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 |
Friday, June 27, 2003
Though the stalwart and responsible New York Times carried the story under the six-column-wide headline reserved for major historical events, a quick perusal of the first 20 fucking pages of the goddamn New York Post finds no mention whatsoever of the Supreme Court's decision in Lawrence v. Texas. Therefore, I must accept the possibility that those of you who live in, um, less progressive areas of the country might not have even heard about it.
Basically, the Court's 6-3 ruling invalidates every sodomy law in the country. Now, most of the 13 states that still had sodomy laws didn't enforce them, and only four of them specifically prohibited same-sex sodomy. But the Supreme Court has just made gay sex explicitly legal. If you know anything about the makeup of the Court, you can probably guess who the dissenters were: William "I am the very model of a modern major judgey-poo, look at my fancy home-made robe, doot de doot de doodley-doo" Rhenquist, Antonin "My eyebrow and I hate civil rights" Scalia, and Clarence "whatever Scalia said" Thomas. This is a huge victory for gay rights, and it's particularly gratifying that it bitchslaps the bible-thumpers who've gotten so cozy in the executive branch. Heh. The Reverend Jerry Falwell, lamenting the ruling, said that the Court has put "the right of privacy ahead of respect for community standards of morality which have prevailed for years." YOU'RE GODDAMN FUCKING RIGHT! What's so weird about that, Rev? This is America, the land of the free, where it is now totally legal for John Ashcroft to eat a giant steaming bowl of dick! Anyway, sorry to get political, but this is obviously a huge deal. And if you think that, with three justices likely to retire in the near future, President Bush would nominate anyone remotely as moderate as Sandra Day O'Connor, you're as wrong as a hat made of babies. Think about it. But for now, let the sodomy begin! Yay! Thursday, June 26, 2003
I cannot help it, no. Despite the noisy and constant protestations of a legion of friends, relatives, and otherwise intelligent acquaintances, I am heartsick at the sight of so many enlightened front-car F-trainers devouring the new Harry Potter book like locusts on a farmgirl's eyes. Oh, I know it's "actually quite good," and "surprisingly smart," or any of a zillion other red-faced or too too nonchalant apologies, but here's a tip, kidlets: if you have to apologize for reading something, you know it's crap.
Hey, but don't I love crap? You've seen the CDs that spin through my 3-disk changer; some of it's good, some of it achingly trendy, and some of it just crap crappity crap. I'm not ashamed, and I don't apologize. How many times have you heard me say that the A*Teens' version of "Mamma Mia" is better than the original? Probably a billion. I love the crap I love in that complicated postpostpostpostmodern (shut up) way that makes it exponentially impossible to discern how serious I am, so that it's just easier to assume that there is no irony involved, that my love is true. Irony as practiced by today's hipsters sucks because a guy wearing a hat with fake dogshit on the bill -- no matter how ironically he does so -- still has dogshit on his hat. Would you like some Sweat of the Blues Explosion with your hot bowl of dick, you feckless assmonkey? Fuck, mang, it's so hot that girls be using linen tampons and shit. Um. So, my point is that Harry Potter is unrepentant crap, so you shouldn't repent. I also know that some guilty week, while stranded in Berlin or Trieste or Swakopmund, I will read all five books in one chainsmoking sitting. But also I am saying that I don't want to see you reading the books on the train, because you make me look even smarter, and if I look any more brilliant I am going to seriously blind some people. See? Don't be ashamed, but do act ashamed: read the book in your own home. You want to buy a book that you will never have to read? Buy Hillary Clinton's book, and you may get to see that neocon fucktard Tucker Carlson eat his shoes on national television. It was fun when Werner Herzog did it for Errol Morris, but this is like, awesome. Tuesday, June 24, 2003
I must have been really pissed at myself two nights ago, because while I was sleeping I punched myself in the jaw. Blammo. Never in my conscious life have I been angry enough to punch anybody, but I was hating on myself with a sleepy muhfuckin' passion, and I socked it to me good. Now whenever I yawn, I make a clicky noise. There is a board meeting at my office today, which means I have to wear this suit and look attentive, but now I can't yawn, or the conference room will sound like a cicada farm.
This is Gregor writing my biennial post:
OK, so I also have a live journal which I post to very occasionally, and I have only one question: What the fuck is a meme? I am still learning these things, and I tried out the "What Does Your Live Journal Name Mean?" meme, and when I typed in "totalvirility" as one word, it told me I was a sporting great, that I was dull, and that my favorite color was black, all three patently false. Typing it in as two words gave me a slightly more accurate reading of myself, that was still way off. Um, I cut and pasted whatever the hieroglyphs were that appeared underneath the table, assuming that pasting it here will produce the nifty table. Let's try:
Isn't that just fucking great? Thank you, Meme Jack, for killing some time. We all need something to fill the void. But here's the thing: Are some of us at such a loss as far as self-identity goes that we need such things as binary pointers? That is, we can look and say "OMG, I totally am a whirlwind personality, everyone says so," but then say "It's got it soooo wrong on sky blue being my favorite color, because sky blue makes my hips zaftig"? I mean, there's the understanding that it's just in fun, because it's a computer program after all, but I see a need to try to relate to what the Meme tells you, just like some fools do with astrology. I hate astrology. Hate hate hate hate hate astrology. I particularly hate the fact that I know a good number of otherwise reasonable people who constantly spout some ridiculous bullshit to me about how "it's naive to believe that the position of these mammoth heavenly bodies has nothing to do with how your personality was shaped," because no, it isn't. I'll say it now: The positions of the stars and the planets, at both the time I was born and in subsequent months, haven't affected me for jack shit. You either. You know what has? My chromosomes. They played quite an enormous role, see, as did my upbringing; my parents shaped me, the position of Saturn did not. The position of Saturn had nothing to do with it. If I am a very light sleeper, it is not because my ascendant sign crossed into the fourth house and was granted 3 charisma and 2 strength, it is because my father used to sneak into our rooms at night and give us tetanus shots due to some whacked out theory he had. Astrology had no bearing on my personality at all. And no, I don't even mean "Well, it effects you a little," I mean absolutely nothing. Not one bit. I don't want to hear any more Virgo bashing out there. I've heard enough. Why Virgos? Hell, why not? But everybody seems to just HATE Virgos, or find themselves romantically incompatible with Virgos, which is ridiculous, because the only definition of Virgos which is in any way acceptable is "People who have chanced to be born in a particular month who have no other connection at all, nor any universal traits." End of story. I don't want to hear anybody else saying "I'm a Gemini, which explains why there are all these bipolar contradictions in me!" Get the fuck over yourself, you dumb fucking hippy. Repeat after me: "the contradictions in your personality are caused by the Human Condition, not Mercury." Be it genetic or cultural, we are all plagued by so many contradictions it's amazing we're even able to grasp any sense of self-identity at all. I don't care if you're a gemini, or a scorpio with an ascendant Pisces sign, or just a regular dipshit with a tarot deck, you are many, many things at once, and do what you will to try to sort that out but please, please, please do not tell me about it. I also don't want anybody suggesting I take Saint John's Wort. While I may be on the verge of accepting that smoking 2 packs of cigarettes a day and eating nothing but pop tarts may adversely affect my health, I am not about to say that ginkgo-biloba is a good substitute for good old fashioned erythromycin, penicillin, zithromax, or anything else the wonders of modern science has discovered with no help at all from the planet Mars. I am really serious, here: Shut up, hippy. I don't want to hear it.
Thursday, June 19, 2003
I am not sick, despite last weekend's four-day campaign of bicoastal germ warfare, which took the soggy form of my mom and sister coughing up a cubic yard of pathogen-packed saliva in the confines of our mobile research facility (a late '90s Mercury Sable). Everyone at the wedding was sick, including the bride, whose feverish cast just made her look proverbially flushed, and I bet the NyQuil helped to dampen the pre-vow jitters. God, when I get really nervous, like backstage nervous or skydiving nervous, I always need to take a shit. What do nervous brides do in a situation like that? Because I know they're not hiking up that dress and straddling some filthy poo-hole.
So I'm not sick, but I am tired. Monday's 14-hour tour of Fox's The Northeast's Most Nerve-Janglingly Truck-Filled Interstate Highways flipped my neurons to some kind of amphetaminic alertness setting that took two days to wear off, so I didn't sleep much on Monday or Tuesday night (choosing instead to alphabetize my underpants again). I was also totally jazzed about buying sandwiches for my surrogate cousins, Isaac and Hannah, in Kennebunk. Have you ever met teenagers that were so cool that they seem like futuristic robot narcs sent back in time to infiltrate the in-crowd and go all Jump Street on their asses, but with lasers? No, I guess not. And Ike isn't a very good robonarc if he hands me three Vicodin and a featureless plastic bottle filled with smuggled Chinese moonshine within five minutes of greeting me under a deserted bridge at 3am. The fatigue of the road is amplified by an utterly paranoid sensation of unfulfilled responsibility, like a shit-hammer of duty smashing my skull. I constantly feel like I was supposed to mail something to somebody yesterday. I have started putting band-aids and inch-long strips of micropore tape on my body just for the hell of it. I fantasize about being dropped off in the middle of nowhere with only a carton of Camels and a ridiculous utility belt filled with my prescription drugs, to see if I could find my way home in one piece using only my ample charms. In this fantasy I introduce myself to toothless hicks as "the Professor," and they stare at me with muted reverence as I hunch over plates of scrambled eggs and guzzle funnels of coffee. I dream of living in a place with lots of plants, lots of space, and lots of cushions. But dreams of ideal living spaces always leave out the most crucial detail: WHAT THE FUCK DO YOU DO ALL DAY TO KEEP FROM GOING COMPLETELY INSANE? Wednesday, June 18, 2003
The receptionist just told me that my new girlfriend is alive and well and living in Albuquerque. Yes, I too think she looks like a shellacked twig, but peep her list of favorite publications, and hearken to the momentary hastening of my pulse.
Tuesday, June 17, 2003
Foods groups should not be defined by nutritional content or molecular structure, because everybody knows what a vegetable is. It should be divided into contextual groups, abstract ideas that will confuse animals and Martians.
For example, Dirty Mike was always contorting his face in disgust at the idea of eating what he called "Home Food." Like, if you offered him a plate of pasta or some scrambled eggs or something, he'd be all: "ugh -- home food, no way." And then he'd roll on out to Subway or Ratz (Ratz? Is that right? What's the name of that gurgling low-rent-mid-west-high-lipid fast food hellpit with a red sign? Garr! Right across from Big 5? Help!) and pick up some dry floppy piece of gristle smeared with mayostard (or mustardayonnaise), which he would nibble until he lost interest, at which point he'd just drop the remains on the floor, which was covered with a peaty, nutrient-rich loam of all his other discarded meals. He didn't have a name for the opposite of Home Food, but I swear he could not eat anything unless he had just paid money for it, like his cells had a commerce deficiency. While on vacation I observed my copious ingestion of Vacation Food, or, more viscerally, Road Food, a category that contains foods that simply don't exist unless you're on vacation. The case in point is fudge. Fudge, ick. You never, never, never eat fudge during normal life. There's probably fudge to be had, but unless you've stepped from a car and your legs are sore, you can't see it. You may eat junk food all the time, but you won't eat a quarter pound of butter, confectioner's sugar, and marshmallows in one sitting unless you're in a foreign environment. In Maine, even the hardware stores seemed to depend on glistening oily slabs of the nut-encrusted nonsense for half their income. Or how about funnel cake? Because: wow. The road seems to justify the most arterially suicidal sustenance, comfort food taken to a hallucinogenic extreme. Ow, my back hurts, and I deserve to caulk up my ventricles -- I may die sooner, but at least I will leave a well-lubricated corpse. That way, when I rise from the grave to eat the flesh of the living, I will be able so sneak up on live brains without making telltale creaky dead guy noises. I will coast on a sled of fudge! WHERE O WHERE IS MY FUDGY SLED? [there is a thud as UD pitches forward onto the floor in a sugar seizure, his lips smeared with maple-y chocolate. Give him mouth-to-mouth -- he's delicious!] Thursday, June 12, 2003
Wow, you can almost hear the simultaneous throb of a billion Friendster addicts' temple-veins as the servers that have supported (or supplanted) their social lives become overloaded by the sheer volume of percolating geek hormones, as profiles turn to 404s and digital hourglasses fail to fill. Gregor must be having an embolism.
Meanwhile, in the real world, I'm pissed at TimeWarnerMonopoloCable for fucking with my shit. Pussy Willow was rainy-Sunday bored and cruising the Movies On Demand channel for some entertainment. She was like "ooh, is Y Tu Mamá También good?" and I was like "only if you like watching incredibly sexy movies about hot young Mexican boys," and she was like "Um, hel-lo," and I was like "exactly," and I recommended she drape a blanket over her crotch so she could masturbate while viewing without feeling all self-conscious about it. Well, fuck TWMC. They said on the purchase screen that it was the unrated version, but goddamn if they didn't excise an entire hot scene from the first five minutes. And without spoiling anything for you, I have to say that they cut something from a pivotal end scene that pretty much makes it a different fucking movie. If you've seen the real cut, you know what I'm talking about. I got a refund by bitching out some customer support rep and acting all nancy about the integrity of the art and how dare they contribute to the PMRC/Blockbusterification of the world, and blah blah blah look at me I'm a big artfag-cakes. But please send Time Warner a soggy bag of hot shit. Did I tell you that I once rented John Woo's The Killer from Blockbuster and they had edited out most of the killing? Damn. It's like they have a crew of monkeys with scissors up in that joint's HQ. Fa shizzle. I'm in Maine til Tuesday, folks, so bug Gregor about taking up the posting slack. His email address is right over there. Wednesday, June 11, 2003
I am not writing about this for any reason in particular. Airports. You can't say a thing about them that hasn't been observed from a billion sticky stages in dank comedy clubs, but every time you go to an airport, your horror is reawakened -- the monster has grown new arms and fangs. Air travel is shitty, because you're just a hot ass in a corporation's seat, and corporations learned a long time ago that if you eradicate competition, you can do whatever you want to your customers and they will keep on coming. (I think there used to be laws against monopolies, but I took history class a LONG time ago, and my notebooks were filled with doodles of coffee cups, pot leaves, and dancing bears.)
But airports are cool because you can walk around looking totally cracked-out and nobody will even look at you twice, because all travelers look like they've been mugged in an alley. And you can look totally clean but have a beard, in which case you will get probed with everything they can find in the souvenir shop. I like testing the limits of acceptable airport behavior. You can totally lie down anywhere you want, short of the metal detector or x-ray belt. You're tired, everyone's tired! You deserve a napper! You can spill things and just walk away, though that's rude to the people who have to clean it up. You can stare at people really intently, and when they notice and get creeped out, you can just unfocus your eyes and act like you're staring through them at some private travel horrorshow in your head. Try to chug as much coffee as you can, but halfway through your cup, have a coughing fit that sends hot brown foam everywhere. Nobody judges you in an airport! You are either a Bomber, or you are Not a Bomber. If you pass this test, you could put your fist in your mouth and blow starlight mints out your ass. Nobody cares. Welcome aboard! Oh, and fuck you if you believed that shit about pot leaves and dancing bears. Tuesday, June 10, 2003
Thanks to the miracle of genetics, there are things that you know instinctively, like: don't lick fire; don't jump off cliffs; don't try to breathe orange juice. Nature's operating system gives you a pretty good head start on survival, if you can keep forks out of your eyes until you're in kindergarten.
Then there are things that you learn very quickly from experience: don't touch a hot stove; don't stare at the sun. Don't tug on Superman's cape (unless you are prepared to get super assfucked with an ice dildo from the Fortress of Solidfood or whatever). What else do we learn? Don't fuck a bag of glass. Don't pet a Rottweiler while wearing a glove made of beef, and don't wear your beef gloves for more than a couple of hours in the summertime. Um, don't eat thumbtacks. Don't tell secrets to the friends who tell you everybody else's secrets. Don't put a hat on the bed. And here's something else that everybody knows since potty-training: If a girl (e.g.) wants to sleep in your bed, she is probably willing or eager to have sex with you. If she comes into your room and sits immediately on your bed: ditto, maybe. If she comes over to your place when it's obviously too late to do anything but fuck, she wants to fuck. EVERYBODY KNOWS THIS. Well, everybody but me. I have never known it. Even as I explain the phenomenon in detail, I still don't know it. I've always been an idiot, idiot, idiot. I flirt with anything with a pulse, and I do it very well. The only problem is that my flirting isn't intended to lead anywhere. It's just how I interact with humans! Stupid! I'm stupid. So when people act towards me in a wildly flirtatious way, my stupid head thinks: "ah-ha! A flirt of equal skill, unafraid of saucy banter! Let's see how far we can take this! And let's stop thinking in first person plural, because that's totally gaytarded! And for god's sake let's never say, or think, the word 'banter' again! Fuck!" It literally does not occur to me that someone wanted to sleep with me until like five days later, when I slap my head with a Snapple bottle for being so dense. The corollary is that I don't know how to change my behavior to indicate ACTUAL flirting (as opposed to default flirting) when I meet someone on whom I would like to mack. (Heh.) It's possible that I stop flirting when I like someone, so girls get confused as hell, and think I'm interested when I'm not, not when I am, or whatever. I've seen the hell that some girls go through while trying to decipher the minute hidden meanings of a boy's actions. Oh, it's an agonizing parade of self-doubt, fantasy, and worst-case-scenario prognostication. I would like to apologize, now, to anybody who has ever been confused by me. I'm stupid. I'm sorry. Friday, June 06, 2003
The rumors of my death have been only slightly exagerated, and now I have returned. As in real life, I have spread myself too thin on Friendster and it is time to return home with my tail between my legs to avoid all the messy social obligations.
I'd planned a triumphant homecoming replete with a chorus of trumpets blaring musical paeans and a brilliant piece about how today's vanguard turns its hostilities on itself, but petered out halfway through and said "fuck it." So in my occasional times of blog surfing, I've noticed that the mass majority of bloggers have an inexplicable habit when suffering through bouts of writer's block or life boredom, writing long lists of bizarre phrases such as "Ms. Pacman tells me 'struedel,'" elaborating only that "I was playing with the search engine phrases" or something, and claiming it's a lot of fun. I haven't got a fucking clue what they're talking about -- does this mean that now that they have written those phrases, anybody who Googles those phrases will be guided to their blog? Or does that mean that was already happening? How can they tell? Why don't any of these freaks feel the need to explain themselves? What's the point of all this -- does it really matter that if somebody types in "wine distilled from toenails and semen," they get taken to your very own website? I don't get it. Regardless, this seems to be the one blog out there that has still not done such a thing, and I think it's time to rectify that. Better yet, there's a theme to this list: activities! Now, I've done my research, and discovered that most of these lists contain a verb, a few wildly discordant nouns (often provocative), and the occasional b-list celebrity. So, without further fanfare, here it is: MY LIST OF UNSETTLING CONFUSION: · Eating out Tara Lipinski · Smoking weed with the neighbor's Weimaraner · Checking out Charlie Daniels' package while sniffing glue · She's been eating cheese for every meal · Going to a funeral with latin pop sensation Martika and getting attacked by zombies · Freaking out and jumping around while naked, flaccid, and still wearing the condom · Getting a lap dance from Richard Grieco · Retrieving your mother's severed head from the freezer · Uncontrollably itching my thigh · Stuffing hamsters into cuisinarts with Rabbi Menachem Mendel Schneerson · Trying to get that fucking "Remix to Ignition" song out of your head · Killing off the last shred of his dreams with Susan Faludi · I'd rather be golfing with gay porn stars · Dying in Chris Kattan's arms · Shitting in Antonin Scalia's mouth Huh. That WAS kind of fun. Now if anybody is curious about Johan Paulik's handicap or harbors fantasies of slipping off to the champagne room with Officer Booker, they'll show up here. Any other suggestions? Tuesday, June 03, 2003
Ever since AudioGalaxy went supernova, it's been way too time-consuming to find the music that I need, and I do mean "need," because if some dumb part of my brain decides that I must must MUST listen to ELO's "Bluebird is Dead," I will not get any work done until Jeff Lynne pours strings into my ear from an IHOP syrup dispenser. In the future, everybody will have a button installed under the skin of their wrist that will play "Bluebird is Dead" whenever you press it, or whenever you think about pressing it, or if someone bumps into it on the train, or if you think about food, and especially if you think "goddamn I wish this treacly piece of crap would cease its endless parade through my head already before I start fisting cats."
Which doesn't really bring me to my next point, which is: girls smell nice. Some better than others, of course, but I keep passing chicks on the street who smell like mashed-up apple orchards, Amaretto, or McCormick Pure Vanilla Extract. You will notice that, although the odors are nice, they're not really human odors. I am glad that they have chosen to mimic odors found in nature, and that they don't smell like Lysol, which is a terrible thing to lick off of someone's neck, but still: if I wanted to mack on an apple, I would move to that fruit-fucking commune I read about on alt.stupid.fucking.hippies. Or whatever! Which doesn't really bring me to my next point, which is: it's good when, if someone on the phone says "I'm sitting here with a girl who says she made out with you in the back of a cab a couple of times," you don't have to comb your brain too hard for possible candidates. Unless you aspire to that taxi-ho lifestyle, which you probably do, don't you? I'm looking at you, J.Ro. Happy Birthday. Which kinda actually does bring me to the point of tomorrow's post, which if I don't huff a lot of glue tonight will be: I have a very bad record when it comes to realizing that girls want to do dirty things with me and I have probably left in my wake a swath of confused ladies who gave me every "just kiss me now" signal short of wrapping their underpants around my face, only to have me obliviously smile at them and walk away, humming some stupid ELO tune or another. What the fuck. Monday, June 02, 2003
(MSN is just baiting me now. In a huge ad running down the right side of my Hotmail inbox, I am directed to "Choose an Internet plan thats right for you!" [sic]. Is there not a single lobotomized monkey who can run a spell-checker in the entire MSN organization? Feh.)
In one of her increasingly rare posts, nuncstans wrote about the ice cream truck peeling around her block dingling its degraded 8-track recording of "It's a Small World" until her head went boom. In my building, we call it the Drug Truck. I haven't seen it yet this year, but once the temperature rises above 50 degrees (sometime in August maybe, at this rate) we'll hear him every single night. Last year, his tape reverted to a classically warped version of "Pop Goes the Weasel" after a failed experiment with an overly synthetic rendition of the already pretty damn synthetic theme music from Tetris, which as far as I know could be some kind of very important Russian folk song hijacked by Namco or whoever. But the thing is, the Drug Truck doesn't come by the building until 11pm. And while it is true that some of my neighbors' children seem to be awake -- or at least close enough to the door to escape before being grabbed as they leap up in helpless conditioned response to the dingledy dingledy doop de doop -- there are too many wild-eyed adults lining up for the truck as would be justified by ice cream, you know? I love me a Chipwich, but I'm not Road-Runnering down three flights of stairs in my boxers for a goddamn midnight fro-yo jones. So: Drug Truck. Dingledee doop. From the window, the transactions look pretty legit, but who knows how many fat bags of crack are under that dollop of soft serve? If you would like to test my theory, get on line behind the most suspicious-looking late-night customer, the one who looks like he hasn't eaten any ice cream (or anything else) in years, and after he bolts away, scooping the dessert out and hurling it to the sidewalk in the manner of poo-flinging Project X-er while snapping the antenna off a car to fashion a crude McGuyver-style crack stem, go to the truck window and say with a knowing and sexy smirk: "I'll have what he's having!" Anyway, as some of you may have noted, it is my birthday. So happy birthday to me, and ice cream jingles for all of you. |
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" |
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