time coming -- just like the hobos she loves to blow! Now she can devote her life to looking for places to spit out mouthfuls of hobo semen, and Jesus knows that can keep a girl busy (really, he does!).
Hmm. I wonder how long it will take her to notice the change. Tuesday, November 12, 2002
I am surrounded by drunken hookers. By "drunken" I mean "shit-faced" and by "hookers" I mean "girls I know." There's enough alcohol in my female friends' bloodstreams to disinfect Bombay. This is not a criticism, or a judgment. It's just an observation. All mah bitches be blotto.
The inimitable Guzzler got Drunk this weekend. She hopped from two nasty East Village dives to Enid's, in Greenpoint, where I sat watching some other drunken hookers get steeped. Fast forward to 3:45. She does that thing I hate where she's got half a beer at last call but orders another anyway because, hey, it's last call. Like she's some kind of helpless robot who can't help but execute her program -- BoozBot5000. Then, when the bartender is doing everything but swinging a stool over her head to make us leave, Guzzler can't stumble in the general direction of the door until she finishes that beer, because apparently the Alcoholism Enforcers will issue her a ticket for some made-up frat boy infraction called "sandbagging." Which as far as I can tell means "behaving with a barely protozoan level of basic self-preservation and restraint." So I'm like "you DON'T HAVE TO FINISH IT. LET'S GO," which really means "I don't want to have to CARRY YOUR DRUNKEN ASS TO THE CAR SERVICE." But she must, and she does. Fast forward to 4:30, where after a long zig-zaggy walk to N6th Guzzler feels the predictable effect of emptying a keg into a bladder the size of a tennis ball. "I'll be right back," she says, walking serpentine (to avoid snipers, I guess) around the corner. Then there are cops, and then they are asking for her ID, and then there is a protracted period of ticket-writing and whiny fake-crying, the end result of which is tickets for public exposure and public urination. Which all of us find amusing except, bizarrely, Guzzler herself. It's bizarre because this is just the kind of tale that litters her seemingly endless repertoire of "oh my god one time (I/we/you/they) (was/were) so (drunk/high/fucked up)..." stories that she finds VERY AMUSING. Not only was she not amused, she actually had the gall to complain. For hours. About getting a ticket. For PEEING ON THE STREET. I mean come on now. Suck it up, bwah! You got busted fair and square. Maybe if you had actually tried to CONCEAL YOURSELF a little bit instead of basically peeing on the cruiser's hood, you wouldn't have gotten pinched, but you had it coming. If you got a ticket everytime you watered the cobblestones, the city wouldn't have a budget crisis. SO SHUT THE HOLE ALREADY! Friday, November 08, 2002
Insomnia 101: How To Not Fall Asleep
Stay up past designated "bedtime." Chain smoke before bed, and in bed, and while asleep. Be weary but wired. Place head on pillow. Close eyes. Laugh at your foolish optimism. Make room completely dark by pulling shades. Get back in bed, wonder why your eyes like being open more than closed. Turn off all electronic devices to eliminate that high-pitched whine and the light from small LEDs. Breathe deeply and get frustrated. Construct theories to explain unanswered zombie questions (like how come zombie attacks are always localized?). Turn on other side. Breathe. Take sleeping pill. Lay flat on back and stare at ceiling. Wonder how you can still see the ceiling when the room should be completely dark. Get up and seal cracks between shade and window with duct tape. Stub toe and say "fuck" a lot. Get in bed. Stay perfectly still, for real. Let mind go blank. Blank. Listen to roommate laughing at funny movie in living room. Wonder what could be so fucking funny. Think of something funny. Laugh. Stop laughing. Think of a brilliant idea that you will forget by the time you wake up and that you will never ever remember even though it's the most brilliant idea ever. Stay perfectly still. Stay still. Do not move. Get out of bed and write down brilliantest idea ever. Oh now look how stupid it is on paper! Get back in bed, tardpants. Count backwards from 100, lose interest at 90. Flop around like beached fish. Go get glass of water to quench sudden thirst. Curse ancestors. Get in bed. Curse unborn descendents. Take another sleeping pill. Eat bowl of dick. Let endless stream of thoughts course through brain like so many greased eels. Relax already. Relax. Take a muscle relaxant. Get up, lay out clothes for tomorrow. Oh, whatever shall you wear? Maybe THE SAME JEANS YOU WEAR EVERY "CASUAL" FUCKING FRIDAY? Fucking fuckballs. Get in bed. Close your eyes. Get up and chug some vodka. Take some Advil for your aching, pulsing, throbbing back. Watch the digital clock and try to catch the minute change. Look away just before it does. Scissor-kick your legs so that if somebody were looking at you from above, it would seem like you were running! In bed! Wah ha ha! Cry. Take a handful of random pills, and some Tums. Have sex with that cute girl from high school. Eat brains. Walk up an endless staircase and fly back down. Eat pineapple with an old friend in a room that's kinda like a courtroom, only not. Turn off screaming alarm. Get up. Go to work with eyebags as big and sad as Chechnya. Wednesday, November 06, 2002
I didn't read about the gay sheep until today, because I've been in a self-imposed media blackout, which is actually code for "self-induced drunken passout." But so my first exposure to the gay sheep "story" was a tiny little headline on my Hotmail welcome page that said "Gay sheep offer clues." Heh. I love that headline. Think about it a moment, and I'm sure you can come up with at least one humorous scenario involving helpful gay sheep. Ha ha ha ha ha. Oh boy, I need oxygen.
Anyway so the story is about gay sheep, and so what's the big deal? I can barely keep from yawning. Then I read this bit from the article: First the scientists watched the sheep to be sure of their behavior -- something that cannot be done with humans. Then they took apart their brains.Wah ha! Wow! There are so many confusing things about that quote! I am in mad mad love with the anonymous Reuters stringer who spawned it! Woo! The dude's right, though. It's IMPOSSIBLE to observe gay human behavior. Unless you have a video store membership, access to the internet, MTV, or A PAIR OF FREAKING EYEBALLS. But I love the fact that after observing gay sheep sex, the scientists were overcome by an irrepressible lust for brain-dismantling. The article leaves it unclear, however, whose brains were dismantled. Did the scientists take apart their own brains? I hope so. And what's with "take apart?" Because brains are a lot like Lincoln Logs? This is a very good article. Something's cookin', friends, and it smells like Pulitzer! Tuesday, November 05, 2002
You don't need me to tell you to vote, because you already did, right? It's so easy. You just go to your polling place, and talk to an idiot to find out which election district you're in. I'm in Election District 49, Assembly District 51, Congressional District 12, State Senatorial District 20, Council District 38, and Civil Court District 01. Or at least, I was in those districts before a tornado of redistricting swept me into an entirely novel superimposition of theoretical polygons. Damn, now I have to come up with a whole new mnemonic device to remember that shit. Easy peasy!
Anyway, my polling place is a drafty church. So this morning, Table of Idiots #1 sends me to the IdioTable for my new Election District, which is 3, apparently. Whatever. I try in vain to help Table of Subidiots find my name in the book, but the alphabet is a bunch of extraterrestrial runes to my TableOfIdiocy, whose main skills seem to be reclining at odd angles and bitching about the draftiness of the church. (Though in all fairness I should point out that they are exceedingly skilled at both these things.) I can see my manic, loopy signature in the book from ten paces, and I helpfully point out that they can stop turning pages. There is some weird, depression-era paperwork to fill out, and then I get to wait in line. I ask for a cookie, and they look at me like I'm strange, maybe because there are no cookies anywhere. I wait some more. I don't blame the person in front of me for taking a long time with her choices, because the ballot was obviously designed by a joint venture of MK Ultra and The Parallax Corporation, by which I mean it is designed to make even the sanest person volunteer for shock treatment. But luckily I'm a supergenius, so I figure it out and ker-chunk I am done fulfilling my most joyous civic duty. But what about the morons? What about you? Well, I only hope you didn't vote for the Right To Life candidate just because you liked the little picture of the fetus. Vote! Exercize your will! Power to the Peepholes! Imagine the possibilititties! Monday, November 04, 2002
I'm not afraid of germs. I'll kiss people, eat their food, drink their drinks, eat things off the floor. I don't get sick very often, so any germ that's strong enough to make me sick deserves to ravage my body. Bravo, little pathogen.
Then again, I don't touch poles on the subway anymore. (Heh. I used to lick them, when I was a child. Don't know why. I used to lick everything.) In public bathrooms, I try to use my feet to accomplish as many things as possible. Sometimes, after touching something that might be crawling with germs, I feel like I'm wearing hot, shiny gloves of disease. I let my hands hang limp at my sides, avoiding contact with any part of my body above my neck. I am pretty much useless until I can wash or otherwise sanitize my paws, or until I forget they're dirty. ADD is fun like that -- dangle something shiny in my face and I'll forget to breathe. Germs are everywhere, but you can't avoid them completely, so why go crazy? Live your life! Touch the things you need to touch, and if you're freaky like that, you can carry a small bottle of hand sanitizer. Donald Trump does. If you threw a bucket of germs (or poop, that classic ebodiment of germs) at me, I'd be pissed off but not totally freaked out. I'd make a "ya got me!" face, find a place to wash up, and burn you with a cigarette (fair's fair). Now, if you threw a bucket of roaches at me? Whoa. I can't even process the concept. The part where I'm covered with roaches leads swiftly into a coma, because I cannot handle the roaches, not at all. But where did you get all those roaches? Why did you put them all in a bucket, and how long did it take? How long have you been planning this gag? And most importantly, WHY DID YOU THROW THEM AT ME? Now I'm in a coma, so you can tell the answers to my prone, liquid-fed body, still dripping with fearsweat and hopefully hooked up to some serious sympathetic morphine. WHAT POSSESSES A MAN TO COLLECT A BUCKET OF ROACHES? ANSWER ME! |
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" |