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 
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Friday, December 27, 2002
New Year's Resolutions 2003: I will learn how to go to sleep without pills. I will make better databases. I will eat more vegetables, at least one serving a day. I will make three new friends (two female, one male), but serious, friend-for-life type friends. I will not correct anyone's grammar out loud, except for my stepmother, because it's her fault I do it anyway. I will have more sex, because I'll regret it when I'm older if I don't. Agh, that's gross. Will I really regret not having cheap, depressing sex with strangers? I don't think so. Scratch that. I will just concentrate on fucking your mom a little better.
I will finish the stupid album already, because until I do I cannot write any new songs. I will finish the third issue of the goddamn zine. I will draw more comics. I will write better posts on this blog, avoiding lazy, formulaic topics. I will patrol the graveyard for evidence of undead activity, and alert the authorites if I find any. I will actually perform with live instruments and bandmates. I will resist all offers of money or recording contracts or whatever else might ruin my life. I will buy new pants. I will have sex with more groupies. Glargle! No I will not! No groupies! I will find doctors who have actually EXPERIENCED PAIN IN THEIR LIVES so that maybe they won't be so stingy with the Percs when my back feels like it's being massaged with a weed whacker. I will concoct better images to describe my back pain. I will actually use my vacation time instead of sitting here at my desk doing shit nobody cares about. I will go to Europe. I will have sex with European girls by the dozens. Ick! Forget it! "That was sehr gut, Helga, and I guess I'll see you never, okay? Auf Wiedersehen!" No, no, no. I will learn to say "no sex, thank you" in every language. I will go to the park more often. I will bake more pies. I won't take cabs everywhere. I won't eat that extra cookie. I will do some yoga. I won't bitch about my back pain as much. I will kiss more people, just for the hell of it. I will experiment with focused flirting, instead of my typical generalized omniflirting, which just confuses people. Except that if I flirt with one person, they may get the impression that I'm going to fuck them, which, um... oh, I don't know. Maybe I will. Are they smart, cute, talented, and not utterly insane? I'll think about it. I will remember to pay my bills before I have worse credit than post-war Germany. I will water the plants. I will kill zombies without mercy or hesitation. I will spend less money on stupid shit. I will tell you that I love you all, which I do. I will let my love shine like a sun. Let's fuck! Thursday, December 26, 2002
A lot of you emailed me questions over the Christmas break. Here are the answers:
1. Because Boston is the worst town ever, a stinking pile of drunken frat boys floating on a sea of vomit and urine and beer and rape juice. California is bad, but oh man Boston is walking death. Instead of applying to college there, why not apply knives to the guts of all the white-hatted Massholes on earth? Ha ha! Coed Naked Frat-Boy Genocide! 2. Baking soda, not baking powder. 3. "Being too serious" is only a character flaw if you don't temper it with periods of levity. Stop being a buzzkill or your remaining friends will abandon you. I'm not saying life should be a big party all the time, but pick your battles. For example, I am very serious when I fuck your mother. 4. Ha ha! I would, but my wrist is really sore! 5. The head, dammit, the GODDAMN HEAD. A crowbar will work fine, but you might want something with more reach, like a spear or a shovel. 6. Don't worry, dude. The snow will turn to slush and then a slippery 2-inch blanket of ice, because the collective sins of 8 million New Yorkers burn hotter than the fires of Mount Doom in mid-August. 7. Check again -- what you call "blood in [your] stool" is probably just external bleeding from hemorrhoids. No problem! 8. If I tell you that I'm quoting the most prominent psycholinguist in the U.S., don't try to debate his theories like we're arguing over whether a band rocks. I'm not trying to banter here. This isn't up for discussion. I'm not saying that all human languages are based on the same universal grammar -- he is. I believe it, but only because I'VE READ THE DAMN BOOK, so don't be like "German verbs go at the end of a sentence, so there can't be a universal grammar" because: duh! Obviously that's not the level of grammar we're talking about here, so, like, read it, or ask me questions about it, but don't just reject something because it doesn't sound right WITHOUT LISTENING! Glaargle! 9. No, because if you criticize someone's driving skills while they're behind the wheel, they'll get all tense and start driving even worse. And don't think that you're not being critical just because you haven't said anything, asshole. All that irritating body language (grabbing the dashboard, gasping, stepping on nonexistent passenger-side brakes, or mouthing the words "red light red light red light") is just as stressful. If he really makes you that nervous, eat a Xanax and close your eyes until the ride is over, and then have a discussion when you get to Denny's or whatever, you worthless trash. 10. On the corner of 42nd street and 11th avenue, past the FedEx depot. Ask for Melody. Thursday, December 19, 2002
It's not really cold enough to justify wearing my arctic-rated parka, but I just love having my face ringed with coyote fur, don't you? I'm burning up in here, but at least I have no peripheral vision, so that's cool. What was that muffled screeching noise followed by muffled cursing noises and the muffled sound of a fist being waved angrily from a car window? I'll never know -- I'm too busy scanning the ground for dogshit through the narrow tunnel of vision I have left in this damn thing. Fuck! It's 20 degrees and I'm sweating like Shaq in the playoffs! Fuck! I'm writing about my winter coat! This sucks!
I'm taking Monday and Tuesday off, so you pathetic retards will have to wait until the 26th to suckle at the teat of my genius. Hopefully I'll be funny by then. Merry Christmas. Wednesday, December 18, 2002
Last night, Pussy Willow somehow got control of the TiVo remote, which always means it's time for a frantic Pong battle between MTV2 and VH1, with intermittent pathetic challenges from MTV. It's amazing to watch, because she really lets her id do the surfing. She's got no time for things that don't amuse her instantly. The resulting cacophany is punctuated by lots of "boo-BEEP"s from the TiVo and every once in a while a moment of silence as she freeze-frames on some hideous face (usually Carrot Top's hyperplucked deathmask from some collect call commercial) to the dismay of all present. This makes her guffaw like a mental patient who missed a dose, drool and all. It's charming.
After watching VH1 for ten "straight" minutes, we started writing an article that listed the 20 Gayest Videos Ever, because VH1 Classic had some, wooo -- I mean, have you seen the video for "Oblivious" by Aztec Camera? Or Freddie Mercury's prance-travaganza in "I Want to Break Free," which basically made our TV burst into flames? Well, we soon abandoned the article idea because it became clear that there were waaay too many contenders for such a coveted title, and that a more realistic scope might be the 20 Gayest Videos We Saw on VH1 Classic Last Night. Friday, December 13, 2002
I'm looking forward to a transit strike, if only to break the monotony. Sure, it'd be a pain in the ass, and terrible for the economy, but the idea of hitching rides from strangers to get to work is awesome -- I love an exercise in punishing futility. I'm pro-union by nature, because that's the only right way to be, and I really don't see why the state doesn't just pay the transit workers, and unless I'm missing something, it seems like maybe the economy wouldn't be in such a fucking shambles if we hadn't given a $250 BILLION TAX REFUND TO EVERY GODDAMN OIL COMPANY IN THE COUNTRY and also maybe if we WEREN'T ABOUT TO START A WAR THAT NOBODY BUT THOSE SAME OIL COMPANIES THINK IS A GOOD IDEA. I'm just sayin'.
I'll take the challenges as they come, cuz I'm all sanguine and shit. For example, I'm looking forward to today's crossword puzzle, which has the sexiest trio of stacked fifteens I've seen in months. I'm looking forward to elbowing slow-moving tourist shoppers out of my way until my forearms are coated in Bridge & Tunnel blood. I'm looking forward to tomorrow's Chirstmas party at a friend's house, because last year I really grasped the true meaning of mistletoe, which is that as long as there is mistletoe in the room, you have carte blanche to use your tongue to swab over-spiked punch off the tonsils of anyone who strikes your fancy. (Dude, I just wrote "strikes your fancy." How gay is that?) Last year I just kept walking up to my friends and sucking their faces without preamble. They're used to it, I guess, because 5 years ago I figured out that the same behavior will fly at New Year's even without mistletoe, and waaay before midnight. Woo hoo! Because the secret is: everybody likes kissing. This behavior will also fly at birthday parties, anniversaries, retirements, funerals, and the occasional bris. I sometimes wish I could give the whoooooole world a kiss. So I could give it my raging case of Hepatitis C! Thursday, December 12, 2002
I hate hippies. My face cramps with disgust and bile rises in my throat at their approach. This could be blamed on the stink of patchouli -- which has to be the foulest smell on Earth short of decaying, shit-smeared corpses -- but I don't think it's that. I know how to hold my breath. No, I just hate hippies.
But why do I hate hippies so much? I agree with almost everything they believe in: political consciousness and action; drug use and free love; mistrust of authority; resistance to corporate and consumer culture; rejection of mainstream notions of hygiene, fashion, morality, and use of cosmetics; support of creativity and expression and etc etc etc. So what the fuck? Why hate my natural allies? Punks hold the the same beliefs, and I find them almost equally repugnant. Maybe it's that I'm wary of people who come to a belief system by way of a rebellious asthetic chosen to piss off their parents, but who cares how you get to my side of the fence as long as we can hurl stones at the enemy together? Shit fuck. Maybe I feel that contemporary hippie culture is an utter betrayal of what it used to mean to be a hippie. Like, yeah, all those kids in home-made smocks playing hackeysack on the "quad" or whatever really "believe" all the things listed above, but at the end of the day they'd rather drool into their bongs to the tune of TERRIBLE MUSIC purchased with their dads' credit cards than think about making any sacrifices at all, like instead of putting colorful bear stickers on their cars they could STOP DRIVING THEM or maybe instead of worrying about cruelty to animals they could worry about CRUELTY TO HUMAN BEINGS like the people whose poverty made their wealth possible, or maybe they could EAT A BOWL OF FUCKING DICK because even Dr. Bronner's Pure Castile Soap won't wash away the stench of privilege that enables their superficial and temporary rejection of capitalist scumfuckery. Or maybe I just hate hippies because they suck. Stupid fucking hippie fucks. Wednesday, December 11, 2002
I recently finished working on a play that was staged at Columbia University, and while wandering the campus I saw a type of person I had forgotten existed: the severe, humorless, quasi-dykey women's studies major. What a fucking drag, dude. My college had more than its share, but I had erased them from my memory along with large chunks of freshmen year. (Which is a good thing, the freshman year gaps, because wow you should have seen my hair, mang.)
I'm a feminist. I think women's studies and cultural sensitivity in general are awesome. I hate the term "feminazi" but I understand why people might use it to describe certain people -- dogma, seriousness and lack of self-observation make any group seem fascist. As a Jew, I don't like to use the word "Nazi" lightly. But as a humorist, I understand that the name "Hitler" is great fodder for laffs, as in: "This soup is Hitler-iffic," or "Get out of here before I Hitler the face right off your head," or "I wouldn't fuck that bitch with Hitler's dick." Wa ha ha! Um. Ok, so I'm saying. I like people who seem to be enjoying life, especially people LIVING OFF THEIR PARENTS FOR FOUR YEARS AT AN IVY LEAGUE SCHOOL IN NEW YORK FUCKING CITY LIKE OH MY GOD HOW MUCH CAN YOU HAVE TO FROWN ABOUT? Oh, you're so oppressed, I know, life is sooo phallocentric and patriarchal. It is! I agree! But why are you wearing that schmata bobby-pinned to your head like you're some kind of Afghani refugee? YOUR NAME IS BECKY AND YOU'RE FROM WESTCHESTER. Is it so hard to smile? To smile for once at a boy? A strange and handsome boy in the building? Like for instance me? WHY WON'T YOU SMILE AT ME? Tuesday, December 10, 2002
I was going to write a self-indulgent rant about actors and oversensitive people, but my precious readers have too many unanswered zombie questions. This blog is no place for self-indulgence. It is, first and foremost, a public service: a clearinghouse for zombie information.
Q: Is it better to be eaten by one of the living dead or by a cannibal? A: The reader who posed this question came up with a whole bunch of reasons it could be asked with a straight face. But come on now. I think he just wants to hear me rant a bit. Fine. OF COURSE it's better to be eaten by a cannibal! Jesus Fuck, have I taught you nothing? The life of a zombie is one of endless hunger and agony, quelled only momentarily by the ingestion of live flesh, which has a tendency to run away, adding frustration to your list of posthumous woes. If a cannibal eats you, your legacy might be embarrassing, but you won't care -- you're dead. Being dead is cool as key lime pie. Being undead is as sucky as a Hanoi prostitute. Your "zombie-like" experience with benzos and bourbon was a labor day picnic, my friend. Why do you think I spend so much time educating you on zombie behavior -- so you can find the most polite way to expose your tender headflesh to the first approaching fiend? No! Duct tape a crowbar to your hand! Keep a cocked, loaded sniper rifle in the corner of every room! Install motion detectors in a mile-wide perimeter around your isolated mountaintop retreat! Invite a convention of cannibals to your house and smear yourself with steak sauce, but for god's sake DO NOT LET A ZOMBIE BITE YOU, EVER. Friday, December 06, 2002
My fellow Americans. I'm honored to be talking to you today about my candidacy. I'm not a "Washington insider" or "career politician" or "baby raper." I'm just a regular "Joe" like you, except about a billion times smarter and better. Seriously, from where I'm standing, you look like a bunch of idiots -- perhaps even a little retarded. You're up to your ankles in your own drool, you glassy-eyed dopes! You NEED me! Button your coat, it's freezing out here! God!
I have never held public office, but neither have you, so don't point your fingers at me like that. Or if you must point your fingers, at least WIPE THE GODDAMN BOOGERS OFF. There's room at the podium for you, fatso, go get some signatures. Anybody? No? So it's me. Vote for me. I know things, staggering amounts of things. Do you know how to open a new CD without fingernailing that strip of plastic into a thousand miniscule shreds? I do, but I'm not telling, not till you elect me. I also know how to de-funk a kitchen sponge. I know how to talk my way out of a speeding ticket -- it's just ten little words, my friends, and if you elect me I just might tell you. Do you know why the dead rise from the grave to eat the flesh of the living? Of course not, because you're too busy jamming Twinkies in your ears to even give a fuck about zombies. Quit shoving corn dogs up your ass! Get off the couch and throw the remote out the window! Zombies give a fuck about you, and you should give a fuck about blowing their brains out. Lock and load, citizens! I propose a constitutional amendment to KICK YOUR ASS if you don't know ten ways to fuck a fish. Vote for me -- I'll make you smarter. I promise! Get off the short bus and get on mine! Free corn dogs for everyone! Wednesday, December 04, 2002
ARGH. Ok, from now on, I don't want you to do ANYTHING without talking to me first. Because you're just going to fuck it up. You do everything stupid, like a machine that pumps out stupid all day long. Stupid.
FOR EXAMPLE: If you are going to the dentist, you should never walk out without a scrip for narcotic painkillers in your hand -- and you should never settle for Tylenol 3, whose piddling 30 mgs of codeine phosphate make it the retarded midget stepchild of the opiate family. Codeine phosphate indeed. Oh, they'll try to tell you that your pain is imaginary, or that it's not "severe" enough. Or that Dilaudid is only for "post-operative" or "battlefield amputation" pain. Or that you're a "fucking junkie scumbag" and should "get out of [their] office before [they] call the cops." Pshaw. You deserve your meds, and no power-tripping tooth-cleaner should stand in your way. Here's what you say to a recalcitrant DDS: "Um, oh, uh, I'm vewy sensitive to pain. I'm soo nervous. Could you pwease gib me sumfing a widdle more powerfuw?" If you plead fear and vulnerability, you give the dentist a chance to play hero and pretend he's a real doctor for a day. They love that. On the off-chance that doesn't work, you can try a slightly more aggressive tactic: grab his nipple and say: "Listen up, "Doctor" Fucksuck. If I don't see you touch that pen to pad and sart writing the capital P in Percocet, I'm going to jam this little scrapey-hook into your navel and SCRAPE THE PLAQUE OFF YOUR KIDNEYS, you molar-poking fagtard." This tactic usually works, because dentists hate being called "fagtard." Try it! Monday, December 02, 2002
The fucktards at MSN are getting a little inflammatory now. On my Hotmail home page today, there was a little link that asked "Are you smarter than Shakira?" OH JESUS COME ON NOW. I have a bottle of Snapple on my desk that's smarter than Shakira. We're talking about a woman whose claim to fame is the speed at which she can vibrate her ass cheeks. You don't need a high school transcript to get a job in a Colombian whorehouse. I defy you to find me a living vertebrate that couldn't beat Shakira at Tic Tac Toe.
Here's another treasure from the same dudes: "Peanut butter beats diabetes." Well, duh. Nine out of ten people prefer peanut butter to diabetes. They must be eating paint chips in MSN's content department, because they're obviously not eating brains. |
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" |