That's him. That's the one that got me.

As promised, I humbly offer a continuation of the Munich photo jamboree. When last we left Jordan and Stupid, a certain pie-eyed dildo took in the sight of the majestic Zugspitze with a fair amount of desensitized wonderment.






On to beer. Munich has lots, and it's great. Although Jordan looks displeased in this next picture, he's actually ecstatic, as many dreams had come true for him in the form of a liter of absolutely delicious beer. Or three. After we had several, we decided that maybe there just was a god after all.


Dummy had one too (one equals three hundred in "German"):


After ending pretty much every night with what we were calling "big beers," we would walk around historic parts of Munich paying little to no attention to any of it. Except:

The Rathaus (it's the Town Hall, but it's more fun to call it the Rat House. Or Palace of the Fallen Jew)


The sight of the 1972 Olympic games, which, according to this picture, Jordan built, apparently:




Das Schloss (for Matt):


I drunkenly wrote my name on this car. I was later tried for war crimes against all humanity:


Also, (and I mean the English "also" and not the German "also" which I think means "thus" or "go fuck yourself, college boy," which has led to phrases such as "Also, and get me a beer.") it will come as no surprise that I am a schmuck:




However much fun we had at the expense of Germany and their 72 letter words, it may have been one of the most beautiful places I've ever seen, with exception of Ireland and a whore's "office," (which can be ANYWHERE!).





OK. Here's one of the two of us loaded (jerks)...

Munich 2006

At long last, I pestered Jordan enough that the pictures from the Munich trip are available for viewing. He's not talking to me anymore, but it's fun to reminisce about the short time I drove him to near suicide in a country notorious for its drinking and its penchant for violent nationalist sentiments. Let's begin at the top...OF GERMANY!!! HAHHAHAHAAA. Ugh, I fucking stink.

One of the highlights, by far, was our ascent of the Zugspitze, the highest point in Germany located in the Alps. And as we all know, the Lord Alps those who Alps themselves. In Germany, that joke was punishable by death about sixty years ago. The thought of traveling 9,000 plus feet in the air was daunting.



Upon our arrival, Jordan took to his lofty surroundings with a certain sense of rugged bravado.



I, on the other hand, was unimpressed and sought only a four letter word for "needlebox."



Nevertheless, we continued upward by cable car to the very zenith of Bavaria. All kidding aside, it was probably the most beautiful thing I have ever seen in my life. And that's because they had a full service bar over 9,000 feet in the air. I love Germany.



Here are several shots of Jordan and me moments before we had to talk each other out of jumping:







Here's me and a bird. Moments later, we were married.




Here's Jordan seconds after I told him that the only way back down was by one continuous cable car drop:


Once safely off of the mountain, Jordan appeared triumphant. I, still, am unimpressed.




But of course, it all wasn't fun and games. Jordan and I also made a trip out to Dachau, one of the very first concentration camps built and utilized by the Nazi regime during Word War II. On the way, Jordan jokingly asked, "Do you think there's a McDonald's in Dachau?" We laughed a little. Then we cried:





Still, it takes a pretty insensitive human to be unmoved by the sight of one of the biggest atrocities in human civilization. What's a six letter word for "From concentrate, perhaps?"



Tomorrow: Drunken Delights, I'm a Schmuck, and Olympic Gold!

The Jeff Corwin Experience

Protect this:



I laughed and laughed and laughed.

YOU DON'T BELONG HERE!

Sunday presented Washington Heights with its first Spring-ish day. The ominous drug-wielding parkas were cast aside for parkas wielding more drugs due to the lessened need of insulation. So, your hero, Superman, did something in a comic somewhere. This blog's hero, me, cried a little, then took a long walk through his neighborhood, an activity touted by both enterprising hookers and bored homosexuals.

Early Cathars believed that humans are essentially evil, and no argument here. However, sometimes on a not-quite-spring day, when the air is still crisp, yet devoid of winter's death-like embrace, one may sense that, despite our inherent evil, humanity might just have a chance.

So, I embarked north-ish-ward. Now, if you've ever been to Washington Heights, chances are, you don't want to come back. The best parts of this derelict nightmare are laced with animal entrails and refuse, aggressive garbage (no one litters as thoughtfully and as much as a denizen of Washington Heights), and buildings where the rats and cockroaches may be the most conscientious inhabitants.

If one follows Fort Washington north to about 180th Street, he gets gang-raped. Just beyond that, there are a series of beautiful Tudor-style apartment buildings on Pinehurst Avenue that look like they belong in a another city, quite frankly. Most likely in England, about a couple hundred years ago.



The people who live here are a lot like the Gelflings in the Dark Crystal. They are largely oblivious to the fact that great danger lurks everywhere around them and that they, in fact, have butterfly wings (at least the females do).

North of that lay Fort Tryon Park. During the Revolutionary War, British run imperial spaceships docked here in order to infiltrate Inwood. When all they could find was Chimichurri trucks, their fucking heads exploded. However, one can still see the naval advantage of a route up the Hudson River, securing that last bastion of American pride and beauty, New Jersey.



As I stared at the majesty of the Hudson and the flowing, living history of it, I happened to glance down at the stone barrier before me.



Yeah...truer words have never been spoken.

Yeesh...

OK already! There are two changes to the FODJ link bar:

Kath's blog URL is now ihatemusicals.blogspot.com

Anju's blog URL is now foxinthecity.net

Your mom's face's URL is olbutterface.org

These changes have been made to the hyperlinks to the right. Please make a note of it.

-The Management

Small observation

It occurs to me that part of the reason most people react to cockroaches as if confronting a anthropomorphic turd is that, in terms of evolution, our hysteric human reactions convince the cockroach that it needn't develop the ability to bite. Everybody wins.

(Listen, asshole, I know that on rare occasions, cockroaches bite humans. But it's largely harmless. What I'm saying here is if we were to not freak out when a giant golf ball-sized insect shoots across the bathroom floor like the light cycles in Tron, the cockroach may, as a species, decide it is no longer getting things done and needs to develop flesh-melting super venom. Bitch.)

We'd rather you say "axe wound"

America's battle with language continues. Not only is a comedy club (A COMEDY CLUB, PEOPLE!) banning use of the word "nigger" in its establishment, an act which is both cowardly and ineffective, a Westchester high school has suspended three honors students for their inclusion of the word "vagina" in a reading of (AND HERE'S WHERE IT GETS REALLY FUNNY! NOT FUNNY AS IN "THAT'S HILARIOUS," BUT FUNNY IN A "LET'S PUT A SHOTGUN IN THE MOUTH OF EDUCATORS EVERYWHERE" KIND OF WAY) The Vagina Monologues. The. Vagina. Monologues.

Now, John Jay High School principal Richard Leprine, who in this case is most certainly no one's "pal," claims he suspended the girls simply because they agreed not to say the word before the event. Sort of a breach of contract kind of deal. What he neglected to say was that he is a sniveling coward who censored a reading in order to protect his cowardly ass. Against the word vagina, no less.

His rationale, reportedly, is that young people (presumably grade school level children or retarded teenagers) attend these events. Young people who neither own a vagina (I own twelve) nor know what one is. Well sir, the Himalayan Vaginas are a Fascist sect occupying a stronghold just outside of Tibet. These Vaginas tend to be unkempt and odorous, maintaining a diet based largely on wild cockerel and salt water. Most Vaginas are violent and assail potential threats by trapping them in a suffocating embrace with promises of eternal love and devotion, only to later expel their victims as amorphous masses of bone and flesh. The heart is almost always entirely consumed.

Got off on a tangent. Sorry.

The fact that America's paranoia about language has spread from traditionally "offensive" words to actual biological terminology is actually pretty interesting. In some ways, it goes hand in hand with the increasing distrust of science and the deepening foothold of archaic Christian values, which have always included censorship in not only form but content (the Bible is one of the most butchered texts in history depending on who was controlling the edits at the time). In fact, any institution's pedagogy relies on the power of words to herd their constituents. It's important for America's government that the word "nigger" has weight in order so that they can trust that it still has the ability to disable people. It's important that stupid school officials THINK that the word "vagina" is going to cause a stink (ho ho) because as long as we keep fighting amongst ourselves and trying not to offend one another, our freedoms can be continually taken away from us.

They're turning language against us. As George Carlin (and probably countless linguists) has said in the past, words have no meaning in and of themselves. It's the intention with which they're used and the context in which they're deployed. How fucked up is it that a principal of a high school, a man who I can only guess went to college and did a bit of reading, is afraid of a single word? To what end? What purpose? Is he seriously shielding female children from knowing the biological term for what's between their legs, and saving male children from knowing what one is? Part of me (read: all of me) hopes that the children of Westchester never get the skinny on the word "vagina" and that their whole community dies out because couples are unable to procreate due to the assumption that what goes in a lady's pee hole is a fucking pine cone. Not only that, I hope Principal Richard "No Vaginas Here" Leprine's daughter is the first to experience it. Stupid, stupid Americans and their dumb company-endorsed education systems. How about we let McDonalds pick the socially appropriate word for womens' genitalia? "It was so hot, dude. She let me finger her Egg McMuffin."

This country sucks. (Well why don't you move, SOURPUSS!)

Finally, a decent news day

A sack of baby skeletons and a TV-watching corpse? It's not my birthday!

You never write anymore...

Here at Friends of Davey Jones, we strive to bring you the best content available on a semi-monthly to never basis. Our recent unscheduled outage has yielded faster service, more reliable jargon, and improved masturbatory cycles. We've been working around the clock to remove trite or predictable language and/or phrases, like this sentence, in order to maintain the level of mediocrity you've come to expect and almost want. We'd like to thank our twos of fives of readers for their casual (some might say passive) support.

Anna Nicole Smith is dead. File that little chestnut under "Who gives a shit?" Have you fired up CNN.com lately? Why has someone who has contributed absolutely nothing to either society or culture been rewarded with martyrdom? One CNN.com reader claims that Anna Nicole Smith "charmed" us all. What are these fucking people talking about? ARE WE ALL LOOKING AT THE SAME PERSON? The last time a perpetually fucked up redneck moron "charmed" me, I was five years old, he was a clerk at Gymboree, and I was molested. America has gotten into some seriously dangerous habits when it begins reconstructing national jokes into fallen heroes. This trend has been floating around for some time, and it certainly isn't the first time I've complained about it. However, this single event, the passing of an EX-PLAYBOY CENTERFOLD AND STRIPPER (!), and the ensuing unified mourning has solidified America as a nation of absolute morons in every way. Celebrity is now completely synonymous with importance, and that is not only telling about our collective neglect of truly significant things, ideas, and people, but perilous. Maybe we embrace the joke because we are a joke.

I understand that we're fascinated by train wrecks. But when the death of Anna Nicole Smith is dealt with the same weight as the demise of Princess Diana (which itself was pretty silly), aren't we going a step too far?

Just wait until the Snapple lady eats it. Then you''ll see some fucking tears, my friend.

Naw, baby. You look good...

My file system is experiencing an unfortunate bout of low self-esteem. Maybe if I got her a slimming new flat screen monitor. HAHAHHAAHHAAAA!!! MY COMPUTER IS LIKE A LADY!!!

It just doesn't matter

Is there anything that God actually likes?

Make sure you see this before they rip it off, folks (it's already gone from Youtube and very difficult to find on Google Video):

The Bible Says

Add to My Profile | More Videos

There's a lot of speculation about whether or not this is a joke. Well, you know how when you're watching a parody video there's that hint of irony somewhere in the back of your consciousness? Yeah, that doesn't happen here. In fact, lead singer of Evening Service, Donnie Davies has a whole li'l page explaining that he is a "Reformed Homosexual." Isn't that a lot like saying you're a "Reformed Redhead?" It doesn't make sense.

Yub nub, indeed

This was emailed to me. I hate that I love it.

Uh...

...right.

What killed the citrus crops the ice age?

Freshly re-minted Governor of California Arnold Schwarzenegger announced that he is seeking disaster aid for his state's citrus crops after a prolonged bout with frigid weather. He then went on to say "I'm here! Kill me now! Do it!" And other movie references I'm too tired to come up with. Faithful readers?

Lip Service

A good many linguists posit that human beings enjoy a unique capacity for language that occurs innately in all of us, unless of course you were born with severe head trauma, with Shacklesburger Syndrome (no lips and a nun fetish), or born President of the United States (yes, there are those who are, in fact, born president. It is largely known that William Howard Taft was our fattest president. But, it is less widely known that Bill Clinton was our fattest baby president and had to be removed from his mother by catapult in utero, which is Latin for "up her vadge" or is somewhere around Montego Bay). Needless to say, one's consumption and understanding of language is fascinating. Even more fascinating and enraging is the phenomenon known fictitiously as Flappengummen Syndrome, or "Ol' Ghost Lips," in which a subject processing any given language is compelled to move his lips while reading. Now, I've observed TWICE within the last two days people moving their lips while reading on the subway. And I'm not talking a subtle flutter of labial excitement, like a nervous hummingbird jerking off a wasp. I'm talking a cartoonishly exaggerated labial pantomime akin to what one might do when signaling to another person across the room that their balls are on fire or that his or her grandfather is secretly a vampire.

It is not possible to look more ridiculous than when one is moving his lips while reading. Even if he were putting sound to the movements and actually READING OUT LOUD, it wouldn't be as startling or worthy of a baseball bat to the mouth. Scientists have a long list of explanations regarding this phenomenon, but I don't give a shit. I find it distracting when, out of the corner of my eye, I see what appears to be a silent, puckering asshole opening and closing in space. And when, full of hope and wonder, I turn to look only to be rewarded with some douchebag whose mouth looks like an epileptic sea anemone, I tend to get a little angry.

Or people could stop reading. But they've almost achieved that anyway.

Second wave...

Tim Gyves has posted wave two of the birthday rockathon pics. Though he says he had no time to edit them, he was somehow able to replace all photos of me with images of Tom Arnold. Here's a link, but you have to sign in:

WAVE TWO

I have also been told that I neglected to mention a few performances and this, I regret, is embarrassingly true. Fortunately, my omissions have not been overlooked and angry party-goers have flocked to mention them in the comments section.

Remember when I botched Electric Avenue? Good times...

All through the karaoke girls were squealing the hits

Saturday's birthday karaoke jamboree was a tremendous success and I thank everyone who came out to bring Chelsea to its knees with hard, hard rocking.

Initially, I was up against Stalinist-level censorship from Anna and Carla as they attempted to block the first wave of party pictures, courtesy of Mike Solomon, from being seen. As you can see, they put the screws to him and had some of the hot pix removed:

The first wave of pictures are here!

Now, regardless of what Anna will tell you, everyone looked fantastic and hot and popular. In fact, I will have to say that BY FAR the highlight of the evening was Anna's rendition of Eminem's "The Real Slim Shady," which made niggas wanna weep. John Ness's songbird turn as Jack Black in "Wonderboy" had everyone believing in God again. Amanda Nazario's velvet voice made the ladies cream and the men scream, especially when coupled with her boyfriend Dan's silver-lined tenor during "Thunder Road." Let's not forget the very metal team of Matt Gurwitz and Carrie Canada's channeling of Rush for "Tom Sawyer." Not to be outdone, Jeff and Clara Solomon brought karaoking to new heights with their version of the 80's classic "Livin' On a Prayer" and not a soul was left unrocked by this. When Paul Chaytor set forth the power and the fury of several Oasis songs, let it be said, panties were thrown. Hearts were broken.

But honestly, it was seriously the most fun ever and I am so fortunate to have such amazing friends. Next year? Arm wrestling party.

The Advent

For 30 years now, people all around the world celebrate the coming of the crimson baby, Silvarado. It is said that denizens of the deepest regions of the African jungle, most notably the Pygmy or Negrito tribes, light a pair of red candles which represent the inflamed cheeks of Silvarado, whom they also call Bagganaynay ("Douchebag God"). Some children in Castillian Spain await eagerly for presents smothered in warm mashed potatoes and traditional jokebooks consisting of barely humorous stories, woefully bad puns, and blue material about baby rape. It is custom for those recognizing this holiday to greet each other with the traditional "I hate myself" followed by replies of "I hate myself too" if you're a male, or "Who are you again?" if you're a female. Depending on the region, special make-up is applied to the reveler's face in order to accentuate their embittered frowns. The remainder of the day is spent not talking to women and shying away from confrontation. Some orthodox Silvanians continue to collect action figures, comic books, and hardcore pornography. Some paint elaborate murals of Silvarado and Elvis Costello in a sultry bodily entanglement. All weep.

Fagspace

Friends of Davey Jones (me...it's just me really...so very alone) has amassed their media together in a central and accessible place. Myspace. Ever heard of it? Ever heard of the single biggest social cancer the world has seen since roller disco? Well, here's the URL:

myspace.com/fodj

Not all of the video bits are up there yet, but it's a painstaking process that leaves those wishing to promote themselves and their material wondering why anyone would fucking bother ever. Editing a Mypace Comedy page is like fingering a barely legal East Asian: frustrating with occasional exclamations of "Why are you doing that?!"

Which brings me to identity and its construction in a post Myspace world. It seems to me that the biggest irony at work today is that our very ability to fabricate our own custom identities using available technology is exactly what makes individuality almost completely unachievable and, in turn, nearly extinct. The role that the internet plays in the construction of one's identity has long been studied since its advent. Online, we can be whomever or whatever we want to be. It's, in a way, hyperexistentialism, in that not only are we essentially amorphous voids defining ourselves by association with external traits (I like baseball, I like mashed potatoes, I like deep anal penetration), but we are no longer bound to the physical world and can actively manipulate our identity online. But the irony is thickest when we consider that, honestly, the choices available to the construction of this identity are actually very limited. For the most part, the common man, unless well studied in HTML and the like, creates his online persona from what's already floating around out there, the common pool of popular culture. I can be an Elvis Costello loving, Dane Cook hating, quasi-pedophile with a Hello Kitty chat avatar, but that's just a crude combination of the bits of the popular culture with which I've chosen to associate myself. In the end, the building of one's identity becomes no more than a trite illusion. Nothing more than Disney icons and iTunes song lists.

I guess what I'm saying is that in trying to be so different from each other, we've made it impossible to be anything but woefully identical.

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?

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.

Content content content

A little vintage FODJ to stick in your ear:



Ahhhh. To be young again.

?

The Washington Post ran this picture of Ms. Spears and then continued with a pretty catty article about her appearance. In regards to her breasts, hard-hitting, and I'm sure infallible, reporter Robin Givhan writes:

"Pregnancy cleavage can be a beautiful development, but serving up one's bosom like melons at a picnic is aggressively self-indulgent, enormously distracting and, unless you're auditioning for a spread in Penthouse, unnecessarily vulgar."

Is it? You know what's vulgar to me? The fact that there's a Pulitzer Prize for Criticism and Robin Givhan won it for 2006. Don't get me wrong, I don't like defending celebrities at all. Part of their job is existing perpetually in the public eye. But demonizing their appearance under some ridiculous air of moral superiority is absurd, especially when it maintains the Puritanical superstition in this backwards country that the female body is to be cocooned in a fucking burlap sack. Pregnant or not, the female figure is certainly nothing to be ashamed or afraid of, regardless of what it's clothed in. And pretending that fashion reporting carries any sociological weight, enough to warrant a coveted Pulitzer, is more dangerous to me than the influence of the trailer park lifestyle Britney Spears unconsciously champions.

The funny thing is that I started this post wanting to tear Spears apart. I kind of feel sorry for her. And Robin Givhan is from Detroit, a city which, from recent personal experience, can be considered the worst fucking city in the entire fifty state union. How's that for hard-hitting criticism, Suzy Pulitzer?

Krrish!

Last night, I had the most fun I've had at the movies since Paul Reubens and I went to see Newsies clad in only a tub of popcorn and a dream.

I don't think I've ever watched an entire Bollywood film. Ever. Maybe they were being projected on a wall at some hipster's summer BBQ and Scoffing Party, but, for the most part, the little I know about Bollywood is limited to a vague recollection of fantastical love stories and unnecessary dancing. However, when Mike "Where does he FIND this shit?" Sanzone informed me that a Bollywood epic about a superhero was playing as part of the New York Asian Film Festival, I couldn't resist. I love superheroes. And let me just say, I hope Superman Returns is HALF as good as what I saw last night: the heartwarming tale of Indian superhero Krrish.

And speaking of the Man of Steel, it can be argued that Krrish is basically an Indian Superman (insert a bunch of trite impersonations of Apu saying Superman-oriented things...like, "Look up the sky! I am thinking very much that it is a bird!") and the two characters share a lot of particulars in the origin department. Krrish's father is an unfortunate retard (just like Marlon Brando!) who was rendered so after a car accident. This is where it gets delightfully crazy: an alien called Jadoo descends to Earth and endows Krrish's retarded dad with superhuman strength and intelligence for absolutely no reason (that the audience is aware of, anyway - this movie is a sequel). Krrish's father then becomes world-renowned for his exceptionality and is hired, exploited, and killed by some sinister business man (Lex Luthor?). Meanwhile, Krrish (Krishna) is born and his mother dies of grief because of the loss of her husband. Krrish's grandmother, believably played in heavy makeup by a thirty year old, decides to shelter her grandson when she discovers he shares the same superhuman powers as his father. They move to the woods, where he grows up to be the hottest Indian man ever. A group of tourists from Singapore (including a man who can only be described as the Indian Squiggy) visit the woods near where Krrish lives and, of course, Krrish falls desperately in love with the hottest Indian girl ever. Then, there's dancing and singing about love. Then, the girl returns to Singapore, where she loses her job, but decides to feign a love for Krrish in order to exploit his powers and get her job back (she works in television...no shit?). Then, there's dancing and singing about love. Meanwhile, the evil business man is plotting to restart the project Krrish's dead father and he began 20 years before: a computer that can SEE THE FUTURE. Then, Krrish and his fake girlfriend go to the circus, where he becomes a superhero (I'll leave out the details, because it's funnier that way). Then, there's dancing and singing about love. Then, Krrish becomes a national hero. Then, he finds out his girlfriend was using him (but, secretly, she has REALLY fallen in love with him, but he won't buy it because of the initial deception). Then, just as he's about to return to the woods and live out the rest of his life in loveless solitude, there's dancing and singing about love. Actually, he's stopped at the gate by an Indian John Goodman and told that his father is still alive (!). So, he has to return to the super computer that sees the future and save the day, but not before performing in some of the most absurd and wonderful fight sequences ever. Then, there's dancing and singing about love.

Seriously, this movie was three hours long and I never became bored. It was so terrifically funny, insane, beautiful, goofy, endearing, touching, entertaining, and ridiculous at once, that you couldn't help but like it. And the "superhero" stuff was done the way superhero stuff should be done: right out of a comic book and awesome. Sadly, last night was the only showing of Krrish in the festival, but it is, right now, the biggest movie in India, so I'm sure it'll be available on DVD in the near future. At least rent it. It's a superhero. With singing. And dancing. About love!

Also, the actor who plays Krrish (Hrithik Roshan) has two thumbs on his right hand that are fused together. Somehow, this is not disgusting.

Yeah? Well, you like the Prince of Wales' ex-wife AFTER the crash

While breezily joining SAG today, one of the membership employees and I had a lil' chuckle when she sportingly asked me:

"How's your wife Tori doing?"

"I'm sorry?" I replied, a bewilderedly good-natured grin yawning across my face like I've just been told, simultaneously, that I just won a million dollars, but, somehow, the money is INSIDE OF ME.

"Your wife...Tori Spelling?"

I don't know who Tori Spelling is married to. Largely, because I don't give a shit, but, mostly, because I can't even remember the names of the spouses of close friends and relatives, let alone the quasi-celebrity husband of some over-privileged dildo. And yet, despite my obvious embarrassed confusion, she continued:

"You look just like him. You must get that a lot."

"I don't."

"You will."

And with that last bit of ominous prophecy, she was gone; back to the computer where she will no doubt suck the remainder of an extra's meager funds for his crowd scene in Spider-Man 3. Again, because I don't know what Tori Spelling's husband looks like, I was terrified. As I've written before, one of my biggest pet peeves is the average American's sometimes desperate urge to tell you which celebrity you resemble most. For some, like my girlfriend, this is NOT a problem. She gets Angelina Jolie, arguably the current front-runner for most attractive female celebrity on the planet. Not long ago, I got Colin Hanks, who, up until his part in King Kong, I assumed had some sort of mild Downs Syndrome. It is this very unpredictability in the sport of star-equating that makes me extremely nervous. HOWEVER, the good news is that Tori Spelling's husband ain't half bad. His name is Dean McDermott, and he looks like this:



I'm just kidding, he looks like this:


So, if I must be billed as a younger "Dean McDermott," so be it. I'd like to hear his Cosby impression, but I'm sure he's very talented.

Speaking of talented, an old friend of mine, James "I'm not hispanic" Roday has got himself his own show on the USA Network called Psych. I say we support this show come Hell or high water. I, personally, don't have cable. So, you know...it's up to you. Besides, this man used to touch my balls...that's...that's something special:

If you haven't seen it already...

Some prize-winning journalism:


What other possible slip-ups could've been made?

"But, he's a child-pornographer...I mean, he's autistic."

"But, he's into Cleveland Steamers...I mean, he has cancer of the hair."

"But, he's a salad tosser...I mean, he tosses salads...I mean he's dead."

Any others?

Who IS that hot Irishman?

Brendastic has posted about her recent exploits, some of which include video of yours truly jumping into an ice cold river with as much grace as Michael J. Fox performing an emergency abortion.

Too soon?

Marathon: CONFIDENTIAL CONFIDENTIAL CONFIDENTIAL

That made only Jeff, Jordan, and I laugh, but it was worth it and I'd do it again if I had to. I've re-issued FODJ episode 2 with absolutely NO extra features or adjustments of any kind. The only upside is that these newly uploaded gems no longer have that ear-shattering RIZZA tag at the end of them, or whatever it was called (Snoop Dogg's podcasting host). That feed again, if you haven't entered it into your iTunes, is:

http://switchpod.com/users/fodj/feed.xml

"Gabe," you may be asking yourself, "what the fuck do I want with old shows? Haven't you been writing anything else?" The answer is, "Go fuck yourself, grandad. You ain't the boss o' me." And other cliches. But the reality is that I'm doing more reading than writing right now in preparation for two things: 1) the one man show I'm working on, and 2) the play I want to do in August. This weekend, I shall be reading The Philadelphia Story and a few plays by Eric Overmyer. Right now, I'm leaning toward keeping it Philly strong. Overmyer seems like it'd be a chore just making sense of everything.

AND, SPEAKING OF PHILADELPHIA. I've signed up for the Philadelphia Marathon. I've been remiss in my running for the past four years (2002 New York Marathon being my last), so I've joined the ranks of the New York Road Runners Club again. My first race since 2002 ended in my doing 4.8 miles in 40 minutes, a pace of 8:20, which is my fastest official time on record. This could be a result of my excitement for being involved again, or it could be that I'm not drinking my body weight in scotch the night before anymore. "The night before anymore..." Oof.

So, come November 19, I'll be announcing projected earnings for this network...(ha ha ha...a Frank Hackett moment). Come November 19, feel free to join me on a no doubt chilly late autumn morning in Philadelphia. Here's the route:



And anybody who suggests we take a picture next to the Rocky statue gets punched in the tits.

Rebuilding the empire

Because my old host died like an AIDS joke at a gay pride parade, I'm reissuing the first seven episodes of FODJ through the new site, Switchpod. If you've already subscribed to the feed, there is no need to take action, the episodes will come to you (in fact, if you already have the episode saved, you can tell the reader to stop downloading it so you don't have doubles! How delightfully complicated!). If you haven't subscribed yet, pop this RSS feed URL into your favorite RSS reader (iTunes or iPodder will do):

http://switchpod.com/users/fodj/feed.xml

That's it. As I re-upload all of the classic bits your parents loved, you'll laugh at such timeless moments as:

1. Gabe wrestles a man dressed as an interpretation of "hope"
2. Gabe invents a "Democracy Gun"
3. Gabe steps into the Quantum Leap Accelerator...and vanishes
4. Gabe gets pissed off about all the fucking assholes, he means, like, what gives?
5. Gabe fits his entire head inside a Japanese condom

...and many more.