It's just like eating the eyeball out of a deer's face

Every holiday season brings with it the warm, simmering sense of dread and panic here at the office (sometimes, I call it the "Orifice," and we all sit around and laugh a little. Then we put the mailman's clothes back on and send him on his sobbing way, covered in our seed). A lot of this peace on hell and ill will toward men stems from the fact that every yuletide reminds my boss that he is very much old and alone. This realization manifests itself in him as irrational anger and seething cruelty (i.e. creating a load of unnecessary "busy work" to keep slaves tethered to their desks, making little to no sense, smelling like Jackie Joyner Kersee's camel toe...I suppose that one is independent of the season). Needless to say, there are a lot of tense situations all centered around trying to remedy perfectly innocuous problems with a sad, delusional old lunatic. Regardless of how much this time of year makes me want to choke him to death with the plastic needles from a singing, animatronic Christmas tree, a good deal of the holiday loathing is dissipated when a certain coworker invariably brings in a giant batch of buckeyes.



Buckeyes are spectacular in that not only are they very simple (chocolate and peanut butter), but apparently, I can eat three hundred of them due to the fact that they are delicious. They are so unbelievably good that, while I was sucking down my fifteenth of the day, a coworker mentioned that he doesn't like peanut butter with his chocolate and I almost punched him in his fucking skull. You don't like peanut butter with your chocolate? Go fuck yourself, Commie. If you don't like buckeyes, you don't like life. What kind of international terrorist doesn't like to welcome, into his mouth hole, a delightful ball of slightly fleshy chocobutter? STOP PRETENDING YOU DON'T LIKE THEM.

And speaking of stopping things, WILL SOMEONE PLEASE STOP THIS LAWYER BEHIND ME FROM SINGING? I used to love Garageband. I thought to myself, what a wonderful world we live in, that there exists a music production program that makes creating li'l ditties fun and accessible. However beautiful that idea is, in the hands of someone whose voice is reminiscent of a platypus getting raped up its bill, it gets a little tiresome after the eighth or ninth warbling rendition of Galileo, king of night vision, king of insight. All I think about doing is cracking her Macbook over her head WWE-style. "He hit her with a laptop, Mean Gene!"

In closing, Merry Christmas one and everyone. I'm not sure if the rules of capitalization were thoroughly employed there, but you get my drift. GET OFF MY BACK!

Three Vignettes

I. As I began to finally regain feeling in my right hand, the blood gingerly creeping back into its veins after having made a hasty retreat from the arctic winter air, I could finally focus my attention on the ridiculous page of copy sitting on my lap.

"WRITER: CONVERSATIONAL IN TONE"

Conversational? When has anyone in the history of humankind ever attempted an at least half-serious conversation entirely in disclaimers?

"You want another cigarette, Fred? Oh, and by the way, cigarettes increase your chances of getting cancer."

"Hey, sorry I shot my load directly into your eyeball. Use as directed."

"I'd love to go to the Dane Cook concert! Possible side effects include nausea and intense hemorrhaging."

It was at this moment in my amusing myself that the attractive woman next to me asked, "excuse me, how long have you been waiting?"

"Oh, I don't know. About ten minutes. Then again, I have a poor sense of time and space."

The weak smile that had had the audacity to appear on my lips met her blank stare with the awkwardness of two incestuous brothers offering each other hot dogs at the family reunion.

"Do you want mustard...?"

"No...no thanks..."

It reminds me why I don't often attempt to be charming and personable. And that reminds me:

II. Coming home from Germany, I caused a slight stir at the airport with my hastily packaged bundle of souvenirs. However one is supposed to prepare his trinkets, I neglected to follow suit, opting instead for the crisp, studied packing technique of a half-asleep stroke victim. As a punishment, British Airways condemned my gifts to a giant plastic bag with a zipper and floral print, the colors of which would make a gay man slap that cock right out of his mouth and never pick another one up again. This bag looked like it belonged on the floor next to P.T. Barnum while he was getting blown by a clown. Needless to say, it was designed to be ostentatious so that the Heathrow's finest could keep an eye on you.

Imagine my surprise when, waiting in the Customs line, a fellow strolled up behind me with the same bag. I was so pleased that I wasn't the only fool to be burdened with this bulky atrocity that I eschewed my normal paranoid contempt for a genuine stab at solidarity. After turning around and lifting the hideous bag in the air, I said with a laughing smirk:

"Huh?"

The gentleman, who turned out to be German, stared into my eyes with piercing condescension and let out a curt, "yeah." After assessing that I was no better than a pile of shit, ol' Happy German Face made a big deal of ignoring me.

This, in short, is why I dislike small talk.

III. Two short conversations with my increasingly senile boss:

HIM: Cammy told me about the Xonax boxes that need to be integrated into that shipment we're sending out.

ME: Xonax? No, you're talking about that other collection we looked at. Not Xonax.

HIM: (as if this whole mistake came from me) Xonax?! Of course not!

**********

HIM: I identified those boxes and put them in order. I'm going to ask Timmy to do the labels.

ME: So Timmy's doing the labels?

HIM: No. No no no. And someone needs to put those boxes in order.

ME: I pray that you will die in your sleep.

Wasn't Bob Ross also an Afro-American?

Yeah, yeah, yeah, Michael Richards lost his fucking mind and peppered the audience, Dick Cheney style, with a smattering of racial slurs. What he's paying for, here, is that his comments weren't funny. There was clearly no joke behind them, and that makes an audience, especially one with actual "tinted Americans" in it, a li'l nervous. But what offends me in the clip above is Seinfeld telling Letterman's audience to stop laughing because "it isn't funny." Isn't it? It's not funny when an entertainer, whose career has been ironically crippled by its own success, has a total breakdown and starts doing David Duke impressions only to nervously apologize for them days later (the apology, of course, getting more laughs than Michael Richards' actual routine ever would)? Isn't Larry David working on a script like this every day? Weren't the awkward repercussions from one's personal quirks, fears, and problems the building blocks for your show, Jerry? COME ON! Won't somebody at least give me the small comfort in having the only good aspect of this ridiculously oversensitive society be the depths to which its celebrities must sink in order to gain forgiveness? Can't I at least have that? Can't I be allowed to laugh at Michael Richards for screwing up so badly that he is reduced to a quivering, teary-eyed baby in front of a national audience?

In unrelated news:

As I stood in Pennsylvania Station awaiting my train to Philadelphia on Saturday, I watched as an obese woman plodded down the corridor. As she passed, a single dime sprung from her fingers and fell to the marble floor with a distant tinkle (ooh! Urine from beyond the grave!). She hunched forward slightly, heaving her weighty skull over the precipice of her bosom just enough to get a decent view of the fallen coin. In less than a second, she determined, with a sort of strange weary familiarity, that the dime was lost forever. As she wandered off, I could only imagine a small fortune scattered about the streets and sidewalks of New York that this woman had somewhat begrudgingly donated because she was simply unable to reclaim it.

05:13:24

Net time: 05:05:46

Next year: Toronto

Dirty knees, look at these

Dear Cat Fancy,

Attached please find the best thing I have ever seen. It has long been said that the Japanese sense of humor is peculiar. Most of it involves terrifying pedestrians, kissing massive insects, and screaming women (note: I have no concept of parallel structure. In fact, how'd I even make that joke?). I have long resisted the Japanese, or indeed, all Asian comic sensibilities (I was All Asian in high school) as they seemed bizarre and macabre. Fortunately, the steady string of Will Ferrell vehicles has made me doubt American comic tastes and seek out and embrace alternative comedy sources.

It's not that I don't like the King of Queens. Far from it. Situation comedies have been my passion since I was a smallish child watching I Love Lucy reruns in an abandoned warehouse (I was an orphan/dock worker). It's just that if I have to endure yet another clumsy plot line about the ignorant husband unwittingly dismantling a time-honored family event only to learn deep values that actually bring his family closer together, I'm afraid I will be forced to hunt Kevin James down and feast on his succulent flesh. Do you see? Do you see how it's easier to laugh at the heart-wrenching yelps of frightened Japanese preteens than to admit that Jerry Stiller is funny?

In closing, I love your magazine. It's written purrfectly (feel free to use that). Maybe you can do an article about the woman in the picture I've sent. Maybe I can find more interesting cat torture pics and I can write for you! It could be a column about cats in comedy! Called That's My Pussy! Or Pussy Chuckle! Or Elbow Deep in a Pile of Pussy! Think about it.

Pussy,
G. Gordon Liddy

It's a corpse on the course, of course

The very fact that I haven't been able to train for Sunday's marathon in Philadelphia has built itself in my head as a somewhat comical truth which has gone on to become a more successful and grand joke, a joke that has no doubt bought a house in the Hamptons and brand new Porsche with which to torment me (its license plate would read: "ULLNVRFNSH"). To be sure, it has gone beyond the sobering reality of "running a marathon" and has achieved the loftier ponderousness of "wrestling a pack of wolves" or "fellating a demi-god." Still, the sheer lunacy of participating in a marathon (I am loathe to use the word "competing" as I'm concerned that such a lie would make even liars blush) with very little training does have a certain charming appeal. Kind of like watching a fat man ascend stairs. You're pulling for him, but you know that he'll be ducking into the fifteenth floor elevator as soon as he becomes disgusted with his own chunky heaving.

This time around, however, I am orchestrating a bigger support team, lead by my family who will be holding signs reading "Don't Die" and "You can do it, Grabe!" and maybe even "I'm glad it's not just cancer that runs in our family." Ho Ho Ho. I hope to equip them with various elixirs, tonics, and spells to sustain me at key elements of the race, like, you know, the whole thing. I also hope that I can keep from sharting out bloody stool and vomit (that's right, ass vomit) like some hairy, red-cheeked version of Uta Pippig.

As race day approaches, I find myself torn between nervousness and almost irrational hysteria. But, I know that, on the day, I will try to have fun. As I bleed. From my eyes and skin.

That shook when he laughed like a bowl full of jelly

Wow

Every once in awhile, a bit comes along you wish you'd written. This is one of those bits (forgive me if you've already seen this, but I don't have cable, so, you know, frankly you can go pound sand):

Oddly fitting...

You are Alison Parker, alcoholic tragedy case in heels. It's not that you're dramatic, right? It's that your life is. Work, love, the apartment ... you can't keep it all together. Know that while you can't control everything, you are responsible for own life.

Which Melrose Place Character Are You?

Thanks, Anju.

I forgot to pay homage to Gorto!

About 35 seconds into this video, two things happen. The first is the featured Corgi puppy channeling Satan. The second is your face falling off from how adorable it all is.



This is the kind of video serial killers watch while they're filleting a sobbing pre-teen.

Isn't there an "o" in country?

Run Ronny Run was a terrible movie. However, there were nuggets of delight beneath that slow-moving tragedy.

How precious

Mayor Michael "Poohbear" Bloomberg's youngest daughter, Georgina likes to give back, according to the "Talk of the Town" section in this week's New Yorker. She performs this selfless philanthropy by recycling used equestrian gear. It seems that the desire to mount a horse and participate in show jumping isn't exclusive to wealthy cumguzzlers hell bent on divvying up our country into larger slices for themselves. In fact, according to Ms. Bloomberg, that's a gross stereotype and should be lopped in with other bigoted presumptions (i.e. blacks dominate at sports, brown people are dangerous, people who drive SUVs should be ritually executed). She says in the article "It's a stereotype. Yes, there are a lot of people who are wealthy in our sport; we understand that. But I have a couple of friends who have no money. They work at a barn to be able to get a riding lesson."

By "a couple of friends" do you mean "the help?" By "work at a barn" do you mean "work at your barn?" Just want to clarify. After all, we're talking about a self-made woman here:

"My father pays for the horses, and he pays for school, but other than that I support myself."

Other than that you support yourself? Supporting oneself does not include delivering encouraging monologues into a mirror. Seriously, I don't mind someone having money. I hear it's really nice. However, please don't try to bullshit the proletariat and, I suppose, yourself with this nauseating attempt to relate. It's embarrassing. She purports to support herself by show jumping. SHOW JUMPING!!!! SHOW FUCKING JUMPING!!!! AW, COME ON!

I would like to wrap this post up in a grand, concise way, but I have a thing. Night all.

Hitler was here

The Germans are a people of inclusion. For instance, if one is enjoying his third liter of fresh beer at the Hofbrauhaus, he can witness the impromptu and unified chanting of drunken German citizens and somehow get caught up in it himself. Soon, the whole place is aroar, and you've formed a National Socialist Party. See? It's easy.

My trip to Germany had many highlights, but I'll hold back on the details until the photos are up.

I come three time champwoon

I received an email from west coast friend and former roommate Matt Stubbs suggesting perhaps The Iron Sheik might want to run for office. Why, that's not a bad idea, I thought, as I finished snorting blow off of a hooker's asscheeks. Then, I considered Matt's idea. I support The Sheik in 2008. Some of his issues:

- that jabroni Brian Blair
- being a PROFESSIONAL
- making sure people are lucky for to Hacksaw come save you
- fighting the moral degradation brought on by Michael Jordan
- make that: Michael Jackson
- education

I'm all for it. And if North Korea has the audacity to attack the U.S. with nuclear weapons, President T.I. Sheik will put the missiles in the Camel Clutch, break their backs, make them humble, for God, and Jesus, and Mr. McMahon.

Holy fucking shit! Kittens!

My family's two cats totally had fucking kittens. These kittens, who are adorable, are almost too much to fucking handle. Here's a picture of my mother putting the screws to one of these manipulative bastards, asking the tough questions like "why are you so fucking cute, you fuck?" and "what's to stop me from squeezing your little fucking head until it pops, you're so cute, you prick?"



Here's a series of pictures where the infant cats are purposely being woefully precious. What they're saying here is "love us." It's offensive.









I'm pushing for the white one to be called "Tank" because it refuses to be deterred by anything. ANYTHING. It's "aunt" cat beats the shit out of it, but it plods forward with steely determination like the Terminator. Kittens are just too fucking much and need to be stopped.

So, I guess the Iron Shiek's a Yankee fan

I accompanied D.W. Jones & friends to an early evening ballgame at Yankee Stadium on Saturday. This would be Davey Jones, but not this blog's Davey Jones, who has become a sort of strange, mythological beast who is nine feet tall and fourteen axe handles wide and can split logs with his laserface (song coming soon!). Seeing Davey always warms my heart. Seeing the Yankees play warms my heart too. So, I was feeling pretty warm all over. Then, Davey raped me.

I've grown to really enjoy sitting in the bleachers. Not just because it's cheap, but because it's filled with raving lunatics hellbent on giving at least one poor dope a hard time. That poor dope, in this instance, was a particularly brazen dullard who had the sheer audacity to don a Mets cap in the midst of drunken barbarians (one can't drink in the Yankee Stadium bleachers these days, but there are plenty of bars across the street to aid in maintaining a steady stream of brash, blind fandom). Needless to say, the Mets fan was burned alive at the stake, as an impressive and concerted chant swelled from the bubbling mass: "YOU ARE GAY! YOU ARE GAY! YOU ARE GAY!" Indeed. Continuing on this theme, the crowd gleefully screamed a bastardized version of the song YMCA, which was now reworded to ask the simple question "Why are you gay?" In addition to this, one particularly clever Neanderthal bellowed "I saw you suckin' a D! I! C! K!" The fact that these chants were not only boisterously performed but premeditated was astonishing. These guys actually set time aside to deliberately construct an alternate version of an already woefully gay song just so they had fodder for potential hapless enemies trying to mix in with their own. Of course, their banter didn't stop there. They also attacked the Red Sox, anyone snooty enough to sit in a box seat, Iraqis, Communists, eugenics, and the fact that Rocky Balboa hadn't come out sooner. These are my people. Angry. Ignorant. Abusive. New York sports fans.

How the mighty have fallen

Despite however much I've curbed my drinking habits, it's difficult to convince people who've witnessed my heavier days (is this a tampon commercial?) that I'm not a bumbling idiot. And even without alcohol, I'm seemingly incapable of grace and tact, so it is no surprise that Saturday night's lovely karaoke party in honor of Kath's 30th birthday saw yours truly make an utter ass out of himself on exactly three occasions. The first, having somehow magically channeled Rob Halford, was when I took the microphone and did my version of Judas Priest's "Breakin' the Law," which, admittedly, went over pretty well. However, my "Bill Cosby sings Superfreak" was ill received as it was evident that I wasn't so much entertaining as I was a sad, silly little man. It was then brought to someone's attention that I do a raptor impersonation. I hadn't done the raptor in some time, as was made abundantly clear when I assumed the raptor position and chased a small gaggle of Japanese girls down the street who (impossibly!) turned abruptly, causing me to reel back, lose my balance, and fall to the concrete. As I fell to the unforgiving platform of cold, cold shame, I couldn't help but think, "I deserve this" and "this is my life" before my shoulder collided rather clumsily with destiny. I stared up into the heavens, a shooting star flitting by as if to mock me, when my field of vision was consumed by a massive, hulk of a figure. Apparently, a giant Samoan man had taken an interest in my plight and was now aggressively offering his assistance.

"Yo, man, you ok?"

(waving my arm) "Just leave me here..."

"Yo, get up, muthafucka."

So now, Samoan Joe wanted to beat me up because I didn't want his help. Only in New York will you find someone who WILL slap you silly if you won't succumb to their generosity. It's like violently raping an old woman because "the bitch wouldn't let me help her cross the street, nigga!" I believe it was new roommate Rachel's poignant comment that "he wanted to kick you BECAUSE you were down." Too true. Too true.

I have been informed that I shall be honored tonight, along with other performers and contributors, by my friend Jonathan's production company, who are celebrating ten years of service to the film & theatre community. Now, I'm not entirely certain what there is to honor, unless they're giving out awards celebrating "Angriest Performance by a Whining Douchebag." If that's the case, then I'm a shoo-in. Or a Shaolin. Or a racist.

Aw, little cutie wants to say somethin' cute

During my recent trip to Philadelphia, my ears were gang raped by some of the most vile and aggressive language I'd ever heard in a public transportation station (except, of course, for that time a black gentleman sat at the door between cars on the uptown 1 train and painfully described, in colorful detail, how he was going to kill me and my white children. We made out a little, but I still feel kind of violated). I'm well aware that Philly's filled with thuggish louts, but the sheer cartoonishness of their banter raised the experience into a whole other realm of wonder and delight. A sample:

"Jimmy, you fuckin' gotta put the fuckin' fuck into the fuckin' machine or you're not fuckin' gonna get no fuckin' place."

"I fuckin' know that, fuckin' Tommy, fuckin' you and your fuckin' mouth."

"Fuck."

This went on for several minutes, fading into the background like the ever present drone of the natives' drums in an island picture. FUCK fuck fuck fuck FUCK fuck fuck fuck FUCK fuck fuck fuck. It was oddly soothing. Well, soothing if you enjoy being rocked to sleep by the world's most obscene chicken. FUCK fuck fuck fuck FUCK fuck fuck fuck.

My favorite rap lyric of the week? Glad you asked. Missy Elliott's line on the Biggie Duets album:

"Don't you know I'm the ultimate, to get this nookie be fortunate, just like tasting pussy with pork in it."

You simply cannot beat that. CAN. NOT. BEAT. THAT. Every cunnilingus enthusiast out there knows that the troops have been clamoring for the great taste of pork for YEARS. Finally, someone has the guts to say something about it. Maybe something will get done, at long last. Might I suggest something in the way of the Pork/Pussy Reform Act? PORK + PUSSY 2007! Actually, I think that's Hillary Clinton's slogan for her '08 campaign.

Cross swords, more like

Honestly, there is absolutely nothing that brings me joy in life. I have no hobbies. I have no interests. I don't like people. Most of life's fruit is rotten long before it's been displayed in the case, its musty pulp decaying under the hot lamps of my scrutiny. Except for crossword puzzles. Crosswords are the one facet of my existence with which I am fully satisfied. What jolly mental romp does Mr. Shortz have for me today, pray tell? What? The answer for "Chair person, perhaps" is "lion tamer?!" YOU SCAMP! Every answer to every clue fills me with a sort of smug delight, as I stroke my penis under my desk, aroused by my faux-brilliance.

On a seemingly unrelated note, actors are loud, arrogant fuckfaces. I say this because as I sat waiting to go into an audition, I noticed a fellow across from me doing the New York Times puzzle. This alone is no big deal. Plenty of actors do the crossword. However, this audition was for a "funny" spot, and the standard issue rogues gallery began piling in, one by one, each an obnoxious canker sore filled with woefully longwinded tales of improvisation and one-man-shows. They all know each other, because they all secretly hate each other. So, it was no surprise that when one sinister cad sat next to the fellow doing the crossword, he very loudly began to help. The two of them sat there, unaware that they were ruining the only thing to which I look forward, and systematically called out each answer. Every. Single. Answer. What's more, they announced, with the sort of ironic nonchalance that makes the studio audience go "ooooooooh," the trick of the puzzle. Now, the trick of the puzzle, especially Wednesday through Friday, is the central theme, the thoughtful gimmick that makes the entire puzzle worthwhile. Nothing is more satisfying than solving the trick of the puzzle. It's figuring out the murder mystery before the detective does. It's nailing a preteen black hooker and not getting AIDS. It's getting the last oreo cookie before your roommate does because you've murdered him in his sleep with a rolled up copy of Woman's Day. But all that...all that was taken away from me. I'm pretty sure I'll never know what it's like to be raped (maybe you can make that happen, Davey), but this as close as I'll get. Violated. Betrayed. My words were crossed against my will.

U.N. whose army?

The pretentious motorcade rolling by the office building this week can only mean that it's U.N. time again. In order to accommodate the world's most powerful men (I believe they have all been awarded "World's Greatest Grandpa" mugs), 42nd street has been tri-sected to form a very special "center lane" because, you know, God forbid Kofi Annan has to sit in traffic like the rest of us. Fuck these people. Let them take the bus.

Despite how loathsome people in power tend to be, occasionally a gem pops out of their sweaty, over-indulged mouths: Hugo Chavez called President Bush the Devil. Now, I think Hugo Chavez may have played third base for the Yankees in the mid-90's, but he raises a valid but ultimately trite point. Yeah, yeah, yeah. The Bush administration's evil. We get it. Can we all please give up this ridiculous idea that somehow it matters? It makes no difference if it's George W. Bush or TV's lovable Conrad Bain sitting in the White House, the machinations of democracy are an illusion. You can rock the vote, march on Washington, make a macaroni peace sign and annoy people all day in Union Square, but it will never make a difference. What Chavez wants to say is that America is evil. And we are. Evil and rich. Which brings me to Kentucky.



A Comair flight went down in Kentucky and killed 49 people. Conan O'Brien did a sketch for the Emmys involving a plane crash which aired not long after the accident, prompting NBC affiliate WLEX to express outrage and offer an immediate apology (both on behalf of NBC and against it. I'm sure provincial governors in the Roman empire did a lot of this sort of thing too). This country is going out of its fucking mind with the apologizing bullshit. And the plane crash was an ancillary part of the sketch. I can see if Conan O'Brien lit a model plane on fire and threw it into a bucket of Kentucky Fried Chicken and screamed "THAT'S YOU FLIGHT 5191! THAT'S WHAT YOU LOOK LIKE!" But he didn't. So who are we apologizing to? The families of the 49 people who died? What are the chances they were watching the Emmys mere hours after their loved ones collided with a planet? What are the chances they watch the Emmys period? Apologizing for a completely unrelated comedy sketch is an empty gesture, a senseless public relations move. And any Americans audacious enough to be offended by something like that are frauds and cads. What's offensive is the speed with which these groveling apologies come these days. Our people are preemptively sorry and they stink.

"These days?" What am I, 95?