More hot pics...

Or maybe it should be "more hott pix." I just want to increase my hit count on Google. Speaking of which, have you been to Google Fight yet? It's the idea Mike Solomon should have had. In fact, I'm sure he DID have the idea, but dismissed it as being too sophomoric...then he made the interactive pile of shit game. This is why everyone loves Mike and why certain negroes up in Washington Heights will miss him (cue scene where I pour a forty on his still-fresh grave...rest in peez).

Anyway, here's the sexiest food item I could find in upstate New York since I eyed that package of "Cap'n Crunch's Fellatio Nuggets" after a particularly crippling bender:



Apparently, Brenda loves this idea (for the record, Brenda has no recollection of posing for this photo):



Nor this one, but I'd like to post it because it's pretty great:



Finally, here's a candid photo of Mr. Sanzone and Ms. Cunningham. They were discussing the horror that is Pirates of the Caribbean 2.

It begins...

I know I should've done this about eight years ago, but today marked my first mailing. Filled with childish wonder and energy, I stuffed each lil' envelope with an eye toward hope (and a legit agent). I was instructed to be concise, so each headshot was accompanied with a Polaroid depicting me begging for representation kneeling in a pool of my own urine. Let's hope good taste prevails.



While scrolling through my phone pictures looking for the above hot pic, I realized I had a few photos I neglected to post. Here's one of Johnny Sushiface:



And another of Lil' Stacy Crotchface (I couldn't believe that Daddy wouldn't shift a little so as not to attract attention):

Gnome Chomsky

The devilish imp of a lawyer who works just behind the partition wall in my office has grown into a major irritant. I've written about her and her transgressions before: her mild catfood aroma, her tactless criticism hamfistedly disguised as wit, her running a side-business out of her office ever since I started working here (about four years), not to mention her thunderous farts that shake one's very soul. I felt she deserved my wrath, at the time, because I found on my computer a folder containing a document constructed, by her, for the express purpose of forming a harassment case against my boss, a case in which I was implicated as an annoyance because of all the "noise" I make (the irony being that her eruptions of flatulence sound like whale calls and she likes to sing along to her music in an ear-shattering falsetto that ACTUALLY INDUCES NAUSEA...I believe I likened it once to a cat being strangled, but it's more like a cat being gang raped behind a giant, industrial-sized exhaust fan). She deserved it then, and she deserves it now, largely because somehow, in this dying office, she's managed to manufacture a "project" for herself that involves continuously crossing in front of the threshold of my office door every five minutes. AND, she overtly stares into my office, which would be a completely innocuous act if I didn't know her. Because I know her, I know she's keeping track of what I'm doing, despite the fact that she has been an obsolete fixture in this place for at least two years and RUNS A TOTALLY UNRELATED BUSINESS OUT OF THIS OFFICE.

I'm no psychologist, but I believe her problem is called "projection." She's constantly taking tactless stabs at my wrinkled clothing (I like to sleep), yet, her wardrobe consists mainly of sweatclothes and awful sundresses. She does nothing, yet has the audacity to make a snide comment to one of the many extra temps, saying "Oh, so you're actually WORKING today?" She asks me to turn my radio down, then sings her shrill, crooning tunes at the top of her lungs (a warbled fit of random notes emitting from her mouth the other day, upon further listening, turned out to be "Galileo" by the Indigo Girls...but I had to REALLY work at that conclusion). I feel like I'm under surveillance and it stinks.

On the lighter side, everything else is great. I've decided that I'm going to take a lil' vacation to Munich. German sausage all around!

How fortunate...

Because Verizon is a giant, automatous whore, I needed to deliver my Motorola RAZR (I like to pronounce it "Rah-zir") to my nearest Verizon Wireless store in order to update my firmware (ooh!) and re-enable my phone to transfer files between the handset and my computer (Verizon conveniently "turned this function off" in the factory installed software when I originally got the phone. After irate customers threatened to, I dunno, get, uh, good and angry I guess(?), Verizon decided not to crush its patrons with a single, networky blow and allow them to have their petty file transferring, flabbergasted that not everyone was killing themselves to sign up for VCAST).

And so, I had to give up my lil' guy to get serviced (also, my phone too...ho ho!). Now, as soon as I got my RAHZIR, I customized it right away by adorning it with a banner which reads: "YOUR FORTUNE: YOU WILL DIE OF AIDS" You know, so anyone who opened my phone could have a nice, good-natured chuckle. As silly as I am and can be, I plum forgot to take this banner down before servicing my device, and the Verizon Tech Support man was not pleased:

HIM: That's not a very nice fortune.

ME: (frustrated and annoyed) What?

HIM: (genuinely hurt) I said, that's not a very nice fortune.

ME: (realizing what he was talking about) Oh! Oh...I'm...I'm sorry. I should've taken that...I should be careful who I show that to.

And silence for the rest of my visit. Nice and awkward, the way God intended.