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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Friday, February 28, 2003
Who doesn't love New York cab drivers? Aside from being a rich vein of material for lazy writers of humorous observations, they, um... well, ok, they are just a rich material vein. I have run out of ideas.
Two days ago, my cab driver told me a story about how he once got his cab up to 120mph after dropping off a fare at Floyd Bennett Field (a disused airport in South Brooklyn), swearing that it was about to take off, man, if it had wings it woulda gone pow! right into the air. I have no reason to doubt the capabilities of his souped-up former police cruiser, but it's always unnerving when your driver seems to be in a hurry to sit in god's lap, especially on the BQE, which is halfway there already, rife as it is with life-threatening potholes and ninja snipers. Yesterday my cab driver was the strong, silent, murderous type who acted like solid white lines had killed his daughter. Also, traffic signals apparently have laser beams in them that can only be avoided by hurtling through them fast enough to turn any pedestrians who get in the way into a fine mist of bloody meat. I wanted to ask him to chill out just a tiny bit, but when I looked in the rear-view, his eyes had this shine that said "don't say a fucking word to me or I will hate-fuck your nose-holes." So I just sat back and chuckled, thinking that he might be more comfortable around other obvious psychopaths. But who ever heard of a ninja sniper? Ninjas don't use guns. The very idea is ludicrous. The whole point of hiring a ninja to kill people is that they don't make any damn noise. Wednesday, February 26, 2003
Well, I can see why people become groupies for rock stars. My friend looked so fucking sexy flailing around on the stage last night that I wanted to immediately forsake my sex-avoidant ways and meet her in the "green room" for a sweaty liaison. Luckily, there were 750 horrifying teenagers standing in my way, and they would have made Hugh Hefner go limp. Unfortunately, they did not seem to repulse each other as much as they repulsed me and Hef. In fact, they insisted on disrobing, touching each other, and sweating a lot. The smell of almost a thousand horny, sweaty high-schoolers rose to the balcony (where we adults went to avoid the noise, the goddamn noise!) like the fumes from a boiling pot of vagina. Do sexually frustrated virgins give off a worse stink than their more active peers? Or do oil-faced gothy/freak rejects smell naturally awful, and that's why they never get laid?
It was a very bad sign that several times during the show, when I spotted particularly egregious violations of basic laws of fashion, I wondered out loud "Gawd, does her mother know she's dressed like that?" This from a guy who used to really like the Red Hot Chili Peppers, and dressed accordingly. Shut up. I know, shut up. But seriously, kids, you are not allowed to wear patent leather panties under a clear plastic skirt until you are old enough to get a learner's permit -- are you gonna ask your mom to drive you down to hookertown to meet your tricks? I didn't think so. Take the socks out of your chartreuse bustier and do your goddamn english homework or something, you illiterate freak. Tuesday, February 25, 2003
I'm going to see a band tonight, but I'm not going to tell you their name because unless my friend were in the band -- which she is -- I would not be caught dead, alive, undead, or unalive at one of their shows. The audience will be filled with angry little teens with pantyhose on their arms and more eyeliner than a trailer park beauty pageant, and they will all try to stare angry little holes in my weathered, post-teen face. When did I become a reviled authority type? Pissant little fuckers. To antagonize the chubby bratlings, I'm wearing a pinstripe suit, which I've customized with some buttons that say things like "suck my authoritative post-teen cock" and "pantyhose are for your legs, fagtard." If there is no post tomorrow, you will know it's because I was ripped to shreds by a glistening tsunami of black-lacquered fingernails. Wish me luck.
The Baron has arrived and is sick of everything already. Knee someone in the groin today. I command you to. My accomadations are faulty and crappy. The ceiling leaks above the bed. The toilet has a rabid animal living in it. And there are no spitoons in site. I must take my special ether. Until I can pass out and recall nothing of the last hours. I'll just put this sandwich down my pants until morning.
-Baron Frecking Von Recking Schecht Friday, February 21, 2003
The weekend looms before me like a thousand-foot obelisk made of shit. Who can figure out fun stuff to do for TWO WHOLE DAYS? I have enough trouble entertaining myself for the five minutes it takes to smoke a cigarette. (Seriously, I won't leave the office for a smoke break unless I am absolutely positive that I have enough reading material to keep me sufficiently diverted. Like, if I only have 20 pages left in my book, I'll bring a second book downstairs with me just in case. It's fucking crazy.)
Oh! I know! I'll go to a bar! That sounds like fun! A hundred cleverly-dressed nincompoops shouting themselves hoarse over the noise of a clever jukebox, crammed into a space that a veal calf would describe as "snug," shelling out stupid amounts of money for watery drinks and spreading their legs for whoever's within humping reach when the foxy bartender (who HATES HATES HATES you) bleats last call. Your story is very interesting, ma'am, could you please tell me more about your likes and dislikes? Because I'd like to get to know you better before I hammer this shot glass into your eye socket. DON'T YOU SEE THAT YOU ARE ALL ZOMBIES? You stagger from place to place, consciousness and creativity replaced by a single-minded drive for intoxicating sustenance. The only difference is that instead of moaning the word "brains," you say "I'm thinking about going to grad school." Your expensive shoes don't make you any less cheap. What do you want out of your life? I'm soooo sure you'll meet the boy/girl of your dreams at a BAR. The slurpy wet sounds of your frantic couplings make a nice counterpoint to the dirge of your terminal agonized loneliness. Um. It is possible that I could use a vacation. Somebody invite me to a wedding, quick. Wednesday, February 19, 2003
The terrorists have struck. Sometime on Sunday, they detonated an enormous bomb filled with sinister white powder, causing anxiety, chills, and paralysis. Blanketed in this organic agent, the city came to a standstill. Grown men wept. Babies exploded. Zombies ate brains. I didn't have to go to work. Women rent their garments and begged me to help them propagate the species. I was like "what species?" but it was too late -- the propagation had begun.
I hate having the day off. Why not just give me a cocktail of Valium, Demerol, and Seconal in a solution of Everclear? I could probably accomplish more. Even if we weren't at Severe Dangerous Icy Condition Terror Warning Threat Level of Brightest Twinkling Orange, I would still be completely useless on a sudden homebound day off. What am I gonna do? Wash the dishes? Nope, did that on stupid Sunday. Take out the trash? What trash, bitch? I throw everything directly out the window into the courtyard, which is where we're supposed to put our garbage bags anyway; I'm just cuttin' out some middlemen -- and saving the planet to boot! Soap operas suck so hard, man, they could suck Jesus' balls dry, and he had some pendulous, jizz-filled sacks. Why should I even bother getting out of bed, except to put some sterile dressings on my bedsores and flop back under the covers for a few more hours of precious, precious unconsciousness? Goddamn fucking glaargle! You are a bunch of panicky stupid idiots! Get off your stupid fucksuck asses and go to work! Can't you lift your fagtarded feet an extra six inches per step? IT'S WATER, PEOPLE. WATER WATER WATER WATER WATER WATER WATER. Shitty fuck shit! Thursday, February 13, 2003
Now I know what the Pavement album title "Terror Twilight" means. All around people are gettin' fidgety. New Yorkers are slow to scare, mostly because we're so used to messengers appearing out of nowhere at Mach 10 that our fight/flight reflexes have been hopelessly dulled. Seriously, so many things are hurtling towards you, making head-mashing noise, farting out fumes that cause instantaneous face cancer, that we are simultaneously prepared for anything and prepared for nothing. On one hand, we all got back to work pretty much immediately after 9/11 (or as I like to pronounce it, "na-na-la-la"). We were pissed and sad and everything, but we can mourn while we work, right? On the other hand, I'm sure you saw footage of people who, while fleeing the falling towers' cloud of powdered death, were talking to their brokers on their cell phones, nonchalantly thumbing the combos on their briefcases to they could get out their designer sunglasses and shit. Useless!
You cannot prepare for attack anymore than you can prepare for a wet dream. The whole potassium iodide (or whatever) thing is as farcical as thinking that putting your head between your legs will help you survive a plane crash. Don't stock up on stupid shit. If we're all gonna die, lay in some fun supplies: comics, lube, and Percocet; Whip-its; paper clips and dry-erase markers; nunchucks and throwing stars; Tiger Balm; scented lube; a giant neoprene harness that delivers morphine transdermally to every square inch of your skin; Pop-Tarts; no wait, make that unscented lube; Pop Rocks and Coca-Cola (the poor man's cyanide pill); 1 gross of condoms; binoculars for peeping at your sexy naked neighbor as she chokes to death on an invisible cloud of nerve gas; and actually forget the condoms because AIDS is the least of our worries now. Unless they explode a "dirty bomb" filled with AIDS blood! Oh shizzy! I heard that The Terrorists are gonna drop an AIDS bomb on us! AIDS BOMB!! Tuesday, February 11, 2003
Every once in a while, I have to take steps to reduce the number of incredibly hot women who insist on throwing themselves at me. It's reaching epidemic proportions, people, and it's got to stop. I mean these chicks are literally throwing themselves in my direction, forcing me to use my aforementioned dodgeball skills to get out of the way. At a party, this is no big deal, resulting in minor cuts and maybe some spilled drinks. But when I'm on a subway platform, the results can be quite gory. The phrase "gushing bloodfountain" only approximates the level of carnage. Obviously, to reduce the number of casualties, I have to grow a mustache.
There is not much that an attractive man can do to repel horny women, but if anything will do it, it's a bristly, unruly, crumb-clotted 'stache. I'm not sure why it works, but I guess the basic theory is that at some basic, instinctive level, everyone knows that a man with a mustache is either gay, a child-fondler, or a genocidal dictator. (I once tried to single-handedly rehabilitate the Hitler Mustache, but that lasted about twenty minutes. People on the street have a very strong reaction to the HM. I was like, "Damn, dude, put down the tire iron! Six million Jews weren't killed by a clump of hair -- hate the playa, not the playa's mustache!" But it wasn't meant to be.) So I'm going back to the cowboy handlebar style, which looks less gay, but still makes women cringe when they imagine the bloody abrasions it would cause to their tender inner thighs. Monday, February 10, 2003
On Saturday, I went to see Pussy Willow's band play at a shadowy loft-venue in South Williamsburg. They rocked, but as usual the hipster audience response ranges from statuary motionlessness to mild, barely perceptible head-bopping and foot-tapping. So it was a pleasant surprise when, after the last band finished, the event morphed into a spastic, sweat-drenched dance party. I had been sulking on a putrid, vodka-soaked settee by a drafty window for most of the night, but I just can't resist a postmodern hoedown (pomohodo, for short), and after twenty minutes of disbelief, I decided to git my freak on. But my freak is a powerful thing, and two hours later, the plywood floor was littered with the bodies of girls who had died from broken hearts -- and bones -- after watching my moves and trying to keep up. The carnage was epic in scale. When I dance, it's like MC Hammer meets Pol Pot.
Unfortunately, I will have to carry that last happy weekend memory to my grave, because somebody dumped anthrax on New York this weekend. I felt very sniffly Sunday morning, and I'm feeling progressively worse. The F train was filled with coughs this morning, and I can't help but remember that this is exactly how Stephen King's The Stand started. You heard it here first: the Government heard about the big anti-war rally planned for next Saturday and are going to kill everyone in the city to stop the rally and to get irrevocable worldwide support for their war. Please send Cipro! And guns! LOTS OF GUNS! And some Puffs Plus, because my nose is getting a little raw. Friday, February 07, 2003
All right. Since you seem so keen on reading my screenplay, I will send it to you, but due to technical constraints I have to send it as a text message to your cell phone. That's okay, right? Well, the basic gist of it is that a boy in his late twenties meets all the girls he had crushes on throughout his life at this one very strange party. It's a BYOD party (which means, obviously, that everyone has to bring their own drugs), but all the guests are cheap motherfucking bastards, so the dining room table that should be covered with a dizzyingly varied pharmacopoeia is instead covered with 80 cans of Sterno and a pile of dirty rags. But since everyone had their hearts set on getting high, the guests gamely take to the roof and huff their hearts out as the sun sets over the twinkling waters of Miami Beach. Did I mention that it takes place in Miami?
Anyway, the rest of the movie is a little hazy -- literally -- because the lens should be liberally smeared with Sterno at the beginning of act two. So, blah blah blah, the hero's crushes are all at the party, and then there's a terrorist attack or something, and a fleet of red Porsches driving at top speed over a cliff (which is weird in Miami Beach, but it will work) like robot lemmings, and there's some sex and a lot of dead animals and of course a charming "getting to know you" montage in a supermarket. It's like "Pretty Woman" meets "Dawn of the Dead," but with more cunnilingus. Call my agent, babe. Ciao. Thursday, February 06, 2003
Ann Coulter upsets me at a molecular level. There are idiots everywhere, but I really have a problem with her because she's so fucking smug, as if she were smarter than orange juice, which she is not. She's not even as well-informed as orange juice. Like, on Crossfire the other day, Paul Begala, after making a point that Al Qaeda is our enemy and could better be fought in Pakistan, Syria, Yemen, and Iran, asked "So why is Bush attacking Iraq?" Coulter replied: "Liberals are always strongly in favor of going to war, just not against the country we're about to go to war with!" which is a) wrong, b) stupid, c) an evasive non sequitur. But because she used the vocal cadence of a "witty retort," the audience applauded wildly! Glaargle!
She gets exposure and money because she is a marginally attractive blond conservative who gives boners to aged fascists. Um, clean hair and raccoony eye make-up do not a pundit make. Bob Novak is so busy wiping jizz from his shorts that he doesn't seem to realize that whenever she appears on Crossfire, the average IQ in the room goes down 50 points -- and that's including the studio audience. Enough bitching! Here are my off-the-top-of-my-head solutions to the "Coulter Problem:" I will get a time machine, go back in time and impregnate her mother before her dad does, then jump forward 16 years and meet her after school and slap her and say "who's your daddy, bee-hatch?" because I will be her daddy. Then I will go a little back in time again to when her mom is pregnant and have fetal Ann aborted and installed in a jar in the Mutter Museum. No, wait. I'll use the time machine to transport Ann (the real one, not the one I sired) back to Whitechapel, 1887, where her smart mouth, tarty make-up, and lack of any actual skills will force her to be a prostitute, and then maybe a year later she will have her intestines thrown over her left shoulder, like an Hermés scarf from hell, by Jack the Ripper. Please submit your suggestions for violent, painful, baroque, and hard-to-implement ways to snuff Ann Coulter. Wednesday, February 05, 2003
I'm sorry about the hiatus, but it's hard to recover from the February blues. Are you with me? Everything's going fine, and then bam -- February 1 and you're like, "aw shit! Life sucks, dude." Plus I found out on Monday that the British royal family are not actually human, but an ancient clan of shape-shifting reptiles bent on world domination. So there's that, too.
I got some glasses for long distance vision, and my co-worker said "You look like a college student! Like a sixteen-year-old!" I pointed out that except for Doogie Howser, sixteen-year-olds don't usually go to college. She told me to shut up and take a compliment. But I can't take a compliment. Not when the reptiles are planning to kill our babies for food in service of their extraterrestrial masters. It makes me so sleepy. Yesterday, I took a nap on the subway to work, a nap in an empty office for lunch, a nap on the subway home, and a nap when I got home. I like it when I can sleep that much, because normally the insomnia prevents me from sleeping more than seven hours a day. I don't want to get old. Old people hardly sleep at all, but they have nothing to do. Can you imagine a crueller fate? JUST LET ME SLEEP. I don't want to get up, but here it is, 6am, and I cannot close my eyes again. Where are my meds? Where's my nurse? Wheel me out to the day-porch, Margaret! I wish to see the sun rise over my soft-boiled egg! Where are my slippers? WHAT HAVE I DONE TO DESERVE THIS? |
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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" |