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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Thursday, January 30, 2003
I was really good at dodgeball when I was a kid. I only mention this because in every other physical activity, I was a useless spastic weakling. I've never been fast, strong, or capable, but when it was time to play dodgeball I became a god among giants, because I possessed three qualities: eerily quick reflexes, a preturnatural awareness of my surroundings, and an overwhelming desire not to get hit with flying objects. I could sense a playground ball soaring toward my bowl-cutted head and instinctively, like, pluck it from the air, making my assailant look pretty stupid. My elementary school gym teacher favored a free-form incarnation of the game called "Turbo Dodgeball," wherein everyone ran frantically around the gym trying to annihilate everyone else -- no teams, no jails, no obstructions. Just me and all the other little fuckwads. And I was the king of the fuckwads.
I only mention this because I was so lame and despised in every other regard. And I'm not just trying to jump on the late-'90s hipster "I was unpopular as a child" bandwagon. Remember when famous people started coming out of the woodwork to claim aggrieved status as schoolyard victims? I believe that Noam Chomsky and Billy Corgan suffered at the hands of bullies, but when obvious football player/cheerleader types started complaining I got a little fed up. I know that in high school I was well-liked and visible; the fawning inscriptions in my yearbook from people I can barely remember attest to that. But in elementary school I really was a reject -- the kind of kid who's always trying to show you a magic trick, or trying to juggle three unwieldy objects. If I had gone to any school other than that feel-good pinko playpen, I would have been yard meat. But man. I could play dodgeball. And now I am totally awesome. Tuesday, January 28, 2003
Can I just acknowledge that it's freezing and be done with it? You don't need a stream of clever images to understand that it's cold in New York, right? Good. Instead, I will tell you more about the bathroom.
This happens all the time in the office bathroom: I'm taking a shit -- which is what people do in bathrooms -- and I will hear someone turn the key in the lock. I will hear, from my stall, the sound of the door opening. Then, the door will slam quickly and I will hear the sound of footsteps retreating back into the hall, leaving the empty stall unused. What's going on here? I know you have to shit, mystery dude. Everybody does it, and the urgency of your footfalls tells me that this was no idle hand-washing or zit-popping excursion for you. You've got pressure. You've got to go. SO WHY DO YOU RUN AWAY? First of all, I don't know who you are, but even if I did, I wouldn't look at you askance in the hallways for performing a basic animal function. Second of all, what the fuck is your problem? Third of all, eat a bowl of dick. Fourth of all, you would never survive in the woods, so you better pray that we're not driven into Westchester by an invading army of the undead. Also, it is so cold that my nuts froze, broke off, and slipped down my pant legs, whereupon I accidentally kicked them into a storm drain. And the part of my brain that makes funny words is in hibernation. Maybe if you put your mouth on it, it will thaw. Thursday, January 23, 2003
Hey, listen, Sir, can I just ask you about that captivating scent you're wearing? Just quickly, if you could, Sir, during this elevator ride, could you just give me a rundown of your thought process this morning when you hauled out the slop bucket filled with whipped skunk torsos and DIPPED ALL YOUR FREAKING CLOTHES IN IT? No, no, yes, I know I've talked about this perfume/cologne issue before, not with you specifically, Sir, maybe not, but really it is IMPOSSIBLE TO THINK OF ANYTHING ELSE when I am trapped in this 5x5x8 foot box with you.
Ahh, but the ladies of your home country must swoon when you enter the room (or yurt, mud hut, whatever), right? Not the way that I'm swooning, which is clearly from lack of oxygen, no -- I'm thinking they must swoon in that desirable, here-comes-Troy-Donahue or whoever made girls swoon when girls swooned kind of swoon. I am guessing that there must be a swoony response from somebody, because otherwise I don't get the strategy, dude. Sir. I've heard that people wore perfume a lot to cover up stink, but I'm pretty sure that was before the days of municipal water supplies and indoor plumbing and stores that sell soap ON EVERY FREAKING CORNER. Please explain this before I lose the brain cells required to differentiate midgets from fire hydrants. Wait! You are married but have very little willpower? And the only way to keep the horny ladies away is to literally repulse them by triggering a gangrene-and-rotting-corpses-related aspect of the fight-or-flight reflex? I can relate, dude, because I too have to deal with hordes of horny women who want my seed. I find that they are just as ably repelled by emotional unavailability and morbid self-obsession -- but I will admit that it takes longer than your solution, Sir, and for that I tip my hat to you. Because it sure is a drag having people want to stand within thirty feet of you, right? Can I get an "amen?" Actually, instead of an "amen," can I get you to open that maintenance access panel there and ride on the top of the fucking elevator? Yes, I know we're almost there, but I was kinda hoping that in the process of leaving the car you would get snagged on some kind of fast-moving cable/hook thingy and get whipped, Chocolate-Factory-style, through the roof and, I don't know, INTO THE SUN OR SOMETHING. Glaargledy! Fucking! Aaargle! Wednesday, January 22, 2003
Despite your hints, pleas, and mindgames, I cut my hair. Yes, it's possible that maybe I got a little extreme about it. Yes, maybe for the sake of proving some point to god knows who, it's possible that the result came out a little more, ah, severe than I had intended. That I'm a five-square-inch patch of bangs away from saying "Sir! Yes! Sir!" to R. Lee Ermey's tonsils. But I don't have regrets, and I don't have to use shampoo. I cut my hair because I don't want to think about it anymore. All of you! Leave me alone!
How exactly is it possible to stare at a computer screen for six hours without accomplishing one iota of legitimate work? Is part of my brain broken? Well, no, it's not broken, but it's on an irregular production wave, because there are many days that it revs like a biker on your block at 3am, and those days engender week-long blog binges and frantic tinkering with songs conceived so long ago that they are clearly dead in the womb, never to be born. Then of course the days of staring at a CRT and clicking at phosphors until the bell goes ding. I never have nothing to say, but sometimes I have nothing to say to you, darling reader. We seek out comfort in patterns, and even the most unhealthy pattern is cozier than utter unpredictability. I will write about zombies. I will go home and eat terrible food. I will have trouble sleeping and my back will ache. Would any of this change if I were rich, famous, or successful? Maybe the food would be better. I take it one day at a time because my temporal binoculars can't see much farther than that. Today I'm gonna go to the eye doctor and get some purposefully geeky glasses so my grandkids can laugh at my hologram. Two days ago I cut my hair. Thursday, January 16, 2003
Last year, U.S. surgeons left instruments inside 1,500 patients, which is why I always operate on myself. (I learned to do this from an depression-era Appalachian home-surgery manual called "It's Cuttin' Time, Maw!" Its methods may be unsanitary, but at least they're unpretentious.) Actually, I don't think I'd mind walking around with a scalpel or bone chisel in my gut. That's pretty badass. As long as it didn't, like, damage any organs.
As I've mentioned many many many times, I looove doctors, even the fake ones (i.e. podiatrists, chiropractors, and Doogie Howser), and I think we should support them in their cynical and rapacious pursuit of great riches while nominally in service to the well-being of others. Kidding! They also give me pills! No, no, no. It's a tough life, being a doctor. Man, those premiums are high! Man, med school is tough! Man, that diploma looks fake! Man, I sure wish this dude hadn't left A PIECE OF SHARP STABBY METAL IN MY ABDOMEN! The solution to the problem is to have all surgical tools attached to a rack by high-tension elastic bands. That way, when the sawbones is done poking or cutting stuff, he can just let go of the lancet, and it will snap back and ricochet safely around the room until it comes to rest somewhere outside of the patient. I actually built a prototype of this ElastiRack, to make sure I don't leave any knives in my steak. It works like a charm. Tuesday, January 14, 2003
My boss just sent me a link to an "article" about how, basically, a messy desk indicates a serious deficiency of character. The piece quotes a study from the University of Texas that found that "people with messy offices are less efficient, less organized and less imaginative than people with clean desks." The part that really gets me is the imagination part, because it is obviously an attempt by the U. of Texas to make me, personally, feel bad. But it's not gonna work, because I don't get offended by studies from a school whose motto is "Come Suckle Some Larnin' from our Universi-titty."
Plus, unlike you, I have some empathy. This unimaginative article was obviously pounded out by a long-suffering writer forced to debase her craft in the content department of bankrate.com -- a site whose imaginative purpose is to list interest rates -- so I don't blame her for her shallow, press-release-parroting attempt at "journalism." But does everything on the interweb have to be written by illiterate Floridian line-dancers who write "plumb" when they mean "plum?" Are qualified writers really that scarce? Seriously, there's not a single zombie reference in her entire piece. What's that about? Doesn't she care about zombies? Am I really supposed to believe that I'm going to hell because I have a year's worth of unfiled paper nonsense cluttering my "workspace?" I will admit that my desk looks like it was hit repeatedly with baseball bats. But while you're using a t-square to anal-retentify the angles of your in-boxes, I will be sharpening my letter opener into a zombie-slaughtering bayonet, and we'll just see who survives until the company picnic. Monday, January 13, 2003
I just got back from the dentist and my neck is soaking wet -- apparently my Class-3 underbite got him little excited. But seriously folks. My collar is soaked, and if my work environment weren't as relaxed as Joey Buttafuoco's pants, I would have changed it when I got back. But everything's jake here at the plant, so I'm allowing myself to air-dry. Like your mom.
I have a cavity on the gumline of a bottom molar, and I'm gonna get a white filling, because I'm a racist -- I just don't like metal people. When I get my filling, I will ask for the gas. "Give me the gas, doc," I will say, with pride and conviction. Because when you get a filling you have two options: you can be conscious of scraping and drilling and packing and little flying tooth bits, or you can be high as a rat. It's almost literally unbelievable: nitrous oxide administered continuously through a mask in a controlled environment by an accredited medical professional and paid for by and insurance company? Pinch me! No RediWhip cans, no gaily-colored balloons that freeze and break after ten stupid Whip-its? I'm gonna just dump a tin of Altoids into my mouth every day so that I can get more cavities. I got the gas when I had my wisdom teeth removed, and even though the dentist had me in a headlock and was violently jacking my head back and forth with a hellish pair of pliers, I felt nothing. To me, the experience was a combination of a low ambient wah-wah-wah sound and some rotating geometric explosions on the backs of my eyelids. Gore spattered the walls and the dude was sweating when it was done, but I just sat there smiling like a goon, blood spilling out of my mouth-corners in parallel rivers. Get the gas. It's not a substitute for novocaine, it's a delicious adjunct, a partner in a dance of painlessness. Don't be afraid of it! Our parents were given gas in the waiting room, dude! Though it was probably just to make them more "cooperative" and "fondle-ready." Friday, January 10, 2003
I'm a little shook up, because the restaurant last night had one of those "true reflection" mirrors in the bathroom. It's got several mirrors set at satanic angles inside, so instead of the face you normally see, it's the face everyone else sees. If you haven't seen this kind of mirror yet, good -- you may continue to live with your fantastically distorted self-image intact. But it's too late for me. My existential hymen has been violently shredded.
The reason you hate pictures of yourself is that you don't recognize your face reversed; the angles are wrong, everything is bizarro. Also, you can see how fat your ass is. Right? Someone shows you a big group photo and you ONLY look at YOUR tiny head and big ass and say "ugh, what a terrible picture, please burn it right now because that's NOT what I look like," and your friend is like "what do you mean? You look GREAT in that picture" and you're like "shut up before I stab your tits off, because I look like a fucking Minotaur in that picture" and he's like "chill out, girlfriend (snap)." Well, this mirror image is a billion times worse because it moves, in a terrible, reptilian way. What I saw in the mirror was not me, but I am sure it is trying to kill me. Why didn't anyone tell me my face was so grotesquely deformed? One of my eyes seems to be falling off my face, and my chin is so off-kilter it looks like I got slapped with a shovel. I tried to make my "mirror face" (you know, that sexy face you make in the mirror when no one's around) and immediately vomited at the sight. As I staggered weeping from the restroom, I remembered something that made me feel a little better. When I ran into Cat in the subway last weekend and she drunkenly introduced me to this random 20-year-old chick from New Orleans, the chick turned around, took one look at me and said "He's cute," as if I weren't standing right there. Yowza! I told her she was cute too, which she was. It was a nice moment, and I can coast on that for a while. Ignore the true mirror. Ignore the true mirror. The true mirror is false. Breathe. Breathe. Breathe. And wipe that puke off your pants, you narcissistic fucktard. Thursday, January 09, 2003
Rep. Charles Rangel (D-NY) wants to reinstate the draft, which I have thought about and decided is an awesome idea. Obviously, I'm too old to be conscripted, so it's easy for me to be pro-draft. And even when I was fighting age I was already so physically worthless that the army would have made me fight for the enemy instead; I've got flat feet, a crooked spine, chronic heartburn, insomnia, allergies, hypochondria, and a negative attitude towards getting blowed up by bullets, mines, or bombs. Not exactly hero material, right?
Wrong-o, Percy! I'm gung ho as fuck. If there's a draft and I get called to the place where they check your eyes and ask you if you're gay, I'm gonna pull aside the most top-ranking officer I see, preferably a General. "Dude," I'll say, "I'm gung ho as fuck. I highly recommend you put me in the military. I am a physical liability, but you should immediately send me to Intelligence H.Q., because I'm super wicked smart and I'm really good at Nintendo." When he sees that special gleam in my eyes that says "I want to help engineer the mass death of ignorant non-white persons," I will be whisked away to ConTelInCo or whatever, where I will be suspended in a neoprene harness or some kind of nutrient-rich gel, so that I can play video games and do crossword puzzles that actually make bombs go boom somewhere. My morphine drip will take my mind off any physical discomfort caused by the harness or gel, and... um. Huh. I don't really see where I'm going with this. Is there a way I can patriotically serve my country from a virtual-reality morphine harness? Because I would totally do that. Boop boop! Fuck you, enemy blips, I got an extra guy! Yeah! Let's reinstate the draft! Wednesday, January 08, 2003
I saw Steve Buscemi on the subway this morning and he looked really twitchy, like he was in constant fear of encountering one of his own characters in the flesh. To put him at ease, I stepped playfully on his toes a couple of times, but instead of returning my mischievous gaze, he maced my fucking eyes. That hurt, but my shaggy hipster bangs managed to block a lot of the spray. So this goddamn hairdo is good for something other than attracting droves of women!
Speaking of irresistable studmonsters: if you haven't seen Goldfinger in a while, go rent it. Look for the scene where Bond puts on his fancy suit on Goldfinger's private jet, and look at his crotch. You can totally see Connery's dick hanging down his left pant leg. In fact, for the next ten scenes or so, it's all about cock. I never noticed this phenomenon when I was younger, but one gets the impression that Pussy Galore did, because next thing you know, they're totally having sex in a barn. James Bond's suit must be coated with space-age polymers, because he never lets steaming piles of horse feces come between him and a fuckable henchwoman. It is obvious that he is a pathological sex addict in need of medical help. Like, I know that saving the world from Christopher Walken and Robert Davi can be stressful, but could you go for like five minutes without putting your dick in a henchwoman? Especially on the taxpayers' dime? And hey, isn't a visible dick-bulge the male equivalent of cameltoe, and therefore an embarrassing fashion no-no? WHAT'S UP, JAMES? Monday, January 06, 2003
A light dusting of snow falls on New York and the city behaves like it's the goddamn Blitzkrieg. Better lay in some supplies, bro, because I heard we could get FIVE INCHES, two of which may actually stick! Get ready to dig out! Holy God Fuck Shit!
What a bunch of pansy bullshit! New Yorkers clearly have no idea what life is like in other parts of the world. There are places that are covered with snow all year round and there are places with zero annual rainfall that are also really fucking hot all the time. I have seen these places on TV -- they put the "hole" in "hellhole," and I swear that the entire ecosystem of the tropics is designed to digest visiting city folk. Sometimes I wish I had been in Vietnam so that I could tell everybody who ever complains that whatever they're bitching about "ain't nuthin' compared to what me and my buddies saw every day back in 'Nam, you sissy-nancy freak! We had to eat bugs out of hollowed-out babies! And that was in Basic Training! Aaargh! BLAM BLAM BLAM!" New Yorkers have a completely undeserved reputation for toughness, maybe based on the old-fashioned idea that only armor-plated robot-people can live in a place with no trees or oxygen. But it's just not true. We're nothing without our protective shell of concrete and garbage. Street smarts may teach us how to not get hit by bike messengers, but good luck using the same skills to avoid pungee pits or zombie leopards -- which are EVERYWHERE in the damn tropics. You should just stay at the airport and find a magazine to fuck. Only the ugliest and toughest creatures can survive in the jungle, which is why there are no kittens or prep schools in the Amazon. But according to Animal Planet's "Future is Wild," the future is not bleak -- just freaky. In 200 Million years (says a "scientist") New York City will be inhabited by giant clackety beetles with chainsaws for arms, and the giant acid ocean will be filled with telekinetic "sharkopaths" that menace the combination plant/animals ("planimals") that are the dominant creatures of tomorrow. So we've got that to look forward to. Man, those Animal Planet people are bonkers. That show should have been called "Speculative Scientist is High On Many Different Drugs." |
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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" |