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 Dan Deacon: Bromst Animal Collective: Merriweather Post Pavillion Bon Iver: For Emma, Forever Ago Vampire Weekend: Vampire Weekend Fleet Foxes: Fleet Foxes BLOGS ETC claude le monde nuncstans rock 'em stock 'em tomato nation postmodern drunkard tuckova 22 ghastly mess constintina total virility fuzzysquid drunken bee stacey nightmare elyse from ANTM stereolabrat dark side points jf_franklin 123 i love you READ NOW brotherhood 2.0 NOT BLOGS ETC qwantz (dinosaur comix) go fug yourself the burg cat and girl book of ratings married to the sea icanhascheezburger fire joe morgan fivethirtyeight.com READ NOW hospitality on parade WEIRD LOVE dead amusement pks craters! all content © 2002-2008 Jeremy Broomfield 
Hosted by: HostRocket.Com Comments by: YACCS PRAISE & REVIEWS "[UD] is a genius." --Christian Oates "[Claudia] is fucking awesome, and [UD] is a genius. And vice versa. You should all buy Fear Not." --Tricia Howey MOTTO egeo huic vigorum MY WRESTLING NAME Titan Gently MY PUNK NAME Razor Ection 
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Thursday, August 28, 2003
So Claire got fired from her job, which those of us who know and read her will not be surprised -- she has what the office world calls "an attitude problem," i.e. "a brain larger than a muon." Alas, her supraatomic brain size does not quell her urge for revenge upon the people who have made her feel so useless, so dull, so unfit. That's what office life does to smart people: it tries to make you ashamed of everything that makes you smart. Well, buck up, nuncstans. Soon you can be smart without shame in the comfort of your unemployment bed! All because YOU COULDN'T JUST PLAY BALL, HUH? (Word to the wise, Robin. Repeat after moi: "whah ah'd simply luv to attend the awffice pahty! Ah'd luv it evah so!")
It's odd that your office fired you on Wednesday and allows you to hang around for two days, because the trend in firing has been to fire people on Fridays, so they can go home and kill themselves over the weekend instead of coming back to the office to perforate their erstwhile coworkers with superaccelerated depleted-uranium projectiles (or whatever you would use, I dunno). But since you've got this time to frolic without fear of consequences (other than a bad recommendation or legal action), here's a list of: Lame Duck Office Activities -- Put your mouth on the edge of your desk and pretend it's a kazoo or harmonica.
-- Laugh audibly to yourself every 30 seconds. -- Walk into the boss's office and, with hands on hips, indignantly demand: "now how'm I s'posed to pay my fuckin' RENT, bee-yutch? You di'n't think about that, ditchoo?" Then snap, turn, and stomp out. Repeat every 40 minutes. -- Stick a Krispy Kreme in the back of the boss's file cabinet, knowing that the roaches will find it in time, in time. -- Tuck a sack of frozen shrimp deep in a hidden nook of the office, where it may not be detected for a week, by which time the smell will be unremovable. -- Carefully steam open some office sugar packets and replace the sugar with salt. Reseal and replace the packets. Ha ha! -- Brush the keyboards of the worst lawyers with a slow-acting government neurotoxin, preferably one that burns out their capacity to lie, bathe, or walk ten feet without stumbling. Brush a key they don't use very often, like "scroll lock," so that it will take a while to take effect. -- Have a 5,280 lb monument of the Ten Commandments delivered to the reception area. -- Or, have a giant safe delivered to the reception area, and lock inside of it one of those Billy Big Mouth toys that sings "Don't Worry Be Happy" whenever someone makes a loud noise. -- Order subscriptions to "Over 50" porno mags in the name of the boss, marked "bill me later." -- Undo the buckle of your belt (though not your top pants button) and walk around looking dazed. -- Scream "Yahtzee!" at the top of your lungs. A lot. -- When you leave tomorrow, make as if to shake your boss's hand, but pull it away at the last moment and run it through your hair instead. Ha! -- As the door closes behind you, say "see you Monday!" 0 comments (use this link now! old comments are about to die!) Wednesday, August 27, 2003
I just saw a messenger resplendent in shining orange, dressed from top to toe in gear from kozmo.com. It was nice to see somebody who aspires to be a walking brand, and in a far more sincere way than your typical logo-sporting consumer everyman: kozmo shirt, kozmo helmet, kozmo messenger bag, kozmo shorts (who knew?), and orange fucking socks -- these last items not being standard kozmo issue, but purchased separately to complete the ensemble. Fine! I applaud the unflinching devotion to your employer, fashion-forward kozmo guy!
Except see here's the thing about kozmo.com: they went out of business in April 2001. Oh yeah. I know, see, because I was there when they called us into the conference room and said in solemn tones "as of noon today, kozmo has ceased all operations, so burn all your mp3s onto CD, grab as much equipment as you hide in your backpack, and try not to stab the executives on your way out, or actually do try to stab them, because they are vampires. Go for the heart: here's a stake, it's nice and sharp. Buh-bye!" I was there, bwah. I did that. I even got the t-shirt. But I don't actually wear it. Not in public. It's like a laundry-day, hangin'-in-th'-hizzle-in-a-bathing-sizzle-and-muhfuckin'-dress-socks-cuz-errthing-else-be-dirrty kinda shirt. Dig? So kozmo got flung over the handlebars in a head-on collision with reality, which states that while people may be too lazy to go to the video store, and willing to pay for delivery, they will probably not be ordering more than $14 worth of movies every day -- unless they are Guinness-book fat or pants-shittingly agoraphobic -- and that Ben Affleck's porno rentals alone can't keep a struggling startup afloat. Since then, I have seen messenger after messenger wearing the trademark orange kozmo gear, especially the messenger bag. How pathetic is this? If they are former employees who can't quite let go (or are trying to benefit from some imagined residual cachet), that's bad enough. But I suspect they are weird-ass fans of the terrible, dead company I used to work for, ghoulishly collecting paraphernalia to make a Buffalo Bill-style "kozmo suit." Oh god! It puts the videotape into the basket! 0 comments (use this link now! old comments are about to die!) Friday, August 22, 2003
Yesterday my boss went to Boston for a session with a strange quasi-mystical (definitely not a doctor) hypnotist dude, and she hasn't had a cigarette all day. I haven't pressed her on the issue, because earlier, when I waggled my eyebrows inquisitively, she laid her finger across her lips and widened her eyes in the universal gesture for "don't break quasi-mystical nonsmoking spell or whatever."
My boss has been a two pack-a-day huffer for over 40 years, and she has smoked in her office as long as I've known her. As her similarly afflicted assistant and confidant, I have enjoyed the privilege of indoor smoke breaks. I've had my nostrils flared all day to detect the slightest whiff of hypnotic failure from her office, but she seems eerily unconcerned with the fact that she hasn't ingested nicotine in almost 20 hours. Has she got patches all up her torso, or wads of Nicorette tucked behind her molars? I am seriously panicking at the idea that this quit will stick, because if it does, I've lost my only defender in the office and I'll probably have to try it myself. What would I do with my life if I constantly felt, you know, better? (I assume that's what happens when you can use your lungs as oxygen processors instead of tar repositories. Feeling... better.) I am worried that without physical agony as a thematic focus of my life, I might have to develop some kind of mental agony to replace it. Most non-smokers I know seem pretty bummed, right? Wait -- do I know any non-smokers? Oh yeah, I do: they're all alcoholics. As if things weren't bad enough, the fucktards at Mars Inc. seem to have discontinued the "regular" size Snickers Ice Cream Bar in favor of the regally gluttonous "king size" size. This is why I hate corporations. Some wonk with a spreadsheet calculated that Snickers Ice Cream Bar-craving consumers (like me) will go to the store to "really satisf[y]" themselves and, faced with a slightly bigger bar, have no choice but to plonk down the extra 50 cents. 10% increase in cost, 50% increase in price, 20% increase in my arterial plaque -- but profits for the corporation and a new yacht for the CEO. (Oh, and the spreadsheet wonk gets fired for being such a Smarty McSmartPants). Stay tuned for new sizes: "exxtreme," "boffo," and the spectacular 3-pound Mondo Unsane Snickers Ice Cream Ingot. Business is inherently amoral, and I'm ok with that. But the marketing that cynically entrains the be-fattening of America's helpless peanut and caramel-needers is immoral, and that sucks. It's like SUVs, kids, and here's what I should have said before during the heat of the argument: SUVs do not serve any automotive purpose. They serve many psychological purposes for the driver (I'm a big powerful man! I'm a rugged outdoorser! I'm a frontier explorer! I'm king of the road!) and great financial purposes for the manufacturers of cars and anyone in the oil business. Oh, and they keep funeral homes busier, too. I guess that's good for that sector of the economy. And before you say it, shut up. I know. American capitalism is built on the consumption of the unnecessary, and depends on the psychological and mathematical weakness of the consumer. It just makes me sick, is all. I wish I had a regular Snickers Ice Cream Bar. I need it. I NEED IT, NOW. FASTER! 0 comments (use this link now! old comments are about to die!) Thursday, August 21, 2003
ZP was applauded for this comment to my previous post. (You may notice that the subject of the comment seems, like, the opposite of relevant vis-à-vis the post to which it's allegedly a response, but commenters are like kindergarteners: walk into a room and they will swarm your face and claw out your eyes.)
Who are you talking about, these boob-assessors? They must be the kind of people you find in "bars" or other "places" when you go "out" with your "friends." As I am a friendless non-drinker content to chainsmoke in my couch fort with only reference books, M&Ms, and Kleenex to amuse me, I have no experience with these mythical creatures. They simply don't exist for me. I don't see them, and if they existed they probably wouldn't see me, either, and that's peachy with me. At the same time I am glad of their existence, even theoretically, because every asshole in the world makes me feel better about myself in comparison. And I need to feel better, don't I? Who knows -- maybe I make them feel better, too (theoretically), like they can say "I'm much more ripped than that guy" or "I'm not gonna hit my head on things as much as that guy, because I am a midget compared to him." Ha ha! Wait. Maybe this is who you're talking about: on the way to work I saw four men in a station wagon attempting to hold a stack of wallboard to the roofrack with their bare hands. Oh Yes. The merest hint of twine secured the sheetrock to the vehicle, looking like a strand of discarded embroidery floss that got accidentally snarled there by a breeze. Like, hey, if you know what to do with sheetrock, shouldn't you also have more than a FIFTH GRADE CONCEPT OF PHYSICS? They looked all proud, flexing their ropy arm muscles and their yankee ingenuity. I wish I had been there at the next intersection, where a slam on the brakes to cat-call a bootylicious secretary resulted in her sudden misty decapitation by a flying sheet of plaster! Double ha! Ha ha! Still, if you're reading this, you already know that your beloved Universal Donor (and to the extent that he can be shown to exist, Gregor too) is better than almost every other boy on the planet. You hardly need more proof of my superiority; the concept follows you like stink on hippie. But you like lists, so here are: Some Other Thoughts that Comfort the World's Mooks, Jocks, Chipsters, Playas, Truckers, Playboys, etcetera When They Look at Me: • I am far more fit than that ragged ghost of a man. • Is he gay? He looks gay. • None of his female companions have enhanced breasts. I almost pity him! • He may be tall, but his posture is poor, so I am a better mate. • Show us your tits! • (Woo!) • I can lift much heavier objects than Mr. Gangly-fag over there. • Yes, I am sure he is gay. • That nincompoop probably doesn't even know any ways to rape his date! • Perhaps I should save his date from a rapeless night? • Oh no, I am too drunk to stand up any more. • Why am I on the floor, and why do my balls feel like they've been kneed, dirty-fight style, by a simpery non-raping gaywad? • What is the light that you have shining all around you? Is it chemically derived? [sorry] • Oh no, here I am in jail, where I belong, and this newspaper under my face says that someone named Universal Donor is King of the World! This spells doom for my ilk! Woe! Fie on sissy intellectual dictators! • Show us your tits! 0 comments (use this link now! old comments are about to die!) Tuesday, August 19, 2003
Thursday at 4:15pm, all I could think was: thank god I don't have to write something funny today. No, not really. I was thinking: Hospital. I should go to a hospital and complain of some kind of horrible yet invisible trauma. Saint Vincent's is good, and I bet their backup power systems will keep the city's morphine pumps gushing 'til judgment day.
But no: no relief for the agonized. I just walked downtown with a couple million citizens, all of us cursing into cell phones and indiscriminately spreading rumors about the extent of the blackout. "Detroit... All of New England... I heard China, even... Shut up!... Florida?... Gabble babble babble!" I was left with sore feet and a great honking dearth of Good Blackout Stories. (Unlike, e.g., Robin, who made me smile real big.) That's right, you asshats. NOTHING HAPPENED. Without electricity, nothing can happen. It is a wonder to me that people were ever able to start wars, or invent books, or generally do anything that History teaches us people did before electricity. I stargazed and smoked and soaked my shirt with sweat and tried to soothe the paranoid freaks I met who were convinced that "Mang, as soon as the sun goes down, people gon' go crazy. Gonna be mad looting. I guarantee it," and that "it's totally terrorists. I don't care what they say. Yeah, sure, [air quotes] the 'grid' went down. [close air quotes] What. Evarr. [makes that derisive laughing snort noise intended to imply the stupidity of everyone but the snorter]" Which is pretty much my reaction to everything these days: "What. Evarr." The blackout was impossible to experience the way old blackouts were experienced, as will every future blackout be impossible to experience like this one. Several lessons were learned, most notably: life before electricity, in addition to smelling like shit, was boring as shit. At 3am I was ready to try listening to Abbey Road on the old portable Fisher Price record player, but who's got extra D-cells kicking around in the oh-three? Damn. Shouldn't have sold my Victrola on eBay. Shouldn't have bought all them pork fingers-- but they was on sale, Paw! Shouldn't have burned up all my candles in that Wiccan virginity-restoration ritual that, even if it worked, how would I know? 0 comments (use this link now! old comments are about to die!) Wednesday, August 13, 2003
So I hate SUVs, no big surprise there. But recently the ethereal hatred has morphed into a very specific, vivid kind, the kind that makes me want to act on it. It's not unlike the hatred Red Sox fans have for themselves which forces them to beat each other into pulpy Irish street meat after every game. Or the hatred vegans have for feeling good. You know: intense and all-consuming!
By nature I am not a seether; my A.D.D. allows me to let go of all bad memories, affronts, or guilt complexes simply by looking at something shiny. But look at me: seething with an unvented ire at the sight of an Escalade or Explorer, digging in my pockets for my keys as I veer close to the door panels, looking over my shoulder for eyewitnesses. (I shouldn't have to explain why SUVs are bad, because anyone with a half-eaten brain can feel with amphetamine clarity that there is nothing good at all about any SUV, period. Pa pa PERIOD. So let's move straight to the defacement of the behemoths, which may not solve the problem but will at least keep me from venting my wrath on stray kittens or something.) It is agreed that I (we, you) must do something to these vehicles, but my criminal urges will not overwhelm my artistic sensibility. It's just too crude to key a car these days. Been done. It's so tired it makes me sleepy. And most of us don't carry hammers, so forget about breaking the deep-sea submersible glass. Anyway, you don't want to get arrested for something lame like that -- SUV bashers are just above niece-fondlers in the Sing-Sing pecking order. What's a satisfying, easy, non-prosecutable, and humiliating way to strike back at SUVs? At first I thought: hocking phlegm on every parked SUV windshield! Looks like bird shit, and you can't file a police report for that. But I have a lot more phlegm than most people, and your foamy spittle doesn't cause the same limbic revulsion as my mottled, chunky lungpies. So then I came up with an even more poetic (read: gayer) plan: I (we, you) must throw a handful of birdseed onto the hood of every parked SUV in the world. (Please pause and picture this act. It is very pretty.) The pigeons, the larks, the sparrows, they will land and peck and shit and do other nasty bird things. The drivers will return to shamefully defaced plateaux of automotive armor, and lo, they will fall frothing to the ground, because look: birds hate them. God hates them! Then, while they're down, you can step on their necks, take their wallets, and give their gas money to ANYBODY BUT OIL COMPANIES. 0 comments (use this link now! old comments are about to die!) Monday, August 11, 2003
Providence is fun enough, but only when viewed from a warehouse art collective run by punk/vegan bike-repair art bums. It's all downhill from there (excepting, of course, my various other hosts, who were angelic), especially if you go to the BigFucking Mall of Providence, which is probably the same as every other mall in the world, except that I wouldn't know because I live in New York, where you can't build a giant open indoor space without a whole bunch of vegan art squatters turning it into an ad hoc combo flophouse/altpunk performance space. So the mall was arctically chilled, which is an environmental business tactic designed to give you a raging ice-cream headache until you open your wallet and shake out the larger bills.
Which I did, for a viewing of S.W.A.T., whose subtitle is Colin Farrell Chews Gum a Lot and Things a Go BOOM a Lot, BOOM! It was a much better movie than I expected, because nobody said "Lock and load!" -- not even once! Four stars! Oh, but I have a question for the lady in the next row with the toddler on one side of her and the stroller-bound kid on the other: are you fucking kidding me already with this shit? Don't you have a TV you could have left these kids at home with? And some duct tape to keep them on the couch? Because unless you pour that orange nacho "cheese" sauce into their ears (and include the hardening agent in tube #2), you will seriously go to jail for deafening your children with Bruckheimer (or whoever). Or are you, god forbid, the babysitter? <irishaccent>Saints preserve us!</irishaccent> And then, due to some kickback-scheme bullshit, I had to pick up my backpack (which I was not allowed to bring into the theater because I guess terrorists love to bomb shopping mall movie theaters, glaargle!) at a hideous place called like "BF&D's Entertainment Gorgon Pit of Clanging Bells and Fatty Hell Fuck" which combined food, gambling, children, and 10,000 television sets. I got disoriented. I think I ate a urinal cake. Off to Boston, which is still a fucking stankhole of idiots, who conveniently congregate at Fenway Park, in case you wanted to witness a spontaneous fistfight about the fact that the Yankees weren't in town and therefore there were no Yankee fans to punch. I witnessed such a fight, and I always wonder how I would fare in the same situation. I picture myself kicking groins and stepping on necks, employing dirty-fight tactics to the applause of the onlookers. Of course this is impossible. I would squeal louder than a stepped-on cat, and get blinded by the blood in my eyes within the first five seconds of fisticuffs, and I would just windmill my tender arms until my attackers were incapacitated by helpless mirth. Then they would pulp me into a two-dimensional nerd Colorform on the pavement. Anyway, I took the $10 Chinatown Bus ("permsitted by Federal Highway Administration") back home, and the A/C stopped working in Hartford. Travel is poo. Never get off the boat. Goddamn right. 0 comments (use this link now! old comments are about to die!) Thursday, August 07, 2003
(sigh). All it takes to bring me back to this blog is a vague threat that my name may somehow be removed from the title line. Unlike UD, my life is not driven half as much by desire for acceptance as it is by fear of rejection, which probably explains both why I don't write anywhere near as much and why I'm still a temp.
So here I am again, except as I haven't carefully prepared a topic for today's discussion, I'm going to refer to UD's rest-stop from yesterday, vis-a-vis how one refers to their online life in their real life. I always wonder exactly how I should explain blog friends to "real" friends should I chance to be hanging out with them in real life. At one point, for example, I was explaining a recent night out with UD et al to my erstwhile boyfriend, and mentioned "Oh, yeah, and UD's friend ConfusingWizard was in town, and came out with us." Erstwhile boyfriend just sort of looked at me, and I hastened to add "You know. He posts on UD's blog," and was surprised that the explanation did nothing to abate the stare. Erstwile boyfriend doesn't really "do" online. Worse, though, have been times I've been hanging out with a few different LiveJournal friends. Yes, they are now real friends, and we've hung out numerous times; I still refer to them as "LiveJournal Friends," though, and if I should mention them to V., I won't say "Hey, did you call David?" -- instead opting for "Hey, did you call 3rdworldcinema? Is Klingrap coming out?" They're fun people, but I always feel strange if I run into others while I'm out with them, and we're asked "so how do you all know each other" and I have to answer "Well, we're Live Journal Friends." It's the same sort of uncomfortable giggle I give when I tell people I met erstwhile boyfriend on the subway, without the subversive thrill. I sort of struggle for something in which to make the online meeting seem somehow hardcore or something, and part of me just wants to say "we met in the bathroom at a Yngwie Malmsteen show when Dave puked blood on my fist" just to alleviate the geek aspect, but then I'm afraid 3rdworldcinema and Klingrap might get upset with met for lying and reject me. I really hate the person I'm working for today, and my hatred for him is a tangible enough object that it belongs right here in the main blog, boldface and all. 0 comments (use this link now! old comments are about to die!) Wednesday, August 06, 2003
100,000 hits seems like a suitably meager milestone at which to pull off the highway of blogging for a moment, stretch my legs, squint at the road behind me, and empty my bladder all over the evolutionarily superior plant life that can survive along the edges of our nation's roadways. Of blogging, or whatever.
To be honest, it's just 100,000 discrete page loads, so if you felt like clickity-clicking your way through another pathetic, eat-at-your-desk-and-try-not-to-get-caught-reading-pornographic-Stargate:SG-1-fanfic lunch hour, you could get me to 200,000 before sunset. But listen: I never wanted to say the word "blog" out loud, and I still don't. It's always like I'll say "Oh, I wrote about that on my...uh..." and somebody will be like "Your what, dude?" and I'll just stammer "my...buhbuh...um. (cough!) Um, blog." And then it's all etymology time and what a drag and where's my fucking order of papadam already? But whether or not I can say "blog," I still do it. And why? The usual reasons: I need something to look forward to during a daily routine of deskwork; I hate the idea that my witty ideas would be wasted on single individuals in emails; I enjoy heaping scorn on strangers in a medium that, due to its limited reach, seems to have no real consequences; I like to eat babies. The fact that many of my most loyal readers are also bloggers/diarists/journalists/fucktards of whose sites I am a loyal reader makes me feel like I have the acceptance of a nebulous and far-flung peer group. Basically, I need attention like a zombie needs brains, like toilets need poo. And just wandering around New York spraying my personality on people in a 20-foot radius... well, it wasn't enough. And you're invisible, mostly, you reader you, so I can't see the frowns of disappointment or hurt. But sometimes it's like being married, goddamnit! I owe you something, every day. Hell yes I left my socks on the coffee table! Shut up! You get the kids today, it's YOUR TURN. Yes, I fucked the babysitter! I'm going OUT. I love you folks, but sometimes I feel you pressing on my sternum like a Cadillac SRX (coming Fall 2003). Anyway, where the fuck is Gregor? Posting perfectly funny stories on his LiveJournal, that's where. Asshat. I'm going to Providence, but I'll be back Monday. Please be good. 0 comments (use this link now! old comments are about to die!) Tuesday, August 05, 2003
Tonight I tread a dangerous road. I am performing my own music in front of a crowd of people who are coming to see a play. They won't be prepared for what they will hear, but that's ok -- we aren't really prepared either. I am jittery as a nervous dog in the purse of an Upper East Side socialite as she tries to walk through the middle of a biker gang brawl. But not for the reasons you'd expect.
It's not performing per se that has wound my spring; most of my friends would confirm the notion that my entire life is one continuous, neverending, extremely garrulous and irritating high-energy performance. And it's not really the lack of practice, because I've never been prepared for anything, ever. I'm a fly-by-the-smell-of-my-poo guy, a night-before-it's-due guy, a yabba-doo guy -- a fucking lazy fuck. If it weren't for half-assed, I wouldn't have no ass at all. Right, so not that. I am a little worried about sudden, violent dehydration, because I sweat when I sing and I sweat on a stage and I sweat when it's a billion fucking degrees outside, which it is. But I've got some "Fierce" Grape Gatorade hooked up to an IV-drip bag and a catheter to catch any nervous urine and route it into the Gatorade bag. I'm nervous because of what it means to have a band. Once you have put together a group of musicians and practiced a bunch of stuff, it becomes harder and harder to claim that you don't want to get famous. Because that's, like, the whole point, innit? The early goal might be "to let the people hear the music, dude," but at the end of that path is the chance "to let the people buy the music, dude." Bands go on tour. Bands carry a lot of stuff and sleep in uncomfortable place. Bands get their sleep schedules all kinds of fucked up, and even some really famous bands are broke-ass po. J.Ro is fond of saying that I "owe it to the world" to play my music in public. But does the public deserve to hear it? I already suffer for my art. You want me to suffer more? MORE? Do you want my blood, J.Ro? COME AND GET IT. Oh, and wish me luck. 0 comments (use this link now! old comments are about to die!) |
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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" - misuse of reflexive pronouns, as when someone says "Please talk to Bob or myself." Come on people now. "Myself" is not just a fancy version of "me"! LEARN IT. - tattoos in the Courier font - any use of Comic Sans |