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, April 29, 2005
When I watch TV, I imagine myself doing what the TV people do. I saw a comedian and in my head I became a stand-up, and I wrote some jokes in my head, but they were all ridiculous, self-referential metajokes about how weird/hard it was being a stand-up comedian. Then I watched this show called Deadliest Catch, which set a record for the having title that most prevents mockery of itself by being so silly that it already seems to be mocking itself, which is pretty postmodern for the Discovery channel. Also, the show highlighted another vocation that god did not intend for people whose first name is "Universal" and whose last name is "Donor": Alaskan King Crab Fishing. It's not for me, kids! I'll tell you why later.
I've been sick for the last two days, home and achy and a little bit ooky in the stomach, and this partially explains why no post; I don't turn on the computer when I'm home sick because it feel too much like I'm at work. Or something. So I'm sorry about that. In a couple of hours I will have seen The Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy and I suppose I'll have a review for you, or something. But I'm also going to be at my Dad's house after the show, where it might be tricky getting to a computer from which I might post to this. Then again, it might be easy. Ohhhhh! Boring Stupidity. Talk later, kidlets. * * * Okay. I'm back from the movies, and although Claude le Monde read me a sourpuss review from a heartbroken nerd who felt that the movie raped Doug Adams's corpse with Hitler's dick, I thought it was really fucking fun. [CLM, do a favor and post a link to that review in the comments, yeah? I can't be bothered to remember where you said it was, nor have I the cell phone batteries to call you and ask, and anyway I don't think the guy who was so wrong about the movie deserves to be linked from my main page, heh. Let him be linked from the comments ghetto.] The theather was so nerd-packed that it was like Star Wars Episode 3: A Clone of the Attack Helmets and Eyeliner Voice Synthesizers opened a few months early, and there were definitely some in-joke cameos that went right over my head (you know, visual gags that elicited a theaterful of Dorito-fingered virginal titters), but the presence of me and J.Ro in the venue totally raised its hottness average, its awesomeness average, and of course its "I have had sex ever" average). The movie may or may not have been faithful to its source, but I don't really care because although at some point I did read all the books, I think that they're probably pretty silly and that my sense of humor is waaaaay more mature now. See below for proof of this. Anypoop, I haven't enjoyed myself at a movie so much since I ♥ Huckabees, which caused me to have paroxysms and to physically abuse my viewing companion with birthday-punch style glee. I know that didn't make any sense. Anyway, as CLM points out in comment #1 to this post, I do totally pretend that my parents don't know about this blog because I'm afraid I would self-censor if we discussed its existence openly. And I'm at the Dad's house and he's going to totally see this if I don't stop writing now. So this lame post continues to be lame. But you can see the movie in the meantime between now and when I grow some fucking grown-up ballsax, because it's worth ten bucks. Dudes, I am an awesome movie reviewer. I am sooooo the new Siskel. Boo-yaa! Sunday, April 24, 2005
This product is not for everyone, admittedly. You probably don't even own a yo-yo. But there are people who take their yo-yos very seriously and need to protect them when they travel -- because god knows they're not going anywhere without their yo-yos. Ha! Not likely, pal. Travel without a full compliment of yo? I don't think so. A yo-yo is a friend, a companion, an all-purpose tool not unlike a Leatherman, an exercise accessory, and a solid chunk of flying self-defense.
Seriously. Ooh, it's dark here in this underground garage below the Bellagio hotel in Las Vegas, where I've just won a bucketful of big money at the crap table, where everybody liked me and was cheering for me! I suppose I should have cashed in the chips and hired a bodyguard like the Floor Manager suggested, but I think the chips are so cool and I wanted to hold onto them -- they make a great sound when they click together, and I like when you give a waitress a tip with a chip instead of paper money like always. And my waitress at the bar over by the exit that goes to the pool, well, let's just say we're really hitting it off. She refilled my coffee way more times than necessary, and every time she bopped over, she was like, "Hi hon! Drop of hot?" which made me smile every time! I showed her a quick Rock the Cradle on the way out. She was dazzled, all right. Anyway yeah, this garage is dark. But I'm not scared of that, because in the elevator, I slipped Big Jilm's string over my middle finger, and he's locked and loaded. Big Jilm is a yo I had fabricated to my specifications by this guy I met at the last con who can make a yo-yo out of anything -- he can do temporary joke ones out of food, like the avocado yo-yo that he Around-the-Worlded right into a Cuisinart to make Guacamole, which actually tasted really good, and he even had one made out of paper, an origami one. He made Big Jilm out of titanium (the frame), lead (the weights), and surgical steel (for the blades). I've tested the action, and my weeks of practice will serve me well if any punk tries to come between me and my bucket of chips. I can decapitate a Barbie at ten paces, buddy. So you think twice. Think twice before you mess with Captain Yo. Thursday, April 21, 2005
Dear Morrissey,
You probably already know this, Stephen (can I call you Stephen?) but your new album is just fucking unbelievable. I can't believe how good it is. I literally don't believe it. LITERALLY. What's that? Your name is Steven with a "v"? Oh okay. So Steven, your new album is so fucking good that it makes me want to put out the eyes of every stupid rockboy in every So-Cal post-punk band, because they don't even deserve to have eyes on the same planet as you. I want to hack their legs off below the knee, so that they could never again do that thing where a song gets quiet, and just before they rip back into the loud part of the song, the bassist and the guitarists all jump in the air at the same time and stomp on the stage WHAM at the exact same time that the song gets loud. They deserve far worse than that for breathing your air. What? Excuse me? Oh. Sorry about that... um... Mr. Morrissey. Love, UD Dear people who overuse or incorrectly use the word "literally", Stop it. Love, UD Dear Amazon, I'm mad at you for having a weird policy when it comes to used items. I ordered three different books on the same day from three different people. These three people all mailed out the items the following day. Book 1 arrived two days later -- because it was sent first class, you know, regular mail. But the other two senders are cheapass matherfackers, and they used "media mail," you know: book rate. They are fucksucking asstarded babyrapers. I hate them. Book #2 arrived today, fully nine days after I placed my order. And where is book #3? I'm going to go back in time and sterilize the mothers of people who are so cheap that they use media mail. That way they will never be born, see? You like that? I learned that trick from the Terminator, this robot from the future. Except his sterilization technique was a little more, uh, holistic. Love, UD Dear Music Lovers, Here's a track listing for a really good hip-hop mix I made. Love, UD Dear Bram Stoker, The second half of your book Dracula is very slow, boring and repetitive. I read like five other books while avoiding finishing Dracula. I think that the epistolary form of the novel ends up hurting the narrative flow in the end. But it gave me an idea for a gimmicky blog post, so you're forgiven. Oh, and is "Bram" short for Abraham, or is it a name in its own right? Either way, I think it sounds funny if you say it a lot. Bram Bram Bram Bram Bram! Hee! Love, UD Dear Some High School Girls' Diary, Two nights ago I had a dream that I didn't know how to fall asleep, and I must have magical powers or something you guys, because -- it totally came true! OMG! I tossed and turned like a fucking rotisserie chicken all night, but my dream would not allow me to sleep for more than ten minutes in a row. Then I woke up and realized I had to spew, because apparently I got some food poisoning from an under-reheated slice of pizza. WTF, you guys? OMG! So I was totally spewing this awful ropy flow of yellow bile at 3am and I thought to myself "wow, this is the worst taste EVER! Yellow bile is totally, like, nature's ipecac, because all I want to do right now is spew some more, even though my stomach is totally empty and I'm just dry heaving now, I STILL want to puke more!" Actually, I just discovered that ipecac is nature's ipecac derived as it is from the Ipecacuanha plant. I further discovered my word of the day: emetophiliacs are people who find vomit sexually arousing(!). Love, UD Thursday, April 14, 2005
So I'm listening to this great song called "Mushaboom" by Feist (who before yesterday I'd never even heard of but now thanks to a mix from PMD I have) and I'm trying to figure out who they sound like (If you are capable of doing so, I recommend downloading the song right now; this post will make more sense if you do [Actually that's not true -- this post falls apart very soon and nothing will make it make sense. -Ed.].). I suggest aloud to some gather colleagues that there were hints of Joni Mitchell, but also maybe Billie Holliday. I further state that the closest analogue still evades me. But my coworker says that he hears hints of Madonna and Jewel. I respond that that is crazy, that there is no Madonna sound at all and that Jewel is a hack; that the song was too good to have Jewel's name mentioned within five minutes of listening to the song. My coworker staggers backward like a vampire cringing from a cross dipped in holy garlic water. Unfortunately, he wasn't joking.
This suggests to me an unsettling possibility: that there are actually people out there who like Jewel. My logic in making this inference is that if one person likes Jewel (barf barf barf) there must be at least some other people who feel similarly. And that mathematically speaking, if one of my eight coworkers liked Jewel, then fully 1/8 of the US population likes Jewel!! Oh! Ma! Fucking! Ggaaahh! My digits are bleeding this week. I went for my first ever manicure/pedicure on Tuesday, but I almost didn't go because on the Thursday previous I had sliced open my big toe with a razor blade while attempting to tame a rogue callus. Shut up, I know it's gross, but don't be a girl about it. Yes, I know I'm stupid. I know I shouldn't hack at my feet with razors. But you know how it is: big clump of dead skin staring at you, mocking you, making your shoes feel snug in the tootsies, and you KNOW IT'S DEAD and what business has dead skin got being on my foot? so you use the pumice stone after a long shower, but it doesn't really do the job, and then you remember that other foot tool someone gave you, that's got like sandpaper on one side and a like mini-cheese grater on the other, and you have at your foot for a goodly while with that too, but even with softened post-shower skin you don't really make the kind of dent you wanted to, and besides, who wants to cheese-grate their skin? so you open the tool box and grab a paint-scraper blade and slice and wow that was actually a blister, and that's oozing quite a bit, and I guess I'd better cut away some of that dead skin over that WOWOW OOUUUWUCH! Whoops. That's too deep. Ooh that's a lot of blood. Look at that, how it pools a little in the nail before it spills onto the floor? Hmm. Seems opaque, and a little... misty, this blood. La la la. Bleeding foot. SO ANYWAY my point is that I wasn't sure if I'd healed enough to have some avid Korean lady whaling away at my footflesh with her tools. But my fears appeared unfounded, and the pedicure was AWESOME. Just amazing. I went for the ridiculously priced "spa pedicure" which included a lot of exfoliation, a king's ransom of variously colored goo in unreassuringly unlabeled jars, a lot of soaking in the foot jacuzzi, and even a period where they put highly concentrated peppermint oil on my feet and wrapped them with Saran Wrap, which process burned like fuck. The manicure was kinda ho hum, but in related news I almost sliced the tip of my left middle finger off two hours ago. It sucks really hard to correct the typos created by a bandage-swathed digit that is involved in typing every single word in the fucktarded English language. Oh well. I'm sure you're all asking yourselves exactly how cutting my finger today had any relation to my writing a post yesterday, or to my not doing so. Well I'd say it was a pre-event sympathetic pain. I've got superficial wound ESP, paper-cut precognition. But now, post-injury, I'm going to stop, because it hurts like a muthahfeetch, you sonnamabeetch. Thursday, April 07, 2005
From the Wikipedia:
The Pope's death is officially determined by the Cardinal Chamberlain by gently tapping the late Pope's head thrice with a silver hammer and calling his birth name three times.... The Cardinal Chamberlain then retrieves the Fisherman's Ring. Usually the ring is on the Pope's right hand. But with Paul VI, he had stopped wearing the ring during the last years of his reign, and left it in his desk.That shit is hi-larious. I'm sorry if any of you are easily-offended Catholics and you don't like the idea of your God's highest earthly representative getting his head hammered, but I'm just pasting from the encyclopedia. That shit is true. Besides. If you are easily offended or devoutly religious, how exactly did you end up reading this site? Friends, the weather in New York has temporarily turned Los Angelean, and goddamn if it isn't beautiful. I took a stroll down to the comic book store to buy some comics and to bear witness a facet of humanity that I hate: the disgruntled and snobby retail clerk. Herewith a playlet. SUNNY DAY AT THE COMIC SHOP Dramatis Personae: Universal Donor, a customer and playwright; Rico, bike messenger who appears to be on speed, also a would-be customer; Ken, a disgruntled and snobby retail clerk. A comic store in midtown Manhattan. Noon. Early April. UD walks up to the register with some comics. KEN is behind the register, which is raised on a two-foot high dais, evidently making KEN feel superior to just about everybody, even though he has an awful comic-book-store-guy paunch and a patchy goatee. He is wearing a T-shirt over a long-sleeve shirt. KEN is manifestly inferior to most mammals. The store's stereo system is playing The Cardigans' cover of Black Sabbath's Iron Man. UD: Hi there. You're holding something for me? Under the name "Donor"? KEN: (Looks behind the counter listlessly) Yeah. Um. What exactly is it? UD: (self-consciously) Uh.... Alan Moore's Top Ten. KEN: Okay, yeah. Here it is. UD: (holding up Igort's 5 is the Perfect Number) Do you know anything about this? KEN: (Snobbily) I haven't read it. UD: Oh. Well, I'll take it anyway. Enter RICO, high-energy and breathless. He rushes straight up to the counter and addresses KEN. RICO: Hey yo mang yestiday I cam in I talked to this guy, I dunno his name, he was dark skin, you know a black guy, he said he knew a guy who had a hawk, you know a scupchah, and he said to come back today and talk to him about it. So um, he here? KEN: I'm sorry. While you were talking, you kept turning your head away from me? I didn't hear most of what you said. UD: He's looking for a hawk sculpture. KEN: A hawk sculpture. RICO: Yeah, a hawk scupchah. I know you don't sell it, mang, but he said he knew sombuddy. KEN: A Hulk sculpture? Like The Incredible Hulk? RICO: Yeah mang, the Hawk. KEN: Oh. Well that's a different story. Okay. So... who were you talking to? RICO: (getting visibly agitated) I don't know his name. I fooget. He was workeen yestiday. KEN: (speaking even more slowly so as to infuriate RICO) Well, we all wear name tags. (He points to his own, which reads "Ken") RICO: yeah but. (RICO wants to say again that the man who he had spoken to the day before was black, but notices a black guy right behind him in line and freezes up) KEN: Sorry. RICO: Um! KEN: I guess try again later. Exit RICO. KEN: (to UD) Sign here. WHITE-HAIRED MALE CUSTOMER: What's this music? PINK-HAIRED FEMALE EMPLOYEE: The Cardigans. UD: The Cardigans! The End Well it's too beautiful a day to spend it writing cynical prose. I think I'll stare wistfully out the window instead. Tonight I'm going to see some comedy with The Confusing Wizard in honor of our favorite comedian, Mitch Hedberg, requiescat in pace. |
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" |
