RG: Weight: 160 lbs, Height: 5'8" Attributes desperately goodlooking, razor wit, known as "the verbal fencer," due to his ability to pierce skin with words.
Sidewalk: Weight: incalculable; Height: Negligible. Attributes: at a lower position in the potential well than the humans who tread on it. Also, very hard.
Round 1
*Ding*
*RG drunkenly spills all over the sidewalk while, for some unknown reason, running toward the subway*
Winner: Sidewalk.
Saturday, March 29, 2008
Thursday, March 27, 2008
Making Small Numbers Big By Comparing Them To Larger Ones A Counterargument
Earlier, Theo made a post roughly stating that using the word "over" as a modifier to a number to make a given number seem bigger is really stupid. There is some merit to that argument. However, I offer a counterpoint.
"I am a quarter of a century old."
Now compare that to saying "I am 24 and still have recurring acne issues."
Quarter century >> 24.
Now this only works for large fractions. For instance, to say, "I am 1/2000th the height of the Empire State Building" makes me seem kind of short. Actually, maybe it doesn't. Maybe it makes me sound badass. At least, more badass than saying "I am 2/3 the size of Shaq."
Hm. I must retire to my contemplation parlour, to shore up my arguments.
"I am a quarter of a century old."
Now compare that to saying "I am 24 and still have recurring acne issues."
Quarter century >> 24.
Now this only works for large fractions. For instance, to say, "I am 1/2000th the height of the Empire State Building" makes me seem kind of short. Actually, maybe it doesn't. Maybe it makes me sound badass. At least, more badass than saying "I am 2/3 the size of Shaq."
Hm. I must retire to my contemplation parlour, to shore up my arguments.
People Who Do Not Enjoy Watching Television Should Not Be Allowed To Control The Remote
I have a roommate who does not enjoy watching television. He complains about the television constantly. Yet he quite often is in control of the remote.
Let me explain to you how perverse this is. When someone who does not enjoy watching television has control of the remote, you wind up watching the most painful crap on TV, due to one of several reasons:
1. They do not understand how to use the remote as a proper tool of humor.
For instance, if there is a show that is on another channel you know that someone else in the room hates, judicious and well timed switching between stations can create a very funny effect. Or forcing people in the room to watch something truly godawful, but not too long. Or offering flippant comments on things as you flip through the channels. Truly, the possibilities are endless. However, there are some things that are just not funny. Like sticking on a channel that is simply annoying, not funny in the least. Like LMN. LMN should never be on my television, ever. Ever. Here is an example: there are two channels on my television that feature one thing: a still image saying "congratulations, you have a dish 500!" with no sound. It is funny, while flipping through, to make a comment. But the joke is viewing the image itself, not hovering on it and wasting time when you know there is quality televisual entertainment going on concurrently on other stations. This is lost on the person who does not like television, because, as far as he is concerned, that this channel exists is hilarious, and he is missing out on nothing by staying there. I am missing Kenny v. Spenny, motherfucker.
2. Dwelling on truly godawful things because of the impossible chance their may be nudity. Anyone who knows anything about television knows what few channels will ever have nudity, and what type of show / what time of day / the lead up camera angles &c will be before any nudity. Non television watchers do not. As a result, expect to watch a hell of a lot of freaking Telemundo in the hopes someone's top falls off. Ugh.
3. Not recognizing something, instantly, as terrible, when, clearly, it is. You know these ones. Horrible film quality, campy dialogue, immediately obvious formula plot. No more than 2.5 seconds should be spent recognizing these features. This equally applies to things that are well known and terrible as to things you are viewing for the first time.
4. Keep it moving. The point of having the television on is not simply to have it on. It is to find something entertaining. Non television watchers do not understand this, and will happily waste the entire time of everyone in the room by flipping channels at totally unacceptable intervals, between 90 seconds and 7 minutes, i.e., too long for something that is horrible, and too short for something that, though ideal, you may have an investment at due to your opportunity cost. There is a 3 point rating system for television shows: 0, 1, 2. Zero means change, immediately. I'd say 90% of television qualifies as a zero. Two means "I actively seek this out to watch it." One is, "If there are no Twos on, I would still enjoy watching this." For most of the day, it is all zeros. This is when the television is off. Mr. I Hate T.V. does not understand the rating system, second nature for those of us who have an interest in visual entertainment, intellectual or otherwise, and which he can never hope to learn.
5. News is okay, unless it is clearly mindless, i.e., based on bullshit, Foxnews, has higher ratio of pundits to experts on screen, is straight up sloganeering, or is related to celebrities. Non TV Watcher, strangely, usually, also does not care about news either. What does he do with his time? It remains a mystery.
6. Give. Me. The. Remote.
Let me explain to you how perverse this is. When someone who does not enjoy watching television has control of the remote, you wind up watching the most painful crap on TV, due to one of several reasons:
1. They do not understand how to use the remote as a proper tool of humor.
For instance, if there is a show that is on another channel you know that someone else in the room hates, judicious and well timed switching between stations can create a very funny effect. Or forcing people in the room to watch something truly godawful, but not too long. Or offering flippant comments on things as you flip through the channels. Truly, the possibilities are endless. However, there are some things that are just not funny. Like sticking on a channel that is simply annoying, not funny in the least. Like LMN. LMN should never be on my television, ever. Ever. Here is an example: there are two channels on my television that feature one thing: a still image saying "congratulations, you have a dish 500!" with no sound. It is funny, while flipping through, to make a comment. But the joke is viewing the image itself, not hovering on it and wasting time when you know there is quality televisual entertainment going on concurrently on other stations. This is lost on the person who does not like television, because, as far as he is concerned, that this channel exists is hilarious, and he is missing out on nothing by staying there. I am missing Kenny v. Spenny, motherfucker.
2. Dwelling on truly godawful things because of the impossible chance their may be nudity. Anyone who knows anything about television knows what few channels will ever have nudity, and what type of show / what time of day / the lead up camera angles &c will be before any nudity. Non television watchers do not. As a result, expect to watch a hell of a lot of freaking Telemundo in the hopes someone's top falls off. Ugh.
3. Not recognizing something, instantly, as terrible, when, clearly, it is. You know these ones. Horrible film quality, campy dialogue, immediately obvious formula plot. No more than 2.5 seconds should be spent recognizing these features. This equally applies to things that are well known and terrible as to things you are viewing for the first time.
4. Keep it moving. The point of having the television on is not simply to have it on. It is to find something entertaining. Non television watchers do not understand this, and will happily waste the entire time of everyone in the room by flipping channels at totally unacceptable intervals, between 90 seconds and 7 minutes, i.e., too long for something that is horrible, and too short for something that, though ideal, you may have an investment at due to your opportunity cost. There is a 3 point rating system for television shows: 0, 1, 2. Zero means change, immediately. I'd say 90% of television qualifies as a zero. Two means "I actively seek this out to watch it." One is, "If there are no Twos on, I would still enjoy watching this." For most of the day, it is all zeros. This is when the television is off. Mr. I Hate T.V. does not understand the rating system, second nature for those of us who have an interest in visual entertainment, intellectual or otherwise, and which he can never hope to learn.
5. News is okay, unless it is clearly mindless, i.e., based on bullshit, Foxnews, has higher ratio of pundits to experts on screen, is straight up sloganeering, or is related to celebrities. Non TV Watcher, strangely, usually, also does not care about news either. What does he do with his time? It remains a mystery.
6. Give. Me. The. Remote.
Toward An Heuristic Cel-Phone Hermeneutic
"Oh look, the funny man is making jokes about his celphone! How original!"
Go eat turd, turd-eater. I have genuine insight. One in particular. Missed calls. First, let me just get it out of the way and say this: voicemail is irrelevant, and if you leave me voicemail and you are under 30, I hate you. Voicemail is for old people, coworkers, and attractive ladies whose behavior I give far more leeway to than the average citizen. If you think you have communicated information in your voicemail beyond the information that my missed call log provides, specifically, "that you have called," there is a 95% chance you are wrong. As a result, when I leave voicemails, I do it to spite other people that have left me voicemails.
"Hey........ man. I am.... taking.... loooooong.... pauses.... between..... my.... words." If you are still listening at that point, I point out what an idiot you are, at great length, in my best languorous contralto lilt.
Anyway, toward my real insight.
When I miss a call, my phone notifies me no less than three times. First notification of missing the call: the call itself. When the phone rings, and I curse the gods and contain my rage just barely enough to disable the goddamned dongle instead of hurling it at high velocity toward the nearest vertical plane, I do not need to be notified, 30 seconds later, that I have 'missed' a call. No, I haven't. I ignored it, you asshole. Then, after acknowledging the 'you have missed a call' notification, moments later, I get a 'you have voicemail' notification. Which also requires acknowledgment, or else it keeps vibrating until you check your voicemail, the batteries die, or you die.
There needs to be an "I am not an idiot" setting on your cel phone where you can turn off all these completely unnecessary notifications. You know, one that acknowledges that I may just have a high enough IQ to operate my cel phone.
Go eat turd, turd-eater. I have genuine insight. One in particular. Missed calls. First, let me just get it out of the way and say this: voicemail is irrelevant, and if you leave me voicemail and you are under 30, I hate you. Voicemail is for old people, coworkers, and attractive ladies whose behavior I give far more leeway to than the average citizen. If you think you have communicated information in your voicemail beyond the information that my missed call log provides, specifically, "that you have called," there is a 95% chance you are wrong. As a result, when I leave voicemails, I do it to spite other people that have left me voicemails.
"Hey........ man. I am.... taking.... loooooong.... pauses.... between..... my.... words." If you are still listening at that point, I point out what an idiot you are, at great length, in my best languorous contralto lilt.
Anyway, toward my real insight.
When I miss a call, my phone notifies me no less than three times. First notification of missing the call: the call itself. When the phone rings, and I curse the gods and contain my rage just barely enough to disable the goddamned dongle instead of hurling it at high velocity toward the nearest vertical plane, I do not need to be notified, 30 seconds later, that I have 'missed' a call. No, I haven't. I ignored it, you asshole. Then, after acknowledging the 'you have missed a call' notification, moments later, I get a 'you have voicemail' notification. Which also requires acknowledgment, or else it keeps vibrating until you check your voicemail, the batteries die, or you die.
There needs to be an "I am not an idiot" setting on your cel phone where you can turn off all these completely unnecessary notifications. You know, one that acknowledges that I may just have a high enough IQ to operate my cel phone.
The Band of My Dreams
This is a true story.
Last night I dreamt about a band. The band consisted of six identical versions of a certain intellectual perverted bearded curly haired redhead friend of mine. Each one of them was clad in an a tye-died pinstripe t-shirt. They were fusion jazz reggae funk soul, called "The Puffy Fog-Hammers." The bassist, named "Chain," was particularly nasty.
Last night I dreamt about a band. The band consisted of six identical versions of a certain intellectual perverted bearded curly haired redhead friend of mine. Each one of them was clad in an a tye-died pinstripe t-shirt. They were fusion jazz reggae funk soul, called "The Puffy Fog-Hammers." The bassist, named "Chain," was particularly nasty.
Saturday, March 22, 2008
Stories About My Penis, Vol. I
There is much phallic humor on this blog. Pop psychoanalyze all you want. I am a prurient, coarse, deviant male, and, as a result, much of my humor is thusly themed. This will be one of many stories about my penis. Because, I'll be frank, I'm really just a penis with a man attached, a glorious penis delivery system of sorts.
How I Got My Pornstar Nickname
One night, in a state of UltraDrunk (a post is forthcoming on this wondrous phenomenon), I found myself on the lower east side. After drunkenly spilling the larger part of a beer all over a kindly black gentleman (kindly because he was within his full rights to beat the shit out of me but did not) I decided to pull my standard move, which is to leave without telling anyone, and stumble drunkenly into the cool mist. However, instead of merely fading into the night, in my stumblings I came upon a hot dog stand. It should be noted that I have yet to recall where this place is and have been unable to locate it. It consisted of a bench, a counter, several stools, and the kitchen in back. The list of toppings was compendious. I was drunk, and boy howdy, I was hungry. I also noticed that they had spicy peppers.
"Hey buddy, I want a large hot dog with mustard, cheese, relish, and, oh yeah, make it unreasonably spicy."
The guy behind the counter laughs.
"Unreasonably?"
"Unreasonably."
"Sure thing boss, but only on one condition, I get to watch you eat it."
"Hell yes."
So a few minutes later he hands me a hot dog gloriously piled with an entire canon of toppings, but, most sensuously, several ounces worth of chopped up hot peppers. It was nearly as much hot pepper as anything else. And the good, greasy, super spicy type of hot pepper. And believe me when I tell you, I can eat spicy food with the best of them. Like most things that I enjoy doing, I push the limit, I binge, I take it to the extreme. I can down a colonblowing vindaloo like I was born in madras and put out the fire with a half bottle of bourbon. So trust me: this hotdog was fucking spicy. Tears of joy ran down my face as a magnificent symphony of relish, pig lips and spicy peppers danced the lambada on my taste buds. I was in drunk munch heaven. The gentleman behind the counter laughed heartily as he saw me attack his pepper laden concoction, and there was much laughing in that small hotdog shop. I gave him a good tip, daps, flashed the peace sign, and I was out into the night.
Naturally, I needed to piss. It being near 4 A.M. on the L.E.S., I took no shame in producing and pulling a stray dog (read: pissing on a firehydrant while swaying back and forth, oblivious to the world, marveling at the uncanny resemblance in odor between your own urine and the High Life). My work done, I went on my way, walking (read: staggering) toward the subway.
Then, suddenly, deeply, shockingly, profoundly, the same sort of realization a 17 year old boy has at the "holy shit I am about to get laid for the first time" moment, the identical sensation a man has when he is caught pouring water into a mailbox to extinguish the cigarette he accidentally threw in there in a botched attempt to mail a power bill and a cop's hand comes down on his shoulder and you look, pleadingly, into his eyes, and say "let me explain," it hit me like Mike Tyson at a traffic stop: Holy shit my dick is on fire.
I panicked. I had no idea what to do. When one is drunk, one thinks with one's dick, this being doubly true in my case, and all my dick was thinking is "get ye to a source of water, for I am in unbearable pain." I had never had hotsauce on the brain before, so I ran down my options:
1. Grind dick onto nearest available surface, in the hopes that this godawful pepper seed oil will be removed. ... Bad idea.
2. Go home. Go home. Just... go home. Done. Done and Done.
You must realize, reader, that "Going home" is the drunk's response for a plethora of situations. "Friends in a fight?" "Going home." "This chick is actually quite ugly?" "Going home." "Apartment's on fire?" "Going home." "I have just been knifed several times by a large man named 'Mosquito' and he seems to want my money." "Going home."
So. I made that decision. I immediately dashed to the nearest subway and leapt halfway down the staircase before I realized "there is no way in sweet fuck I am standing on this goddamn platform for half an hour," so I ran back up the stairs and hailed a cab.
"Where to buddy?"
"Head to the Brooklyn Bridge RIGHT NOW AND I WILL TELL YOU THE REST ON THE WAY."
Cold sweat was pouring down my face and I was shivering as I instructed the driver on my exact address. All I could do was to assume the identity of my power animal, the marmoset, and enter my cave, in attempt to stem the pain.
Finally I reach home. I throw a wad of bills at the driver and sprint inside, past the security guards, get my elevator, head upstairs, kick the door in to my apartment, tear my pants off, run directly to the bathroom, and thrust my penis into the cool soothing tap water and begin to scrub vigorously with my volcanic pumice soap. Relief was finally mine. I do not recall peeing in my sink, but that doesn't mean it didn't happen.
When telling this story to a friend the next day I got my newest nickname:
"Spicydick."
How I Got My Pornstar Nickname
One night, in a state of UltraDrunk (a post is forthcoming on this wondrous phenomenon), I found myself on the lower east side. After drunkenly spilling the larger part of a beer all over a kindly black gentleman (kindly because he was within his full rights to beat the shit out of me but did not) I decided to pull my standard move, which is to leave without telling anyone, and stumble drunkenly into the cool mist. However, instead of merely fading into the night, in my stumblings I came upon a hot dog stand. It should be noted that I have yet to recall where this place is and have been unable to locate it. It consisted of a bench, a counter, several stools, and the kitchen in back. The list of toppings was compendious. I was drunk, and boy howdy, I was hungry. I also noticed that they had spicy peppers.
"Hey buddy, I want a large hot dog with mustard, cheese, relish, and, oh yeah, make it unreasonably spicy."
The guy behind the counter laughs.
"Unreasonably?"
"Unreasonably."
"Sure thing boss, but only on one condition, I get to watch you eat it."
"Hell yes."
So a few minutes later he hands me a hot dog gloriously piled with an entire canon of toppings, but, most sensuously, several ounces worth of chopped up hot peppers. It was nearly as much hot pepper as anything else. And the good, greasy, super spicy type of hot pepper. And believe me when I tell you, I can eat spicy food with the best of them. Like most things that I enjoy doing, I push the limit, I binge, I take it to the extreme. I can down a colonblowing vindaloo like I was born in madras and put out the fire with a half bottle of bourbon. So trust me: this hotdog was fucking spicy. Tears of joy ran down my face as a magnificent symphony of relish, pig lips and spicy peppers danced the lambada on my taste buds. I was in drunk munch heaven. The gentleman behind the counter laughed heartily as he saw me attack his pepper laden concoction, and there was much laughing in that small hotdog shop. I gave him a good tip, daps, flashed the peace sign, and I was out into the night.
Naturally, I needed to piss. It being near 4 A.M. on the L.E.S., I took no shame in producing and pulling a stray dog (read: pissing on a firehydrant while swaying back and forth, oblivious to the world, marveling at the uncanny resemblance in odor between your own urine and the High Life). My work done, I went on my way, walking (read: staggering) toward the subway.
Then, suddenly, deeply, shockingly, profoundly, the same sort of realization a 17 year old boy has at the "holy shit I am about to get laid for the first time" moment, the identical sensation a man has when he is caught pouring water into a mailbox to extinguish the cigarette he accidentally threw in there in a botched attempt to mail a power bill and a cop's hand comes down on his shoulder and you look, pleadingly, into his eyes, and say "let me explain," it hit me like Mike Tyson at a traffic stop: Holy shit my dick is on fire.
I panicked. I had no idea what to do. When one is drunk, one thinks with one's dick, this being doubly true in my case, and all my dick was thinking is "get ye to a source of water, for I am in unbearable pain." I had never had hotsauce on the brain before, so I ran down my options:
1. Grind dick onto nearest available surface, in the hopes that this godawful pepper seed oil will be removed. ... Bad idea.
2. Go home. Go home. Just... go home. Done. Done and Done.
You must realize, reader, that "Going home" is the drunk's response for a plethora of situations. "Friends in a fight?" "Going home." "This chick is actually quite ugly?" "Going home." "Apartment's on fire?" "Going home." "I have just been knifed several times by a large man named 'Mosquito' and he seems to want my money." "Going home."
So. I made that decision. I immediately dashed to the nearest subway and leapt halfway down the staircase before I realized "there is no way in sweet fuck I am standing on this goddamn platform for half an hour," so I ran back up the stairs and hailed a cab.
"Where to buddy?"
"Head to the Brooklyn Bridge RIGHT NOW AND I WILL TELL YOU THE REST ON THE WAY."
Cold sweat was pouring down my face and I was shivering as I instructed the driver on my exact address. All I could do was to assume the identity of my power animal, the marmoset, and enter my cave, in attempt to stem the pain.
Finally I reach home. I throw a wad of bills at the driver and sprint inside, past the security guards, get my elevator, head upstairs, kick the door in to my apartment, tear my pants off, run directly to the bathroom, and thrust my penis into the cool soothing tap water and begin to scrub vigorously with my volcanic pumice soap. Relief was finally mine. I do not recall peeing in my sink, but that doesn't mean it didn't happen.
When telling this story to a friend the next day I got my newest nickname:
"Spicydick."
Sunday, March 16, 2008
St. Patrick's Day Math: The Question
3 Men + 1 Case Rogue Dead Guy Ale (~7% alcohol by volume) + 1 Pub Crawl = ?
To be answered mid next week. Or whenever I recover/can remember what happened. Stay tuned!
To be answered mid next week. Or whenever I recover/can remember what happened. Stay tuned!
Saturday, March 15, 2008
Your Continued Decision To Not Have Sex With Me Is Factually Incorrect
Okay baby. Let's break this one down. Clearly, I am a superior male specimen. I'm the world's most muscular knot-theorist, and my one night drinking record was a full three flagons or highly basic grog. That is a superhuman feat. I've been known to put out fires using only my own urine, and things I have said in my sleep have won the pulitzer.
And you are hot. Seriously. That ass? 'A' number one.
So, basically, your continuously not having sex with me just makes no sense. What are you basing this on? Are you afraid? You should be. Because it will expand your mind in ways that are exhilarating and terrifying. You'll never look at a jar of mayonnaise the same way again. But it will blow your mind.
Seriously. Last night, when I dropped you off outside your building in the cab, and you asked what you owed me, and I just gave you the dreamy-eyes and said, "baby, all you owe me is a kiss," and then we made out and you got out of the cab, that was so baller. How can you say no to this? Please disregard the fact that moments after the cab pulled away I cursed the gods at how poor I was and realized I should have taken your money instead of dropping the smooth line. Doubly true due to your renewed decision not to have sex with me.
Well, I see you are going to stick to your guns on this one.
Cheers. Let us toast to all the sex we are not having.
--The Man
And you are hot. Seriously. That ass? 'A' number one.
So, basically, your continuously not having sex with me just makes no sense. What are you basing this on? Are you afraid? You should be. Because it will expand your mind in ways that are exhilarating and terrifying. You'll never look at a jar of mayonnaise the same way again. But it will blow your mind.
Seriously. Last night, when I dropped you off outside your building in the cab, and you asked what you owed me, and I just gave you the dreamy-eyes and said, "baby, all you owe me is a kiss," and then we made out and you got out of the cab, that was so baller. How can you say no to this? Please disregard the fact that moments after the cab pulled away I cursed the gods at how poor I was and realized I should have taken your money instead of dropping the smooth line. Doubly true due to your renewed decision not to have sex with me.
Well, I see you are going to stick to your guns on this one.
Cheers. Let us toast to all the sex we are not having.
--The Man
Friday, March 14, 2008
My T-Shirt Company
I am making a t-shirt company. It is called pen15 shirts. Each shirt has a slogan on it, and then an arrow pointing downward. You know. To your penis. Here are some of our slogans:
Penis
I'm with stupid
Brains
Loading Dock
Polyunsaturated
Clean
Diseased
Erect
Semi-Erect
Flaccid
High IQ
Drivers Seat
The Throne
Microphone
Handle With Care
Do Not Handle With Care
Beware Electrical Discharge
Beware Burning Discharge
Beware
Discharge
Throbbing
Barbed
Armed and Dangerous
WMD
Brains of the Operation
J.D.
PhD
Highly Educated
Ignorant
Illiterate
Voter
Nonvoter
Superdelegate
Democratic Caucus
Pruriant
Deviant
Homeless
Needs a Home
Plays Well With Others
Plays Well With Children
Abortion Factory
Babymaker
Felon
Wanted in 17 States
Ex-Con
Sex Offender
Herpes Dispenser
Hero
Spelunker
Eats Children
Polyunsaturated
Pnuemonoultrasilicovolcanoconeiosis
Oversize Novelty Firehouse (Credit to Seanbaby)
Peptide
Roto-rooter
Gold Plated
Silver Plated
Non-Ironically Gold Plated
Ironic
Chinese Import
Likes Men
Likes Women
Straight
Gay
Fat Chicks
More Fat Chicks
Hates Fat Chicks (arrow pointing up)
Loves Fat Chicks (arrow pointing down)
Highly Addictive
Slippery When Wet
Poorly Lubricated
Lounge Singer
Pet Zebra
Have you seen my baseball?
E=MC^2
Warp Drive
Square Circle
Coat Rack
2 Dozen Donuts
True North
Horror and Chaos (gotta rep the brand)
And, Of Course
Pen15
More to come.
Penis
I'm with stupid
Brains
Loading Dock
Polyunsaturated
Clean
Diseased
Erect
Semi-Erect
Flaccid
High IQ
Drivers Seat
The Throne
Microphone
Handle With Care
Do Not Handle With Care
Beware Electrical Discharge
Beware Burning Discharge
Beware
Discharge
Throbbing
Barbed
Armed and Dangerous
WMD
Brains of the Operation
J.D.
PhD
Highly Educated
Ignorant
Illiterate
Voter
Nonvoter
Superdelegate
Democratic Caucus
Pruriant
Deviant
Homeless
Needs a Home
Plays Well With Others
Plays Well With Children
Abortion Factory
Babymaker
Felon
Wanted in 17 States
Ex-Con
Sex Offender
Herpes Dispenser
Hero
Spelunker
Eats Children
Polyunsaturated
Pnuemonoultrasilicovolcanoconeiosis
Oversize Novelty Firehouse (Credit to Seanbaby)
Peptide
Roto-rooter
Gold Plated
Silver Plated
Non-Ironically Gold Plated
Ironic
Chinese Import
Likes Men
Likes Women
Straight
Gay
Fat Chicks
More Fat Chicks
Hates Fat Chicks (arrow pointing up)
Loves Fat Chicks (arrow pointing down)
Highly Addictive
Slippery When Wet
Poorly Lubricated
Lounge Singer
Pet Zebra
Have you seen my baseball?
E=MC^2
Warp Drive
Square Circle
Coat Rack
2 Dozen Donuts
True North
Horror and Chaos (gotta rep the brand)
And, Of Course
Pen15
More to come.
My New Art Installation / Currently Accepting Submissions
I am making a new art installation. It is called:
"Me railing hot chicks" or "Pornography: Art or Pornography?"
To apply, simply send an 8x11 photo glossy, resume, and list of allergies.
Sorry, no weirdos.
"Me railing hot chicks" or "Pornography: Art or Pornography?"
To apply, simply send an 8x11 photo glossy, resume, and list of allergies.
Sorry, no weirdos.
Heaven is a place strange of practical jokes
Yesterday, during a nap of the awesomest variety, the sort of nap that can only occur when one has voluntarily committed one's self to sleeping instead of one's afternoon class, i was roused from the sweetest of dreams. A dream about not being in class. It was made even the more sweeter by the fact I new by the very fact that I was dreaming about not being in class that I was, in fact, not in class.
I was roused by the repeated ringing of my buzzer. You see, the doormen in my building are supposed to check your ID every time you walk into the building, and, if you do not have ID, they sign you in. Fine. Let us ignore the fact that I am a fucking adult and I don't need to show my goddamned ID every single time I walk into the building. I've lived in this city for nearly a quarter of a century, and you know what? My doormen at other buildings never asked to see my ID. In fact, they recognize me. So do these guys. They just enjoy the power to fuck with you. They LOVE, and I mean like, deep, abiding, soul felt longing, to card you when you are walking in with arms full of groceries, or, with a cute girl, because, seriously, nothing is better for your game than fumbling around with a wallet to get out your ID at 2 in the morning while the chick you are with gets to see you illuminated under the harsh phosphorescent lights and has just enough time to think... hey... maybe I shouldn't sleep with this guy. Thanks, doormen. Oh did I mention if you yourself are a cute girl, they never ID you? Yeah.
So. The buzzer goes off. After steadfastly ignoring it for a good four, five minutes, I think, jeez, fucking, fine, I'll answer it.
*roll out of bed*
*trundle trundle*
"Mmheello?"
"Yah you gottaauuhh a visitah comin up?"
"K."
I stand, swaying, at the door, for some moments. I hear a knock on my door. I answer it. The hallway is completely, utterly, empty. Oh, except for the billowing cloud of weedsmoke. Clearly, something has gone amiss.
Conclusion one: the doormen are assholes.
Conclusion two: the person who was coming to see me exploded into a cloud of weedsmoke. May he rest in peace.
Ancillary conclusion two: I myself am not high.
Final conclusion: I must be dead, and heaven is the land of strange practical jokes.
This was further driven home by the fact that, despite being dead, I spent the next two hours doing laundry.
Strange days.
I was roused by the repeated ringing of my buzzer. You see, the doormen in my building are supposed to check your ID every time you walk into the building, and, if you do not have ID, they sign you in. Fine. Let us ignore the fact that I am a fucking adult and I don't need to show my goddamned ID every single time I walk into the building. I've lived in this city for nearly a quarter of a century, and you know what? My doormen at other buildings never asked to see my ID. In fact, they recognize me. So do these guys. They just enjoy the power to fuck with you. They LOVE, and I mean like, deep, abiding, soul felt longing, to card you when you are walking in with arms full of groceries, or, with a cute girl, because, seriously, nothing is better for your game than fumbling around with a wallet to get out your ID at 2 in the morning while the chick you are with gets to see you illuminated under the harsh phosphorescent lights and has just enough time to think... hey... maybe I shouldn't sleep with this guy. Thanks, doormen. Oh did I mention if you yourself are a cute girl, they never ID you? Yeah.
So. The buzzer goes off. After steadfastly ignoring it for a good four, five minutes, I think, jeez, fucking, fine, I'll answer it.
*roll out of bed*
*trundle trundle*
"Mmheello?"
"Yah you gottaauuhh a visitah comin up?"
"K."
I stand, swaying, at the door, for some moments. I hear a knock on my door. I answer it. The hallway is completely, utterly, empty. Oh, except for the billowing cloud of weedsmoke. Clearly, something has gone amiss.
Conclusion one: the doormen are assholes.
Conclusion two: the person who was coming to see me exploded into a cloud of weedsmoke. May he rest in peace.
Ancillary conclusion two: I myself am not high.
Final conclusion: I must be dead, and heaven is the land of strange practical jokes.
This was further driven home by the fact that, despite being dead, I spent the next two hours doing laundry.
Strange days.
Thursday, March 13, 2008
Impossible Claims / I want more healthfood bars
Recently, while standing in line at a bodega (read: 24/7 deli) I noticed, at the register, a display of healthfood bars. Luna, Powerbar, what have you. However, there was one particular healthfood bar, the name which I now disremember, that made a truly fantastical claim:
75% organic.
Hm. Interesting. The best part is that the lady in front of me, dyed blonde, thin, large, unruly dog tied up outside, bought several of them. Good for her, I thought. For, without her, all my friends whose parents are in advertising would surely starve. Let us examine.
75% organic means that, at least, 25% of the healthfood bar is inorganic. Meaning, that, in no way possible, is the offending 25% of the healthfood bar made of any combination or composition of hydrogen, oxygen, nitrogen, and whatever the fuck that other organic element is. So, let's figure out what the fuck the other 25% of that bar may have been made out of. Lead? Bismuth? Human misery? That last one may, in fact, be organic. In any event, those bars are delicious.
Similarly, I once had a conditioner that advertised, very proudly, in large, black outlined, bold, italic letters, "35% more style by volume."
Well, folks, I'll let you take that one apart. Actually, I won't. Are you fucking kidding me? How the fuck can you measure style? I mean, I know if you were to quantitate my own style, you would break the styleo-meter, and I would register somewhere between "a cross between alexander hamilton and sting" and "brad pitt if he were made of solid gold."
75% organic.
Hm. Interesting. The best part is that the lady in front of me, dyed blonde, thin, large, unruly dog tied up outside, bought several of them. Good for her, I thought. For, without her, all my friends whose parents are in advertising would surely starve. Let us examine.
75% organic means that, at least, 25% of the healthfood bar is inorganic. Meaning, that, in no way possible, is the offending 25% of the healthfood bar made of any combination or composition of hydrogen, oxygen, nitrogen, and whatever the fuck that other organic element is. So, let's figure out what the fuck the other 25% of that bar may have been made out of. Lead? Bismuth? Human misery? That last one may, in fact, be organic. In any event, those bars are delicious.
Similarly, I once had a conditioner that advertised, very proudly, in large, black outlined, bold, italic letters, "35% more style by volume."
Well, folks, I'll let you take that one apart. Actually, I won't. Are you fucking kidding me? How the fuck can you measure style? I mean, I know if you were to quantitate my own style, you would break the styleo-meter, and I would register somewhere between "a cross between alexander hamilton and sting" and "brad pitt if he were made of solid gold."
Trees are having sex in my sinuses
One of the great things about being flora, as opposed to fauna (Theo: did I get that one right? As I recall, you are MegaFauna) is the ability to have sex completely apart from your corporeal body. To wit: trees have sex through exchange of male and female bits (read: naughty bits) that are floating about in the air. When this happens, it is quite, quite probable that I will inhale some of these sex offenders, and they will continue to copulate deep within the recesses of my skull.
Though one may think I would be overjoyed at this depraved orgy that is occurring within my own bodily limits, I am, in fact, quite displeased. For, you see, it is the cause of horrible, horrible allergies. Alarmingly, just like human sex, tree sex causes a long series of bloody, foetid sneezes and deep self loathing.
SO, I have planned revenge.
Step a: Buy a large drill.
Step 2: Buy Maple syrup.
Step d: Mix maple syrup with an even mix of KY. You heard me.
Step REVENGE: Take drill to tree. Lube up. Go to town.
Revenge is mine.
Though one may think I would be overjoyed at this depraved orgy that is occurring within my own bodily limits, I am, in fact, quite displeased. For, you see, it is the cause of horrible, horrible allergies. Alarmingly, just like human sex, tree sex causes a long series of bloody, foetid sneezes and deep self loathing.
SO, I have planned revenge.
Step a: Buy a large drill.
Step 2: Buy Maple syrup.
Step d: Mix maple syrup with an even mix of KY. You heard me.
Step REVENGE: Take drill to tree. Lube up. Go to town.
Revenge is mine.
Monday, March 10, 2008
We Murder Brain Cells Like They Massacred the Buffalo
RG and I survey the damage after a normal Saturday night of drinking:
Improving on God's Design
We all know that the human body is a haphazardly patched together collection of millennia of mistakes and accidents. As a result, it is inefficient and weak. For this reason, I have invented several devices that will smooth out these inefficiencies and make our bodies better. Within 100 years, all of these devices will be standard issue to all those who can afford my exorbitant prices and servicing fees. Here are some of my favorites (patent pending!):
1.) The 'Shin Shock.' This devices is simply a small shock absorber placed in the middle of either the tibia or the fibula. It is designed to keep a constant volume when compressed, so as to maintain tension on the calf muscles. This device will reduce knee and hip damage and wear for everyone from runners, paratroopers, long jumpers, street fighters, aerobics instructors, and pogo stick enthusiasts, to recipients of joint replacements and plain old fat people.
2.) The lymph pump: The lymphatic system is a very important part of the immune system, and an important tool in removing toxins and metabolic waste from the body. However, the lyph itself is only moved by muscles around the ducts, with movement much like swallowing in the esophagus (known as peristalsis). This device is a miniaturized version of an artificial replacement heart. It will be placed in the lymphatic system to supercharge the movement of lymph fluids, thereby making our immune system effectively invincible.
3.) Speaking of peristalsis, I also plan to place a peristalsis device around the blood supply to the brain. This device will cover the Aorta and the left common carotid artery, as well as following the brachiocephalic artery up to the right common carotid. Though the 'swallowing' motion of peristalsis, this device will aid the upward flow of blood into the brain. Thus, the brain will receive more blood than can be supplied by the heart alone. This will improve our memory and reasoning skills, as well as giving us more energy, making us better lovers, and just about anything else I can make up a write down here.
4.) Infrared cameras in the eyes. So we can see infrared and tell if something is hot, or, is someone is hiding anywhere nearby.
5.) And of course, let us not forget the robotic exoskeleton. But that has been covered elsewhere:
1.) The 'Shin Shock.' This devices is simply a small shock absorber placed in the middle of either the tibia or the fibula. It is designed to keep a constant volume when compressed, so as to maintain tension on the calf muscles. This device will reduce knee and hip damage and wear for everyone from runners, paratroopers, long jumpers, street fighters, aerobics instructors, and pogo stick enthusiasts, to recipients of joint replacements and plain old fat people.
2.) The lymph pump: The lymphatic system is a very important part of the immune system, and an important tool in removing toxins and metabolic waste from the body. However, the lyph itself is only moved by muscles around the ducts, with movement much like swallowing in the esophagus (known as peristalsis). This device is a miniaturized version of an artificial replacement heart. It will be placed in the lymphatic system to supercharge the movement of lymph fluids, thereby making our immune system effectively invincible.
3.) Speaking of peristalsis, I also plan to place a peristalsis device around the blood supply to the brain. This device will cover the Aorta and the left common carotid artery, as well as following the brachiocephalic artery up to the right common carotid. Though the 'swallowing' motion of peristalsis, this device will aid the upward flow of blood into the brain. Thus, the brain will receive more blood than can be supplied by the heart alone. This will improve our memory and reasoning skills, as well as giving us more energy, making us better lovers, and just about anything else I can make up a write down here.
4.) Infrared cameras in the eyes. So we can see infrared and tell if something is hot, or, is someone is hiding anywhere nearby.
5.) And of course, let us not forget the robotic exoskeleton. But that has been covered elsewhere:
Friday, March 7, 2008
I Am Opposed to Late Closing Bars
See, when bars are open late, it is just too easy to drink all night. Anyone can do it. For instance, in New York City, bars are open until 4:00 am. That's right, all you need to drink until 4:00 is a credit card. Anyone can do it. Where I come from, you need to be a real pro to drink until 4:00 am. It takes planning, hard work, and execution.
You need to stockpile booze, and stash it somewhere. At a house if it is cold, or in a bush or shrubbery during the summer. Then, when the bars close at 1:00 and all those 'weekend drinkers' are going home to go to bed, you and your badass friends can keep the party alive.
Especially because liquor stores close at 11:00 pm. You need to decide that you are drinking all night. And do it before you go out. In a place like New York, it just sort of happens. You are not even paying attention at all, and suddenly: "Hey it's 4:00. Gosh, I had better go home."
That is not how it is supposed to be. Drinking until sunrise is supposed to be an accomplishment. It is supposed to be a feat of stamina and dedication. And cities like New York just hand it out to any old chump with some surplus income. It is a shame. A damn shame.
You need to stockpile booze, and stash it somewhere. At a house if it is cold, or in a bush or shrubbery during the summer. Then, when the bars close at 1:00 and all those 'weekend drinkers' are going home to go to bed, you and your badass friends can keep the party alive.
Especially because liquor stores close at 11:00 pm. You need to decide that you are drinking all night. And do it before you go out. In a place like New York, it just sort of happens. You are not even paying attention at all, and suddenly: "Hey it's 4:00. Gosh, I had better go home."
That is not how it is supposed to be. Drinking until sunrise is supposed to be an accomplishment. It is supposed to be a feat of stamina and dedication. And cities like New York just hand it out to any old chump with some surplus income. It is a shame. A damn shame.
Courtious Drivers Are Wasting My Gasoline
Every time the car in front of me stops to let another car in, or to let a pedestrian cross, that driver is waiting my gas. The same is true if they come to a complete stop and a stop sign when there are clearly no cars coming (or even worse, those people that come to a complete stop before making a right turn).
Every single time I even tap the breaks, I am dissipating energy. That energy had been perfectly useful kinetic energy, but now it is just heat, noise and worn down break pads. Thanks. Now I have to make more kinetic energy. And you know where that comes from: my gas tank. And that shit is not cheap. It is not just my energy that is fucked, so is that of every single driver behind that prick. And even him, though he doesn't seem to give a damn. Such reckless disregard for resources!
And the cost cannot even be measured in money alone: I want every single one of you 'courteous' drivers to think long and hard about your own contribution to the political climate in the middle east and to global warming. That's right, you are making our lives more dangerous in both a geopolitical and climatic sense. It is like you are trying to destroy the world!
Assholes.
Every single time I even tap the breaks, I am dissipating energy. That energy had been perfectly useful kinetic energy, but now it is just heat, noise and worn down break pads. Thanks. Now I have to make more kinetic energy. And you know where that comes from: my gas tank. And that shit is not cheap. It is not just my energy that is fucked, so is that of every single driver behind that prick. And even him, though he doesn't seem to give a damn. Such reckless disregard for resources!
And the cost cannot even be measured in money alone: I want every single one of you 'courteous' drivers to think long and hard about your own contribution to the political climate in the middle east and to global warming. That's right, you are making our lives more dangerous in both a geopolitical and climatic sense. It is like you are trying to destroy the world!
Assholes.
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