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 |
Wednesday, April 30, 2003
While I understand that a direct response to one of UD's typically ignorant, misinformed rantings should probably go in the comments page, I am loath to follow Robert's Rules of Blogging now that I can abuse my newfound administrative access [knocking hand in air]. I don't want to hear any shit for it either, UD, you smack-addled jizz addict, just be happy I didn't go directly into your post and adjust it to something more palatable.
Due to my recent Friendster-related posting, I am sure certain know-nothings are going to figure I am the one inviting UD to join, thus seriously over-estimating the amount of contact I'd actually want to have with him. But I nonetheless feel compelled to stand up for my evanescent hobby-du-jour; certainly, we will all burn out on it, and it will eventually be no more than a fond memory, but right now This Is Our Moment, and we must seize it via Friendster. Nobody who actually uses Friendster, UD, says jack shit about "oh, ha ha, I'm just using it for fun, making fun of the people who take it seriously". Certainly I don't, because I take it about as seriously as heart surgery. Just what do you think it's supposed to be used for, anyway? This isn't a Junior High dance, here, this is Friendster! Friendster! You don't need to make fun of it in order to feel cool! Because everybody on your Friendster network is presumably hip enough to justify your presence on the system! Either that, or you need cooler friends! This is Friendster! You can spend literally hours on it, browsing people's profiles, writing insulting testimonials to boys you think are cute, discovering that you and a random person in Turkmenistan have an ex-roomate in common, and even finding up what pointless things those assholes from high school are up to! This is Friendster, and this is Our Moment! I am serious! Not even mock serious, "Oh ho ho, I'm serious when I say I love Seventh Heaven" (which I am), but totally seriously serious! This is Friendster, motherfuckers! I've set you up a fucking profile, Universal Donor, and you can use it or not as you choose, but your persona is going to be having a whole hell of a lot of Friendster activity to it, and he is going to be handing out your real, actual phone number until you stop disparaging Friendster. Better than that, any true psychopaths are going to get your home and work address; these days, you need to watch what it is you're saying. Beware disparaging Friendster! This is Our Moment! It's Us or Them!
No, I will not join Friendster. Please, everybody, stop inviting me to be your friendster. Isn't it enough that I'm already your friend? Don't we send emails to each other and gab on the phone for hours and have picnics and ride ponies and eat popsicles and beat up homeless people and go to the circus and watch sunsets and ride that fucking tandem bicycle up and down the street? Remember that day with the big red balloon? The one that was filled with pure Turkish heroin and almost exploded in your tummy as we went through the checkpoint? Wa ha ha! What fun! Who doesn't love that?
So what I'm asking is: why do I need to join some questionable community of online weirdos? Or, aren't I already a member of too many such communities, unstructured as they may be? Oh, everyone's got their Friendster justifications, their excuses, their afterthought analyses that explain that they don't really take it seriously, doncha know, it's just kinda "funny" in a detached sort of way, if'n yer hep and all, y'know, like it's fun to make fun of the people who actually take it seriously -- for fun. Serious Fun. But seriously not all that serious. Like: "oh UD, I'm so many billions of metalevels removed from the standard stratum of Friendster Discourse that I can only really speculate about the mindset of 'real' Friendster users, in the way that a microbiologist might speculate about the political leanings of protozoa (giggle guffaw)." Not that anybody said that, but they kinda did, in a steaming packet of email invites from weirdos with too much time on their hands and obviously without EXTREMELY IMPORTANT BLOGS TO ATTEND TO. Not that I'm judging you or anything -- some people get their kicks by raping babies! Please enjoy Friendster until you get bored and give it up, which from past experience I can predict will happen... now. Ok, good. Hey! You should all join this cool online community called Fiendster, which is a site where zombies can hang out and meet each other. Except that zombies don't care about meeting each other, so the website is as empty as a junkyard banjo. Zombies only care about one thing, and it ain't your sexual preference, podner. Say it with me: braaaaiinnns. Tuesday, April 29, 2003
I used to hate sports, I really did. I hated sports, jocks, sports fans, sports magazines. I hated sports arenas and their stupid parking lots. I wrote a lengthy rant for a my never-published zine Vitriol about how gut-curdlingly revolted I was by people who pick up a perfectly good newspaper and flip directly to the sports section, bypassing everything that matters in the universe. I actually sneered at people who wore clothes with team logos on them. Yes, sneered. Who does that? What an insufferable, dogmatic ass I was.
So, you know, after high school and college, I didn't feel the need to set myself apart from any perceived mainstream, no, not so much. Like gym socks in a hamper, I mellowed. Jocks were no longer my enemies, they were allies, equals, compadres, defining me in contrast; the obverse of my reverse, the yin to my yang, the brawn to my brain, the frick to my frack. Would I look so awesome if there weren't so many goddamn idiots woof-woof-woofing at every flickering tube suspended above a Corona-slicked bar? Welcome, friends! You are dumb! Come stand next to me! Let's talk numbers! We love numbers! And we hate hippies! But here's what's not okay: sweatpants. Sweatpants are not acceptable outdoor wear, people. In the comfort of your ugly home, on laundry day or before naptime, you may wear your shapeless togs as you please, and may god have mercy on your soul. But if you have any remaining self-respect (hah), you will consider eating a handful of Xanax before poisoning the visual commons with your pinchless garments. Have you seen these new breeds of sweatpants that pretend to be, like, actual pants? Bleached-out downtown gym bunnies walking their dogs in flip-flops and "designer" sweats, butt-floss straps peeking insistently from drawstrung waists? What is this, Venice Beach? No! This is Manhattan! Don't tell me "oh, these are stretch workout shorts" or "breathable pilates activewear," BECAUSE ANYONE CAN SEE YOU ARE WEARING SWEATPANTS. Oh, god. Since when did sweatpants say anything other than "I have given up, I can no longer compete; bring me a gallon tub of Edy's Cookie Dough Ice Cream"? Here's a quarter: go rent a samurai to lop off your stupid head. Thursday, April 24, 2003
Is it against the rules to complain about not having enough to do at work? You'd think I'd appreciate the free time to write, fuck around on the internet, and create gorgeous works of artful beauty, but the more freedom I have, the more perversely unmotivated I get. It's like stolen time is more valuable than free time.
I kept myself frantically busy during my vacation, trying really hard not to leave myself a moment to think. Those thinky moments are the worst. My parents always used to plan packed itineraries on our vacations, which I always thought were for the benefit of us kids, but now I see that they needed the blur of activity more than we did -- we would have been happy playing with hotel ice machines. At Disneyland, which was so gay that I burst into flames, parents dutifully dragged their rugrats around, draping them with merch and packing them full of sugar. (Hey, isn't it weird that there are no real animals at Disney, at all? Don't kids love animals, and aren't they the main characters of the Disney pantheon? Obviously the Disney cleanliness fetish doesn't allow for attractions that poo and pee, and in fact the bathrooms were so few, small, and piss-puddled that I kinda felt they were encouraging me to take my "business" elsewhere.) I barely had the energy to drag myself around the place, listlessly vectoring from one Designated Smoker's Ghetto to another -- and someday I'm supposed to bring my kids here? How will I possibly ever be that vivacious? I think all new parents are secretly issued a fifty-gallon drum of methamphetamine when they leave the hospital, to get them through the next eighteen years. Ugh. Disneyland is a giant pro-abortion ad. I didn't think I'd ever have sex again, but then I figured out how to fuck my computer. Then I designed an amusement park for adults, endlessly diverting and catering to all tastes, and I called it New York City. At least here, when I get tired, I can sit on the sidewalk and mumble to myself without some ankle-biter asking me if I'm supposed to be the pigeon lady from Mary Poppins. Wednesday, April 23, 2003
I had a great time in California, even though California itself cannot be blamed for this fact. I won't bore you with a rundown of how New York and Los Angeles are different, except to say that everybody in California is a turd-gobbling idiot.
On Passover, I was taken by some cousins to the absolute worst seder ever, which if you've ever been to a seder you know that they're not exactly packed with laffs. But wow, is all. I've never been the most conservative traditionalist in any room, ever, but as I watched the Passover ritual get trampled under the flip-flopped feet of a legion of SoCal feel-gooders, I understood for a moment what it must feel like to be a reactionary in a world of assimilation. I felt like Tevye, except gayer, because instead of being surrounded by tough Russian christians with leather hats and broken vodka bottles, I was surrounded by a pillowy mass of smiling christian flab swaddled in ringspun cotton. Listen: 1) The event took place in a church. What? Ok, it was Unitarian, and therefore "church" may be more accurate, but still: a church, with crosses and shit. It was structured as a multi-culti, let's-all-pretend-to-try-to-understand-each-others'-cultures-for-an-hour-or-so kind of deal, with a pastor horning in on the haggadah with her little christian observations. About Jesus. And how he related to Passover. And how he died for our sins. 2) They ran out of wine before the second cup, substituting grape juice. Sure, it tasted better than Manischewitz, but that's hardly the point. Fuck. 3) The total time from sitting down to eating dinner was like forty minutes. The reading should last until you've got hemorrhoids and your stomach finishes digesting itself and starts nibbling at your liver. Forty minutes? That ain't suffering. Guh. 4) The dinner was potluck. Somebody brought rolls. 5) Pointing to the stage, the lady next to me whispered in my ear: "that's Susan up there. She used to be a... Hebrew, but she converted." 6) At the point where many people would choose to sing the solemn hymn "Go Down, Moses," a passel of bratlings crowded around the piano to sing this: "Oh Pharoah, Pharoah/Whoa, baby!/Let my people go/Yeah yeah yeah yeah yeah yeah" to the tune of "Louie, Louie." I am so totally not shitting you. I would have choked them with gefilte fish and rubbed horseradish into their eyesockets, but NOBODY THOUGHT TO BRING ANY TO THE FUCKING SEDER. Tuesday, April 22, 2003
As I'm sure everybody knows by now, the wedding of the century took place last night; yes, 7th Heaven's little Lucy Camden is now big Lucy Pickernack or something, and her featureless scallop-face has never looked more radiant. Also, according to the previews for next week's episode, she's about to discover how very much she loves fucking, now that she can do it within a God-sanctioned matrimonial bed rather than the urine-soaked concrete floors of labyrinthine chambers in underground sex clubs that the pre-marital fornication crowd favors. Apparently, she is going to be discussing her new-found cock-worship with anybody unwise enough to go near her, including her 12 year-old mysteriously biracial sister Ruthie, who will hopefully decide to experiment a little with her own little simian boyfriend.
Now here's the thing about marriage I don't get; okay, so as an institution, it was originally created to guarantee a man would have permanent hegemony over a woman, right? That she would be bound to him, whether she liked it or not? I mean, stop me if I'm wrong, I suppose I've heard too many feminists decrying the institution. But why is it now the other way around? I know so few guys outside of Glendale who actually care one way or the other about getting married, but even my most rocker-grrrrl of friends will occasionally drunkenly admit that they can't wait to have a husband. Why do all you bitches seem to think you won't be able to hold onto your man unless you're sharing rings and tax breaks? Do you really feel like he'll inevitably leave you at some point if you don't have it legally set, or is it just that the legality of marriage would prevent him from even thinking about it? Do you really want to be with somebody who only is with you because it's easier than the complications of divorce? I guess I understand more in the Camdens' case, because they're all committed to that loathesome idea of saving one's self for marriage, and there's really only so long a relationship can last without sex. Speaking of which, ladies, what's the longest you've ever held out on a guy before having sex with him? Really? That long? Huh! Did you feel like he might not respect you or call you back if you gave it up right away? Doesn't it suck that you may be right? I'm sure UD and his liberated thong-hating hair-loving self would find it inconsequential if you were a slut, but he's dead now and his reanimated corpse really should have shown up a few days ago. Every other guy does seem to sort of suck when it comes to this subject, even the ones who seemed so nice before you were naked. Do you girls find yourselves in situations reminiscent to "The Girls' Guide to Hunting and Fishing" even when you don't want to? Not me. I only read the last 30 pages of it because my college was mentioned, but that shit makes me gag. For the record, I've never dated a guy who I didn't sleep with on the first date. I like to check out the goods early and return them immediately if they're rotten. I don't understand why, if it is the man who creates this double-standard in the heterosexual relationship (not being able to respect a partner who slept with him on the first date even if he did the same), gay men seem to be able to wordlessly establish within five mutes of a tryst's completion if this was a one-time thing, a to-be-repeated thing, or a potential relationship. I think it's actually just me, and women could all learn something from the way I operate: Grrls- if you like a man after you've given it up on the first date, and you would like to further develop this into a loving, mutual relationship in which you can get married and have babies, immediately grab him by the balls and start twisting. I don't want to hear this shit about "I'm waiting for him to call" or "If he really cared about me, he'd make the effort". Bullshit. He's not making the effort because he doesn't feel any pressure to, it has nothing to do with caring. Before he has even finished his first post-coital cigarette, you need to let him know that the two of you are dating, that you are soulmates, and that you expect absolute fidelity. Don't worry about scaring him; he needs to be scared, or else he'll be a negligent fuck like all the rest of them. Be like Lucy Camden. Be a Harpy. Let's face it, all you womyn would rather be nasty bitches than be single. Friday, April 18, 2003
Eh...sorry. Zombie UD is going to be so mad at me, but he picked a bad week to go off to LA and die, because this is the week I freaked the fuck out on Friendster.
As a rule, I try not to mention stupid internet trends too much, but dear Jesus, I'm more addicted to Friendster than cigarettes. I don't want to waste valuable time describing it for those not in the know (feel free to email me a comment!), but I've spent so much time finding random people and writing them horrific testimonials, and then replying to their messages to me (which have invariably been variations on "stay away from me, you sick fuck, what are you writing me about severed heads, I don't even know you". So I've struck up a few correspondences with coincidental people while on there, including -- this morning -- the guy my ex-boyfriend left me for five years ago, whom I've never met. Apparently, good ol' ex-boyfriend Dave talked about me a fair amount, although he warned new boyfriend Michael that we may hate each other, since -- as he put it -- "[we] are so much alike," inasmuch as we have strong opinions and tend to consider anybody who doesn't share them wrong. But Dave was never the swiftest boy in the world -- my blood is still chilled by Michael's response when I happened to ask him what his strong opinions may be. I cannot improve upon it -- here it is, word for word (with spelling and grammar intact): First of all, I need to get it on the table. I am a republican. Yes, I voted for Bush. I supported his move into Iraq. And still firmly support it. I am not so much a social republican (I firmly support gay rights, I am pro-choice, I HATE guns, etc.) as I am an economical republican. I hope you're not one of those people who can't see past the whole party choice thingy... Other than that, some of my other truths: Life is meant to be FUN. Never one for big depressing movies. Anyone can make someone cry, but it takes a genius to make someone laugh. I really do believe in true love, and I believe I will find it someday. I believe in the power of friends and family. Family over friends always. Unless your friends are your family. Very spiritual person. I am catholic, and tend to stick to most of their values and morals, but not strict to it. I mean, I know I am gay, and have no issues with it at all. I know I am not going to go to hell for it. I believe God put us on Earth to make other people happy. Do that, and you'll go to heaven. I believe that life is all about common sense. And there are those that have it, and those that don't. Being smart isn't as important as having good old fashion common sense. I tend to hang with people with the gift of common sense and mock those that don't have it. Their good pretty much extends to an okay lay, but not much beyond that. I believe in planning head. I have a plan for everything I do. I am very methodical. Remember: a failure to plan, is a plan for failure. Life should be organized. That way it doesn't have to always be an emergancy. I say I'm on top of things, my friends have a more colorful word for it ... what is it, oh yeah, obsessive. Jeezzz....Indeed it is. Seeing as this particular ex-boyfriend quickly became a friend after the break-up, and then a general annoyance, I didn't think I was holding on to any feelings that could be described as "strong," but apparently I was wrong, because I have never been so insulted in my life; I'm really almost blind with rage right now. I don't know what I find more obscene, the fact that he left me for this...this...THING, or the fact that he somehow found us so similar. I don't think I've ever met a person so binarily opposed to myself -- not just in opinions, but in ESSENCE -- that you could really describe me as anything he isn't. Ech, I need a cigarette and a drink. He can go say a fucking rosary for all I care. Sorry for being negligent on posting, you unfeeling fucks. Fuck the world. I hate you all. Tuesday, April 15, 2003
UD's body was flown home yesterday. We had a lovely ceremony, burying him in the cursed cemetery located between the abandoned insane asylum and the old Indian burial grounds; it all went off without a hitch, save for the constant lightning and the nun who kept shrieking warnings before immolating herself. It's strange, I still can't accept that we've seen the last of him.
In other news, my roommate is naked. I'd give my left nut if that were just a statement about his momentary condition, but it's pretty much a permanent truth. I keep stumbling towards the coffee maker in the morning to find him nude in the armchair, slurping wheaties out of my bowl, which is in his lap. I'll come home with a friend, to find him "making an outfit" in the buff, nothing on but socks and, occasionally, a cock ring. I'm trying to place the cause of his constant nudity; he has that ex-fat-boy symptom, wherein he was chubby in high school and now constantly works out, always checking himself in the mirror and flexing. But more than that, I think it's the "very, very stupid gay boy from a small town trying to affect culture in any way he can" effect, which makes a body toxic. He's always talking about his sex life in this hideous manner, which I think he's culled from Sex in the City and Queer as Folk as being modern and edgy, but the naked he-beast won't pick up a book to save his life ("Oh, I don't read", he proudly proclaims). How do people get like this? Why did Craig's list steer me so wrong? Put some fucking PANTS on!!!!! Monday, April 14, 2003
LET'S GET THIS PARTY STARTED!!!!!!!!
Or not. UD's flight went off without a hitch, except for the part where he had a heart attack and died. I, Gregor, will be filling in for him until around the 17th, when his animated corpse will return and demand his web rites. Whatever you do, do not trust Zombie UD , or he will wait until your back is turned to crack your head open and feast upon its contents. Speaking of skull-cracking, I saw the most awful thing on the 4/5 train this morning; the "Poetry in Motion" series tends to be pretty grotesque as a rule, but it seems to have reached its nadir. Following is my best memory of what was up there: Two Towers- by Colin McNiallis (age 8) I need to look out this window and see the two tallest towers I ever saw Since the morning in September I can't anymore. There is then a note to explain that Mssr. McNiallis is the winner of a national "Poetry in Motion" September 11 contest, which begs the question: what the fuck were the judges looking for? Can this really be the best poem written by a child about September 11, or did they just put all the entries in a pile, light them on fire, and choose the one entry that remained? Or did they just WANT the most literal translation of what happened, with no real insight into how a child might process it? Here's a poem for them: The towers fell. Mom cried. Code orange. War. Colin's little cock-punch-deserving work was made all the more problematic by the designer's choice to use that galling "Kid Power!" font setting, wherein it looks like a very legible but unmistakably childish scrawl, such as Colin himself might have used if he had a computer and enjoyed font-fucking. Why not just go all the way with it, and dot the "i"s with circles, throwing in a few backwards "e"s for full-on whimsy? Sadly, they did not publish the little shit's home address, but if anybody knows it be sure to guide Zombie UD thusways. Friday, April 11, 2003
Well, it's definitely raining, and I'm going to get very wet on the way to the airport, but since there aren't any locusts or frogs falling from the sky, I expect my plane to take off on time. I sure hope my pilots aren't total pussies about a little wind and water. The way I see it, the storm only makes a difference for the first two minutes of the flight, and after that we're above the clouds and weather. If they don't start taxiing on schedule, I'm gonna shout an update of our delay every minute: "FIVE MINUTES BEHIND SCHEDULE AND COUNTING! HURRY THE FUCK UP, YOU IMPERIALIST PIGFUCKERS!" and so on. That should speed things up a bit.
Gregor will be posting while I'm gone, and you should extend him every courtesy you would extend to a syphilitic hooker passed out on your buffet table. Catch you on the flipsizzle, you worthless fucktards. Thursday, April 10, 2003
I am glad to hear that claudia has done her taxes already, because I have too, and now I have company in my club of smug, superior pedants. I know that some of you think that H&R Block is awesome, but they might as well be on the IRS's payroll for all the good they do you, the average retarded return-filer. What's your fucking problem, kids? Do you just hate money? Just send me your tax materials and a check for fifty bucks and I promise that you won't have to worry about your taxes for a while. Also please enclose a bottle of lighter fluid, some matches, a hatpin, and a lifelike voodoo doll of yourself. Also enclose a bag of your hot brains.
It makes me ill that I have become a responsible adult. Wasn't I always the slovenly spacecase who couldn't finish anything? The weird guy, the oddball genius who never studied but got straight As and never used deodorant? The mumbly, scab-eating geek with fruit in his ass? Except not really about the fruit? Once upon a time I was considered crazy -- albeit mostly by extremely square outer-borough coworkers ("UD, mang, you crazy") whose liberal notion of "crazy" encompassed any behavior not witnessed in Julia Roberts movies, Everybody Loves Raymond, or whatever normative entertainments the fatally unhip put in front of their eyes from 6pm to midnight -- but nowadays I am, by all accounts, the sanest member of my giant spiraling galaxy of hypomedicated friends. I never asked for this. If intelligence, competence, and sanity are tax-deductible, my adjusted gross income is negative one billion. Tuesday, April 08, 2003
I didn't go to work yesterday because I felt good ol'-fashioned crappy. I was like eight years old the last time it snowed in April, and though I didn't have enough experience to see it as grossly anomalous, I could tell from the bemusement of the adults around me that some shit was wrong. The Yankees got snowed out yesterday. It's Bullshit.
I wouldn't be bitching about the weather except that the radio told me to expect a freaking nor'easter on Friday, which is supposed to be the day I step onto my plane and kiss you bitches goodbye for ten days. That would be awesome, because although I have really enjoyed showing up for flights two hours early only to slouch in lumbar-punishing waiting areas where I can't smoke, it would be a million times awesomer to wait out a giant storm for a whole day on the floor of Newark Airport's charming terminal -- without my goddamn tweezers! Airports are like living museums of rich people at their worst. If you want to see poor people at their worst, just go outside and open your eyes; it's about as hard as a "Hidden Pictures" game on the back of Highlights For Children. But rich people try so hard to look good, and it's only in airports that they get to looking really crusty. I don't know how airport security people can differentiate between a shoe-bombing terrorist and a pissed-off, hypercaffeinated investment banker who's had his flight postponed indefinitely. Well, considering that the shoe-bomber got on the plane, I'm assuming that they can't actually tell the difference. Which is awesome. Hell, take my tweezers! I don't care! Not that I think the storm will actually happen, because as everyone knows, you can't predict the weather. Somebody find me a chart that shows the exponential rise of meteorologist error as a function of time after a prediction, and I will bring you back a souvenir Los Angeles shot glass. I'll even bash it into your eye socket for you, too! Friday, April 04, 2003
Everybody wants to travel, right? Except, like, Americans. No, that's not exactly right -- Americans are willing to travel but incapable of actually expanding their worldview to include any of the foreign cultures they ogle. The world is our petting zoo, and foreigners are the goats. The analogy is more germane than you'd think, because just like movie stars and lead singers, all foreigners are midgety little hairy people with beards. The organizing body of Europe is the Lollipop Guild, and they can chew through a mountain of tin cans faster than you could spit tobaccy at a jackrabbit!
I spent most of my last European vacation pointing out the differences between wherever I was and the U.S., which is annoying to foreigners who already know everything about us from watching Law & Order, which is in syndication on Betelgeuse already. Dick Wolf can wolf a dick. Then I got stuck in Copenhagen when my plane tickets didn't blah blah blah, and I started reading up on blah blah and learned so much blah blah shut up. This is what happens to people who travel. They assume that their stories are more interesting because they happened somewhere other than home, which is some wicked fagtarded bullshit. If you are a boring ass, just shut up forever, or you'll get slapped with a knife. All kidding aside, you really should see Paris once before you -- (ka-slice!) -- gglaargle!!! I should prepare you now for the fact that I'm going on vacation for 10 days from April 11-20. Put the cyanide down, kids. I'll try to wangle you some interim wit to keep you from evaporating. Wednesday, April 02, 2003
I guess the New York anti-smoking law went into effect yesterday at 12:01am, but I didn't really notice. As far as I'm concerned, the last reason to go to bars has been removed. Say what? You heard me: bars are for fools. Aside from the obvious economic absurdity of paying up to ten bucks for a mixed drink, you can't see or hear the people you are with. This may be a benefit for those of you whose friends are ugly and stupid, but I move in a realm of glittering, beautiful geniuses. For socializing, we prefer a floodlit auditorium with a circle of chairs around a giant, communal ashtray, and we've each got lapel mics wired into a high-quality PA manned by an experienced sound man. His name is Jimmy (or Pete) and he is not available for weddings.
Smoking is bad, yes Dad, thank you for the absolute antithesis of a newsflash. Smokers know we are killing ourselves, we know that the weight of the butts that we've skillfully flicked into the gutter would collapse a major bridge. We know but we don't, can't care because a) we are addicted (which if you actaully don't understand what that means, you should, like, look it up or something, because it means we are addicted, you fat fuck!) and b) WE LOOK SO FUCKING COOL. Yes, shut up. We know we actually don't look so cool. And we smell terrible, oh we know! You should smell the genuine non-endangered coyote fur collar of my winter parka, it's like the smell of the Weaver/Moranis demon dogs at the end of Ghostbusters, which has got to be one of the best movies ever about anything, ever. Can you tell I haven't taken my Ritalin yet today? Well, cigarettes help me focus, Mr. Mayor, and you'd be doing the city a favor by reining in my aimless, unmedicated prattle by LETTING ME SMOKE ANYWHERE I WANT. I promise to make a generous donation to your assflesh. I have always been proud of this city's resistance to urban Californiafication. What the fuck is next? Right turns on red lights? Death before! Fuck! |
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" |