I always learn something new around holiday season. Last year it was "leaving your Hanukkah candles in front of your turbo-jet heater will not only blow them out, it may end up causing your rug to catch on fire."
The year before that, it was "always know your audience before you make a joke about Jesus" (My favorite? Jesus walks into a hotel with 2 planks of wood and some nails. He says to the receptionist, "can you put me up for the night?").
This year it was all about holiday parties. As a Jewish Communal Professional, and the husband of a liberated, working lady, I attended many holiday parties. Some where cheesy, JCC-based affairs where kids drew horribly on their own faces to win oily treats. Others were formal dinners for day schools, who tried valiantly to convince their parents and donors that everything was ok while we ignored the asbestos dropping out of the ceiling and into our salads. I'm totally sending Child there - he needs immunities, and we're supposed to expose him to stuff like chickenpox. Asbestos is the same thing, right? Just like mercury, and lead, and whatnot?
But in other settings, "holiday party" is a euphemism for "Christmas party." Don't patronize me, Christian coworkers. If I'm going to a party with a gigantic pine tree shoved into the corner of a living room, and there are stockings on the mantel, and red and green tissue paper strung up all over the place, and fat bearded guys in Coca-Cola red ho-ho-ho-ing over the Ipod, then even I know it's Christmas time.
Here then, are some lessons I learned while attending Wife's office "holiday that celebrates Christian traditions and Jesus" party:
- if you're going to make jokes about Christmas creep, don't wear a kippah.
- if you're going to wear a kippah, don't go around demanding gifts in Jesus' honor. "What, I'm Jewish, he was Jewish, we're like the same person!" doesn't work. Even if you've grown out a beard, and are wearing a robe and sandals. Even if you made your own crown of thorns. If you turn water into wine, then you should at least get first crack at the Christmas tree cookies.
- Don't refer to the holiday as Xmas. It's weak. And it makes baby Jesus cry.
- Tell funny stories about your spouse to her/his coworkers, but not the one about how she stripped her way through PT school. Because some people will remember that gem through their drunken haze, and will ask her about it at work. Which segues nicely to...
- Don't be the first one at the party to get drunk.
- Don't be the first person to take your pants off.
- Don't be the first person to suggest swirling some Ecstacy into the punch and "letting nature take its sexy, sexy course."
- Always hold on to the car keys. That way, no matter what you do, even if you get locked out of the house, you can sleep in the car.
- Don't compare male PTs to nurses. They don't appreciate that.
- Don't compare male nurses to dainty ladies. They have no problem hurting you in front of your spouse.
- Always thank the host. Especially if she's your spouse's boss. And she was nice enough to help you retrieve your pants from the bushes out front.
- If there is a Yankee swap, hold off on loudly mocking the scarf that looks like it was knitted by a blind arthritic thumbless freak. It was probably made by a coworker.
- If you don't like what your spouse ended up with at the end of Yankee swap, don't challenge the male nurse to a wrestling match for the Barnes & Noble gift card. You will lose.
- If you do take your pants off, remember to wear underwear. Ideally not a leopard print thong.
I found these lessons to be useful. If you feel they will ruin your good time, feel free to ignore them. Just remember: flowers can only make up for so much. Ignore enough of those rules, and you may have to shell out for jewelry. Maybe even real gold.
A quick update on the No Fear Player of 2008 - Old Rambling Man made a good case (albeit not in the Comments) for honoring Congress, but I don't like handing out awards to multiple people - trophies are expensive, and I'm trying to save up for some real jewelry for Wife so I don't have to sleep in the car anymore.
So your No Fear Player of 2008 is... Sarah Palin! I have to say, I'm giving this to her in honor of her becoming a grandma, and also because I appreciate her efforts in setting back the Republican Party a good 12 years. So thanks, Sarah! Good luck with the whole Alaska thing.
Showing posts with label list. Show all posts
Showing posts with label list. Show all posts
Tuesday, December 30, 2008
Monday, July 21, 2008
That's a paddling
- "Addy." The word is address. IF you can't spell it, maybe you shouldn't be earning 6 figures at some fancy law firm. And if you can spell it, maybe you shouldn't pretend to be a 14-year-old cheerleader.
- The heat. I'm on record as anti-sun, but this goes above and beyond. Really it includes anything that makes me sweat. The only times I'm ok with sweating is when I'm running, or I'm naked. Or I'm in a room with a bunch of fat Russian men. It's a sauna, people. Must you go right to the sexiest, hairiest interpretation?
Humidity is a big part of this, as anyone trying to convince you to move to Arizona will tell you. In fact, I'm more against humidity than heat. But I refuse to give it the satisfaction of its own bulletpoint. Take that, water vapor!
- Puberty. You'd think I'd have moved on by now, and let bygones be bygones given that I'm old, and a parent, and old. But my voice still cracks on occasion (the occasion being when I use sentences), I still get zits, and I can't stop noticing the different and wonderful ways that girls' bodies are so very different from boys' bodies. Maybe this means there's still a growth spurt in my future. Everyone gets one, right? At least now, as opposed to high school, I have to shave.
- Shaving. I try to get every hair. I do. But I miss entire regions, small but distinct swaths of facial and neck landscape that sometimes makes me look like an escaped mental patient trying to pass as an office intern. And it's always the same areas, no matter how carefully I focus on them. Maybe I should resort to plucking.
- Haircuts. That's not true at all. I love taking haircuts. I'd get one every week if I could afford it, baldness be damned. Those first couple of days I feel sleeker, more aerodynamic. Badass too, like elite soldier Buster Bluth.
- Miley Cyrus. What's wrong with you? Is this some sort of sting to get every male aged 12-40 arrested on kiddie porn charges (oh my gosh, did I just assist in the investigation?)? Didn't you learn anything from that High School Musical chick? Put some clothes on! Billy Ray, stop hosting your crap-ass TV show and pay attention to your daughter, Lord knows no one else was. This is obviously a cry for help. Or the epic finale of "To Catch 150 Million Predators."
- Harper's Magazine has this thing on its last page called Findings. It's telling that you're not even allowed to read the link without paying, because this is one super elite magazine. Basically it's a list of amazing scientific discoveries and knowledge that were made and found in the past month, or something. So fine, you've got your new info on starfish memories (not lasting more than a day, if you care). But then, they slip this in at the end:
There is evidence of time before the Big Bang.
No footnotes, no citations, nothing. Turns out, if you overcharge for a magazine that only comes out once a month, you can just make up crazy stuff, and the rich people will believe it. And then they mention it offhandedly at cocktail parties. "Hmmm, this is quite the piquant bordeaux. Oh, did you hear about that 'time before the creation of the universe' datum? Yes, I apprised Bipsy of that on our catamaran off Nantucket on Sunday, she nearly bit into her mimosa glass. Huhuhuhuh!"
Harpers, there's only one institution that's allowed to offer science without evidence - the government.
Oooooooh, it looks like you've been out in the sun too long, Harpers, cause you just got Buuuurrrrrrrrnnnned! (Stupid SNL/NBC, pulling their Youtube clips. Seriously, it was a really funny clip. Really.)
- The heat. I'm on record as anti-sun, but this goes above and beyond. Really it includes anything that makes me sweat. The only times I'm ok with sweating is when I'm running, or I'm naked. Or I'm in a room with a bunch of fat Russian men. It's a sauna, people. Must you go right to the sexiest, hairiest interpretation?
Humidity is a big part of this, as anyone trying to convince you to move to Arizona will tell you. In fact, I'm more against humidity than heat. But I refuse to give it the satisfaction of its own bulletpoint. Take that, water vapor!
- Puberty. You'd think I'd have moved on by now, and let bygones be bygones given that I'm old, and a parent, and old. But my voice still cracks on occasion (the occasion being when I use sentences), I still get zits, and I can't stop noticing the different and wonderful ways that girls' bodies are so very different from boys' bodies. Maybe this means there's still a growth spurt in my future. Everyone gets one, right? At least now, as opposed to high school, I have to shave.
- Shaving. I try to get every hair. I do. But I miss entire regions, small but distinct swaths of facial and neck landscape that sometimes makes me look like an escaped mental patient trying to pass as an office intern. And it's always the same areas, no matter how carefully I focus on them. Maybe I should resort to plucking.
- Haircuts. That's not true at all. I love taking haircuts. I'd get one every week if I could afford it, baldness be damned. Those first couple of days I feel sleeker, more aerodynamic. Badass too, like elite soldier Buster Bluth.
- Miley Cyrus. What's wrong with you? Is this some sort of sting to get every male aged 12-40 arrested on kiddie porn charges (oh my gosh, did I just assist in the investigation?)? Didn't you learn anything from that High School Musical chick? Put some clothes on! Billy Ray, stop hosting your crap-ass TV show and pay attention to your daughter, Lord knows no one else was. This is obviously a cry for help. Or the epic finale of "To Catch 150 Million Predators."
- Harper's Magazine has this thing on its last page called Findings. It's telling that you're not even allowed to read the link without paying, because this is one super elite magazine. Basically it's a list of amazing scientific discoveries and knowledge that were made and found in the past month, or something. So fine, you've got your new info on starfish memories (not lasting more than a day, if you care). But then, they slip this in at the end:
There is evidence of time before the Big Bang.
No footnotes, no citations, nothing. Turns out, if you overcharge for a magazine that only comes out once a month, you can just make up crazy stuff, and the rich people will believe it. And then they mention it offhandedly at cocktail parties. "Hmmm, this is quite the piquant bordeaux. Oh, did you hear about that 'time before the creation of the universe' datum? Yes, I apprised Bipsy of that on our catamaran off Nantucket on Sunday, she nearly bit into her mimosa glass. Huhuhuhuh!"
Harpers, there's only one institution that's allowed to offer science without evidence - the government.
Oooooooh, it looks like you've been out in the sun too long, Harpers, cause you just got Buuuurrrrrrrrnnnned! (Stupid SNL/NBC, pulling their Youtube clips. Seriously, it was a really funny clip. Really.)
Tuesday, July 8, 2008
Different ways to "pop the question"
To celebrate America's birthday Brother S proposed to his lady friend, and she accepted. So they're getting married, which is fantastic. But really it was the way in which the question was asked that makes Brother S the man he is (man? He's 22. Is he a Mormon?).
See if you can guess which was his method:
Brief tangent: I know there's been a lot of lists here lately. Too many, in fact. So if you want, I can cut back, and only write solid posts that aren't set off by any sort of bullet point whatsoever. Or I can not care what you think and keep writing whatever I want. Second choice? Excellent.
- Alien crop circles spelling out his special lady's name, and actual little green buggers singing the wedding march in harmony as he etches the proposal into thin air.
- Pixies, harvested from the nearby wood, build a mindbogglingly intricate scaffolding of pure sunlight and spiderwebs. The webs catch the morning dew in such a way that Brother S and his chiquita's names, birthdates, and future life together are mapped out in pristine droplets of rain.
- A personal show of fireworks exploding against an inky black sky, proclaiming to the gods themselves the passionate and unassailable adoration felt by Brother S for his maiden fair. Then the question, spelled out in colored flame to connote the burning love in his heart. Flashbulbs, confetti, and drunkenness ensue.
Brief note #2: There are many possible nicknames for the Future Sister-in-Law. LA Gear, for those 80's nostalgics...and that's the only one that comes to mind right now. I'm sure there are others. It may take me a while to settle on one. Let's all recall what happened when I rushed into naming something like, I don't know, this very blog. What a terrible name. But now I'm stuck with it. Goes to show that I'm often a moron.
- Mermaids construct, over decades, a coral reef that spells out the proposal. In calligraphic Latin.
- Buddhist monks craft symbols representing Brother S, the lady, the day itself, America, and the stores at which the couple will register. These symbols are then painted all over the body of Brother S, who performs a kabuki monologue entirely in Mandarin, wearing nothing but the Chinese symbols.
- A bus pulls into town with a dozen sinister-looking guys in masks with guns. They corral everyone into the dining hall and proclaim that the entire camp has been taken hostage. Ransom will be four tons of barbecue beef, and 20 jerrycans of bug juice.
Sorry, that last one was Color War breakout. My bad.
- Brother S, having written an ode to his g-fry, has it translated into all known languages, and each copy is read simultaneously in a cacophony of love and betrothal. The resulting atonal poem becomes the one true method of declaring one's undying love for another, and must be pronounced before the beginning of each United Nations session.
- "Will U MarE Me?" is spelled out in barbecue sauce on the ground. The resulting swarm of mosquitoes gives the question a life of its own, a life of fleeting existence and vibrancy, but also itchiness.
- Already drunk, Brother S vomits on his woman. Looking up at her while wiping drool and chunky snot from his mouth, he flicks the ring at her, and says "you tell your pops that if it's not big enough, he can kiss my ass." Brother S completes the grand slam by passing out on his future mother-in-law's lap.
I think I'd have liked to see the pixies one, but I'll settle for the one he did. So Mazel tov, Hermano.
See if you can guess which was his method:
Brief tangent: I know there's been a lot of lists here lately. Too many, in fact. So if you want, I can cut back, and only write solid posts that aren't set off by any sort of bullet point whatsoever. Or I can not care what you think and keep writing whatever I want. Second choice? Excellent.
- Alien crop circles spelling out his special lady's name, and actual little green buggers singing the wedding march in harmony as he etches the proposal into thin air.
- Pixies, harvested from the nearby wood, build a mindbogglingly intricate scaffolding of pure sunlight and spiderwebs. The webs catch the morning dew in such a way that Brother S and his chiquita's names, birthdates, and future life together are mapped out in pristine droplets of rain.
- A personal show of fireworks exploding against an inky black sky, proclaiming to the gods themselves the passionate and unassailable adoration felt by Brother S for his maiden fair. Then the question, spelled out in colored flame to connote the burning love in his heart. Flashbulbs, confetti, and drunkenness ensue.
Brief note #2: There are many possible nicknames for the Future Sister-in-Law. LA Gear, for those 80's nostalgics...and that's the only one that comes to mind right now. I'm sure there are others. It may take me a while to settle on one. Let's all recall what happened when I rushed into naming something like, I don't know, this very blog. What a terrible name. But now I'm stuck with it. Goes to show that I'm often a moron.
- Mermaids construct, over decades, a coral reef that spells out the proposal. In calligraphic Latin.
- Buddhist monks craft symbols representing Brother S, the lady, the day itself, America, and the stores at which the couple will register. These symbols are then painted all over the body of Brother S, who performs a kabuki monologue entirely in Mandarin, wearing nothing but the Chinese symbols.
- A bus pulls into town with a dozen sinister-looking guys in masks with guns. They corral everyone into the dining hall and proclaim that the entire camp has been taken hostage. Ransom will be four tons of barbecue beef, and 20 jerrycans of bug juice.
Sorry, that last one was Color War breakout. My bad.
- Brother S, having written an ode to his g-fry, has it translated into all known languages, and each copy is read simultaneously in a cacophony of love and betrothal. The resulting atonal poem becomes the one true method of declaring one's undying love for another, and must be pronounced before the beginning of each United Nations session.
- "Will U MarE Me?" is spelled out in barbecue sauce on the ground. The resulting swarm of mosquitoes gives the question a life of its own, a life of fleeting existence and vibrancy, but also itchiness.
- Already drunk, Brother S vomits on his woman. Looking up at her while wiping drool and chunky snot from his mouth, he flicks the ring at her, and says "you tell your pops that if it's not big enough, he can kiss my ass." Brother S completes the grand slam by passing out on his future mother-in-law's lap.
I think I'd have liked to see the pixies one, but I'll settle for the one he did. So Mazel tov, Hermano.
Thursday, July 3, 2008
Screw you and your delicious, buttery popcorn
I know you've all been wondering how my fantastic job is going. Whether it's the German e-mails, the medical journals, or the fascinating, mute coworkers, it's a constant battle not to swallow my monitor. So before I jet off to exotic Watertown, Wisconsin for Lady Liberty's birthday (don't forget to get her a present; I'm sending edible undies), I thought I'd treat you to some of my daily excitement.
Quick tangent: I have learned it was recently Canada Day. Well la-di-frickin-da. I hope all you folks up north had fun talking aboot the great history of your fine country, eh?
- 200 people on a floor, 1 water cooler. I'm not good with the arithmetic, but I think it's fairly predictable that those numbers make the "cooler" part a sad joke. If you're not going to offer us benefits, at least give us ice trays.
- Behind my half-cubicle sits an older man. At his semi-desk he has a footrest, an oscillating fan, and sundry personal items. He sits in an exquisite leather chair that reclines almost parallel to the floor. I don't know where he got it, I don't know what he had to do to get it. But I do know he's absolutely right in taking it with him when he leaves at night. If he leaves it...just once, that's all I need. I'll sit like a king!
- I'm diligent with throwing out holy socks. But what's the rule on the elastic? How far gone does it have to be before I have to throw them out? Does it matter if they're dressy or white? What if they're really long, so even if they sag they leave no blinding-white calf exposed to the world?
- There's a guy sitting next to me who looks like John Hodgman. Hey, there's another! Wait a minute...
Was that just a flimsy excuse to post footage of people funnier than me? Maybe. You'll never know.
- People who microwave popcorn at work, and don't have the decency to make enough for everyone, should be beaten with shovels. And I don't even like popcorn. That buttery aroma, though...it does strange things to me. I smell it, and I want to kiss Orville Redenbacher full on the mouth. Is that...is that just me?
- Not to fixate on a single topic, but office chairs that don't recline should be collected and burned on a pyre. There should be an evening of joyous revelry to celebrate the event: interpretive dance, jugglers, and bad coffee. Does it not sound glorious?
- The reason, then for my reclining chair obsession: someone stole my chair. The armrests were measured perfectly with my arms, it reclined easily, and had no weird stains. There it is, being used three half-cubes down on my left. That lady better watch her back.
- You know what? The lady chair-thief? She looks like John Hodgman too! Maybe it's all the fluorescent light...
- Today I had the pleasure of going through someone's personal e-mail. This individual decided to send the same document to twenty different people, in twenty different e-mails. Does he not know about cc'ing? If I ever have the pleasure of making his acquaintence, I'm going to poke out his eyes with my pinkie.
- I learned something. Ordinary inconvenience + wildly excessive response = joke, but does not always = funny. Discuss.
- Honestly, which is worse for you - Cheetos, or Snickers? Because that's all that's left in the candy machine. Well, that and trail mix. But I'm neither a sheep, nor am I from Vermont. So nuts to that.
- Happy birthday, America! For your 231st I'm wishing you a new president: a Muslim elitist effete Commie peacenik who won't wear a flag, salute a flag, or do anything but burn a flag unless he uses that awesome symbol to wipe his ass after a huge bowl of hummus and baby's blood.
Either him or Barack Obama. Whichever.
Quick tangent: I have learned it was recently Canada Day. Well la-di-frickin-da. I hope all you folks up north had fun talking aboot the great history of your fine country, eh?
- 200 people on a floor, 1 water cooler. I'm not good with the arithmetic, but I think it's fairly predictable that those numbers make the "cooler" part a sad joke. If you're not going to offer us benefits, at least give us ice trays.
- Behind my half-cubicle sits an older man. At his semi-desk he has a footrest, an oscillating fan, and sundry personal items. He sits in an exquisite leather chair that reclines almost parallel to the floor. I don't know where he got it, I don't know what he had to do to get it. But I do know he's absolutely right in taking it with him when he leaves at night. If he leaves it...just once, that's all I need. I'll sit like a king!
- I'm diligent with throwing out holy socks. But what's the rule on the elastic? How far gone does it have to be before I have to throw them out? Does it matter if they're dressy or white? What if they're really long, so even if they sag they leave no blinding-white calf exposed to the world?
- There's a guy sitting next to me who looks like John Hodgman. Hey, there's another! Wait a minute...
Was that just a flimsy excuse to post footage of people funnier than me? Maybe. You'll never know.
- People who microwave popcorn at work, and don't have the decency to make enough for everyone, should be beaten with shovels. And I don't even like popcorn. That buttery aroma, though...it does strange things to me. I smell it, and I want to kiss Orville Redenbacher full on the mouth. Is that...is that just me?
- Not to fixate on a single topic, but office chairs that don't recline should be collected and burned on a pyre. There should be an evening of joyous revelry to celebrate the event: interpretive dance, jugglers, and bad coffee. Does it not sound glorious?
- The reason, then for my reclining chair obsession: someone stole my chair. The armrests were measured perfectly with my arms, it reclined easily, and had no weird stains. There it is, being used three half-cubes down on my left. That lady better watch her back.
- You know what? The lady chair-thief? She looks like John Hodgman too! Maybe it's all the fluorescent light...
- Today I had the pleasure of going through someone's personal e-mail. This individual decided to send the same document to twenty different people, in twenty different e-mails. Does he not know about cc'ing? If I ever have the pleasure of making his acquaintence, I'm going to poke out his eyes with my pinkie.
- I learned something. Ordinary inconvenience + wildly excessive response = joke, but does not always = funny. Discuss.
- Honestly, which is worse for you - Cheetos, or Snickers? Because that's all that's left in the candy machine. Well, that and trail mix. But I'm neither a sheep, nor am I from Vermont. So nuts to that.
- Happy birthday, America! For your 231st I'm wishing you a new president: a Muslim elitist effete Commie peacenik who won't wear a flag, salute a flag, or do anything but burn a flag unless he uses that awesome symbol to wipe his ass after a huge bowl of hummus and baby's blood.
Either him or Barack Obama. Whichever.
Tuesday, June 3, 2008
Come to China - watch gymnastics, get arrested and deported!
I'm not going to write about Obama's victory, because it came months ago, and only real news people are going to treat today as if something significant happened. Instead, I'm going to write about a country that's crazier and scarier than America: China.
Yesterday China issued a legal guide for foreigners during the Olympics. Some of the rules are understandable - no attacking participants or judges, no smuggling drugs. But then there are some typically fascistic regulations that will give these Games a true Chinese feel. Only a few of these are actually made up.
1) Come to China, and see the entire country! You want to go to Tibet? Is that the new McDonald's sandwich, in honor of our very Special Olympic Games? It isn't? Well then the Chinese government has never heard of it. Why would you want to go somewhere that doesn't exist?
2) People with "mental diseases" are not welcome. Some examples: bipolar disorder, autism, Baron Munchausen's disease, that one disease where you say what you believe, regardless of the government's position. Tourettes, that's it.
3) The mascots are Syd, Ollie, and Millie. Chairman Mao help you if you bring up any of these.
4) These Olympics are sponsored by Coca-Cola, among other companies. If you try to bring Pepsi into the country, you will be deported to the nearest Myanmarese country. What's a Burma? Is that like a Tibet?
5) Athletes are free to express themselves using whatever means they deem appropriate. But remember, in polite company, a gentleman or lady does not bring up religion, politics, oppressive police states, Big Brother, air pollution, water pollution, noise pollution, rickshaws, Japan, Genghis Khan, Kublai Khan, Morty Khan, Hong Kong, Taiwan, child labor, capitalism, North Korea, Yao Ming, the internet, rock and roll music, smog, asthma, choking, lung cancer, and whatever that Tibet thing is.
6) You may root for whomever you please, but don't yell anything mean. Or obnoxious. Or racial. Or political. Or religious. Or using words. Some nice, encouraging grunts are really welcome.
7) You are free to root for the Chinese athletes.
8) If you have any problems please find one of the many volunteers on staff, who are there to answer any of your questions. If your questions are hard, or relate to a sensitive topic, one of the many undercover agents disguised as volunteers will detain you until an acceptable time is determined for your release.
9) Curfew is at 10 sharp. Lights out at 11. Stories at 11:30, but only if everyone's in PJ's.
10) If you're caught sneaking out of your Olympic village for a romantic tryst, to attend a protest, or to use the bathroom, you will be shot on sight. But what the heavily armed undercover agents dressed as volunteers don't know won't hurt you, so enjoy the thrill of sneaking out!
Yesterday China issued a legal guide for foreigners during the Olympics. Some of the rules are understandable - no attacking participants or judges, no smuggling drugs. But then there are some typically fascistic regulations that will give these Games a true Chinese feel. Only a few of these are actually made up.
1) Come to China, and see the entire country! You want to go to Tibet? Is that the new McDonald's sandwich, in honor of our very Special Olympic Games? It isn't? Well then the Chinese government has never heard of it. Why would you want to go somewhere that doesn't exist?
2) People with "mental diseases" are not welcome. Some examples: bipolar disorder, autism, Baron Munchausen's disease, that one disease where you say what you believe, regardless of the government's position. Tourettes, that's it.
3) The mascots are Syd, Ollie, and Millie. Chairman Mao help you if you bring up any of these.
4) These Olympics are sponsored by Coca-Cola, among other companies. If you try to bring Pepsi into the country, you will be deported to the nearest Myanmarese country. What's a Burma? Is that like a Tibet?
5) Athletes are free to express themselves using whatever means they deem appropriate. But remember, in polite company, a gentleman or lady does not bring up religion, politics, oppressive police states, Big Brother, air pollution, water pollution, noise pollution, rickshaws, Japan, Genghis Khan, Kublai Khan, Morty Khan, Hong Kong, Taiwan, child labor, capitalism, North Korea, Yao Ming, the internet, rock and roll music, smog, asthma, choking, lung cancer, and whatever that Tibet thing is.
6) You may root for whomever you please, but don't yell anything mean. Or obnoxious. Or racial. Or political. Or religious. Or using words. Some nice, encouraging grunts are really welcome.
7) You are free to root for the Chinese athletes.
8) If you have any problems please find one of the many volunteers on staff, who are there to answer any of your questions. If your questions are hard, or relate to a sensitive topic, one of the many undercover agents disguised as volunteers will detain you until an acceptable time is determined for your release.
9) Curfew is at 10 sharp. Lights out at 11. Stories at 11:30, but only if everyone's in PJ's.
10) If you're caught sneaking out of your Olympic village for a romantic tryst, to attend a protest, or to use the bathroom, you will be shot on sight. But what the heavily armed undercover agents dressed as volunteers don't know won't hurt you, so enjoy the thrill of sneaking out!
Tuesday, May 20, 2008
Ready, set, VENT!
- Ehud Olmert, you need to go. You've done nothing during your Prime Minister...ship but fail at negotiating with Arabs and Palestinians, lost enough face against Hezbollah in Lebanon that most people think they won that little skirmish, and taken money from American Jews. Kudos, sir!
You are everything wrong with the Israeli center. You seem serious about creating a two-state solution, but you are corrupt and rotten, and therefore an embarrassment to the country and the people. So go. Now.
- Fuck you, Spurs. Now I have to root for a Lakers-Celtics final. Hoo-frigging-rah.
- Commas are for wusses. I am now all about periods. You want a pause? Go play a video game.
- This one isn't actually a complaint. To me the sign of a civilized nation is respect for the word of law. One might think Boston, with its smoke-freeness and its gay marriage and its myriad of crosswalks, would embody civility. Instead I had to go all the way to smoker heaven Pittsburgh to find a population that respects the law that matters to me most - the law of physics.
If a large hulking object is hurtling toward you with no indication it plans to slow down, do you step in front of it? If you're suicidal, or a Boston pedestrian, yes. Even as a walker myself - on occasion - I loathed my fellow foot-traffic, strutting arrogantly against lights. Brakes would squeal and shudder while some jackass yelled at the traumatized drivers: "I'm in the crosswalk, you ass!"
But here in Pittsburgh there are many engineers. And they've all studied Newton. And they know what happens when a large object moving at high speed impacts a smaller, squishier object. So they wait until they have the light, and then they walk. And as they cross they warily eye the idling cars, because you never know.
- On the other hand, no one jaywalks. There's no car within 300 yards! Just cross the street already!
- As much as I should decry Agriprocessors' use of illegal workers (especially given my ode to the law a couple of paragraphs ago), I won't. I like my meat as cheap as possible, and illegal workers allow me to buy fruits and vegetables - for Wife and Child. Not for me. - and meat, glorious meat. Now I have to pay more. Thanks for nothing, INS. Go arrest terrorist watchlist suspect Nelson Mandela.
- I don't care what excuses you make up for your kid the first time he makes the cow-hamburger connection. Kosher has nothing to do with the ethical treatment of cows or chickens or sheep. It never will. You know what's ethical? Not killing and eating animals. Not drastically thinning global fish populations. So stop whining and finish your steak.
- You know who should be allowed to cover Tom Waits? Nobody.
You are everything wrong with the Israeli center. You seem serious about creating a two-state solution, but you are corrupt and rotten, and therefore an embarrassment to the country and the people. So go. Now.
- Fuck you, Spurs. Now I have to root for a Lakers-Celtics final. Hoo-frigging-rah.
- Commas are for wusses. I am now all about periods. You want a pause? Go play a video game.
- This one isn't actually a complaint. To me the sign of a civilized nation is respect for the word of law. One might think Boston, with its smoke-freeness and its gay marriage and its myriad of crosswalks, would embody civility. Instead I had to go all the way to smoker heaven Pittsburgh to find a population that respects the law that matters to me most - the law of physics.
If a large hulking object is hurtling toward you with no indication it plans to slow down, do you step in front of it? If you're suicidal, or a Boston pedestrian, yes. Even as a walker myself - on occasion - I loathed my fellow foot-traffic, strutting arrogantly against lights. Brakes would squeal and shudder while some jackass yelled at the traumatized drivers: "I'm in the crosswalk, you ass!"
But here in Pittsburgh there are many engineers. And they've all studied Newton. And they know what happens when a large object moving at high speed impacts a smaller, squishier object. So they wait until they have the light, and then they walk. And as they cross they warily eye the idling cars, because you never know.
- On the other hand, no one jaywalks. There's no car within 300 yards! Just cross the street already!
- As much as I should decry Agriprocessors' use of illegal workers (especially given my ode to the law a couple of paragraphs ago), I won't. I like my meat as cheap as possible, and illegal workers allow me to buy fruits and vegetables - for Wife and Child. Not for me. - and meat, glorious meat. Now I have to pay more. Thanks for nothing, INS. Go arrest terrorist watchlist suspect Nelson Mandela.
- I don't care what excuses you make up for your kid the first time he makes the cow-hamburger connection. Kosher has nothing to do with the ethical treatment of cows or chickens or sheep. It never will. You know what's ethical? Not killing and eating animals. Not drastically thinning global fish populations. So stop whining and finish your steak.
- You know who should be allowed to cover Tom Waits? Nobody.
Thursday, May 15, 2008
Finally, some decent manly advice
For too long I've wandered in an androgynous desert, wondering what it took for me to be worthy of being called a man. Obviously it's not enough to have the basic biological "junk" - are there not women trapped in men's bodies? Indeed there are - I've seen them on Jerry Springer, and various websites. And, with today's ruling by California's state Supreme Court, it certainly means less now than it did yesterday that I'm married to Wife, by all accounts a real honest-to-goodness lady. I thought that maybe fathering Child would do it. I was wrong.
Finally, there's a website that will teach me how to be a man. Actually there are at least two (which is what I came up with in my limited three minute research Googling), but this one actually looks funny, so I'm only going to rip on The Art of Manliness blog.
First of all, manliness is not an art. Unless that art is fingerpainting, or maybe whittling dildos (dildoes?). I'm not going to argue that some men were pretty famous for their art - your Picasso, your Cezanne, your Sammy Hagar. But just as manliness isn't an art, so too is art not quite manly.
I should probably say, when I said "First of all," all the way over at the beginning of the last paragraph, that may have indicated the start of some sort of list. Sorry, I was totally leading you on. I guess if I spent some time with the Art of Manliness I could probably come up with dozens of quality jokes for your reading pleasure, but it's late, and I'm lazy. So you only get the one thing above, and then this.
This website is noteworthy today because they've decided to list the 100 most vital, most manly books to own and read. And if you haven't noticed, I've gotten all snooty - or at least, more snooty - about the whole reading thing lately. So I really have no choice but to offer some criticism. Huh. I guess you get your list after all. You happy now?
- There's a LOT about Teddy Roosevelt. Personally, I think it's more manly to
fight a world war without getting off your ass (FDR);
be the only person to ever use nuclear weapons in combat (Truman);
create the country with your bare hands (Paul Bunyan - I mean George Washington);
have an affair with your slave (Jefferson);
have sex with Marilyn Monroe (JFK, and possibly Eleanor Roosevelt);
get shot while watching high class the-ater after having saved the country from devouring itself (really? fine, if only for symmetry: McKinley. Dullards.)
But that's just me.
- If I remember correctly, Catcher in the Rye, while one of my favorite books, was about a whiny upper class twit. And I think that's just the kind of man we all want to be.
- "The pitfalls of being the best looking chap around?" Aside for grossly abusing the word "chap," someone obviously has not read The Picture of Dorian Gray.
- If you're going to choose a manly book by Tom Robbins, you choose the one about the lesbian with the gigantic thumbs (Even Cowgirls Get the Blues, for those of you looking for something to read).
- All sorts of books about capitalism. Hey, the unfettered acquisition and accumulation of material goods is pretty guy-ish, but you know what being a man's really about? Sharing. Get the Communist Manifesto in there!
- The Young Man's Guide, the Dangerous Book for Boys, the Boy Scout Handbook... I'm sensing a theme here. A theme of laziness. If I read those books, then what the hell do I need the whole list for?
- I wish I could come up with something pithy about Steppenwolf, but all I can say is that it's just not that good of a book. Eh.
- If you were going to choose an instructional manual written by a woman, would it be a chaste tome written in the 15th century, or would it be How to Make Love Like a Porn Star by Dr. Jenna Jameson?
- The only manly list The Hobbit belongs on is one of "things to carry if you want to get beaten up after study hall." Survey says... dingdingdingdingding!
- Ernest Hemingway deserves two spots on the list. Hell, you can be a big strapping man if you read nothing else (you may end up shooting yourself in Idaho, but whatever). James Jones? Not so much.
- Why are so many books on the list (Into the Wild, The Hatchet, Robinson Crusoe) about running away? I thought that was, you know, cowardly. But what do I know.
- The Moby Dick blurb: "If you ever find yourself on a boat in search of a savage beast, and you encounter a boat that is looking for some of their missing friends that seem to have been attacked by that same whale that you are looking for, take a minute and think. Cost: Possibly your life. Benefit: You kill a big whale. AND you get some serious props."
Yes. Because the book is really only about hunting the whale. That's why it's a classic. (Bullshit call: I haven't actually read it.)
- Hamlet? He could be the wussiest Shakespearean protagonist, second only to stupid, shortsighted Romeo, or even third, behind whipped MacBeth. King Lear, perhaps? Titus? Julius Ceasar? Those are some manly men.
- I hadn't realized that Robinson Crusoe was about loving normal, unconventional, mediocre life. But then I thought it was about the discovery of a really crappy themed restaurant.
- Everyone I know who read The Pearl in high school was bored to tears. Even the men. How did Tom Clancy get left off this list? Robert Ludlum? Those are manly writers.
- The Great Railway Bazaar? Do trains even exist anymore? And could we get them back? I don't know if you guys heard, but gas is getting a little pricier these days.
- The Island of Dr. Moreau? I liked it better when Conrad wrote it and called it Heart of Darkness.
- The Maltese Falcon, The Long Goodbye? I really can't argue with these. Quality picks.
- Finally, some glaring omissions:
Raymond Carver - the manliest, saddest modern man.
George Plimpton, Paper Lion - pretending to be a professional football player takes gigantic testicles, which, last I heard, is a manly prerequisite.
Jonathan Swift, Gulliver's Travels - the greatest satire ever written. I have no idea who he's mocking, but he totally nailed them.
Nelson Algren, The Man with the Golden Arm - so what if he lost Simone de Beauvoir to Sartre, he's still awesome.
Hell, how about de Beauvoir? Maybe some other chicks, and some non-white guys: Ellison, Rushdie, Morrison (female AND black!).
Julius Lester, Look Out, Whitey! Black Power's Gon' Get Yo' Mama! - for the title alone.
And has there been a book in the past 20 years that's worthy? No? Then go back to your Klan meeting. I'm just saying, it might tickle you to know that women and minorities have written books. I swear. You should check them out.
Finally, there's a website that will teach me how to be a man. Actually there are at least two (which is what I came up with in my limited three minute research Googling), but this one actually looks funny, so I'm only going to rip on The Art of Manliness blog.
First of all, manliness is not an art. Unless that art is fingerpainting, or maybe whittling dildos (dildoes?). I'm not going to argue that some men were pretty famous for their art - your Picasso, your Cezanne, your Sammy Hagar. But just as manliness isn't an art, so too is art not quite manly.
I should probably say, when I said "First of all," all the way over at the beginning of the last paragraph, that may have indicated the start of some sort of list. Sorry, I was totally leading you on. I guess if I spent some time with the Art of Manliness I could probably come up with dozens of quality jokes for your reading pleasure, but it's late, and I'm lazy. So you only get the one thing above, and then this.
This website is noteworthy today because they've decided to list the 100 most vital, most manly books to own and read. And if you haven't noticed, I've gotten all snooty - or at least, more snooty - about the whole reading thing lately. So I really have no choice but to offer some criticism. Huh. I guess you get your list after all. You happy now?
- There's a LOT about Teddy Roosevelt. Personally, I think it's more manly to
fight a world war without getting off your ass (FDR);
be the only person to ever use nuclear weapons in combat (Truman);
create the country with your bare hands (Paul Bunyan - I mean George Washington);
have an affair with your slave (Jefferson);
have sex with Marilyn Monroe (JFK, and possibly Eleanor Roosevelt);
get shot while watching high class the-ater after having saved the country from devouring itself (really? fine, if only for symmetry: McKinley. Dullards.)
But that's just me.
- If I remember correctly, Catcher in the Rye, while one of my favorite books, was about a whiny upper class twit. And I think that's just the kind of man we all want to be.
- "The pitfalls of being the best looking chap around?" Aside for grossly abusing the word "chap," someone obviously has not read The Picture of Dorian Gray.
- If you're going to choose a manly book by Tom Robbins, you choose the one about the lesbian with the gigantic thumbs (Even Cowgirls Get the Blues, for those of you looking for something to read).
- All sorts of books about capitalism. Hey, the unfettered acquisition and accumulation of material goods is pretty guy-ish, but you know what being a man's really about? Sharing. Get the Communist Manifesto in there!
- The Young Man's Guide, the Dangerous Book for Boys, the Boy Scout Handbook... I'm sensing a theme here. A theme of laziness. If I read those books, then what the hell do I need the whole list for?
- I wish I could come up with something pithy about Steppenwolf, but all I can say is that it's just not that good of a book. Eh.
- If you were going to choose an instructional manual written by a woman, would it be a chaste tome written in the 15th century, or would it be How to Make Love Like a Porn Star by Dr. Jenna Jameson?
- The only manly list The Hobbit belongs on is one of "things to carry if you want to get beaten up after study hall." Survey says... dingdingdingdingding!
- Ernest Hemingway deserves two spots on the list. Hell, you can be a big strapping man if you read nothing else (you may end up shooting yourself in Idaho, but whatever). James Jones? Not so much.
- Why are so many books on the list (Into the Wild, The Hatchet, Robinson Crusoe) about running away? I thought that was, you know, cowardly. But what do I know.
- The Moby Dick blurb: "If you ever find yourself on a boat in search of a savage beast, and you encounter a boat that is looking for some of their missing friends that seem to have been attacked by that same whale that you are looking for, take a minute and think. Cost: Possibly your life. Benefit: You kill a big whale. AND you get some serious props."
Yes. Because the book is really only about hunting the whale. That's why it's a classic. (Bullshit call: I haven't actually read it.)
- Hamlet? He could be the wussiest Shakespearean protagonist, second only to stupid, shortsighted Romeo, or even third, behind whipped MacBeth. King Lear, perhaps? Titus? Julius Ceasar? Those are some manly men.
- I hadn't realized that Robinson Crusoe was about loving normal, unconventional, mediocre life. But then I thought it was about the discovery of a really crappy themed restaurant.
- Everyone I know who read The Pearl in high school was bored to tears. Even the men. How did Tom Clancy get left off this list? Robert Ludlum? Those are manly writers.
- The Great Railway Bazaar? Do trains even exist anymore? And could we get them back? I don't know if you guys heard, but gas is getting a little pricier these days.
- The Island of Dr. Moreau? I liked it better when Conrad wrote it and called it Heart of Darkness.
- The Maltese Falcon, The Long Goodbye? I really can't argue with these. Quality picks.
- Finally, some glaring omissions:
Raymond Carver - the manliest, saddest modern man.
George Plimpton, Paper Lion - pretending to be a professional football player takes gigantic testicles, which, last I heard, is a manly prerequisite.
Jonathan Swift, Gulliver's Travels - the greatest satire ever written. I have no idea who he's mocking, but he totally nailed them.
Nelson Algren, The Man with the Golden Arm - so what if he lost Simone de Beauvoir to Sartre, he's still awesome.
Hell, how about de Beauvoir? Maybe some other chicks, and some non-white guys: Ellison, Rushdie, Morrison (female AND black!).
Julius Lester, Look Out, Whitey! Black Power's Gon' Get Yo' Mama! - for the title alone.
And has there been a book in the past 20 years that's worthy? No? Then go back to your Klan meeting. I'm just saying, it might tickle you to know that women and minorities have written books. I swear. You should check them out.
Thursday, March 27, 2008
Screw you guys, I'm taking my ball and going home
Here are some reasons why Boston blows...
1) Red Sox fans, drunk and sweating on the un-air-conditioned T.
2) The T, summer, fall, spring or winter, it always sucks.
3) A 3-bedroom house costs, literally, 14.8 billion dollars. Inflation's a bitch.
4) College students, and their rock music, and loose lifestyles.
5) The Charles River. I suppose I should have some allegiance to it, but screw that noise. It's inconveniently located, and smelly, and cold.
6) Frappes. It's a milkshake, you freaks! You are not French!
7) The accent. Not the accent itself, which I actually enjoy. I'm more aggravated by all the crappy imitations. For me, it's the original, or nothing. That's why I hate people who cover Britney Spears; no one else can do her justice.
8) Northeastern liberalism, Southern segregation. The city is like a Dalmatian: a black spot in a sea of white leftist guilt.
9) Somerville, little annoying brother to know-it-all Cambridge. "Ooh! Ooh! Cambridge, check it out! We hate Israel too! Look! Just because we don't have Harvard or MIT, we're still cool, right? Can we come hang out with you and the South End? We've got those cool girl jeans, and hoodies, and everything!"
10) Beacon Hill. Not much of a hill, really, is it. Pompous pricks.
11) Hey, we have inadequate public transportation, we fight parking garage construction because we like our city to be pretty, not functional...let's make it illegal to park on the street! Yeah! That way, we get to ticket cars for pretty much anything!
12) The Commons is actually, get this, a park. But don't call it that, because that would be what normal cities do.
12) I just...I just thought we had something. We had good times, right, Boston? Remember that one time, in the Commons? We had a bottle of wine, and watched the sunset, and talked about our feelings. Didn't you enjoy that? I just feel like, you know, we've been drifting apart. You never tell me what you're thinking about, or how your day is...maybe it's time we went our separate ways.
So... goodbye. The Fancy Pants are packing it in, and moving to another town. One with...other...things...for...people. So, yeah. Bye.
Monday, March 10, 2008
Now I'll have even more to confess
Today the Vatican announced that they had come up with some more sins.
I don't know what they mean by "genetic manipulations," or whether "drug use" includes alcohol and smoking, but I had some other suggestions for sinful behavior that might draw some more attention to what is already a supercool, ultrahip religion:
- Insulting the Pope's hat. I'm sure the big guy is sick of having to wear it, and even more annoyed with people calling him "Penis Head" behind his back. Come on, that's not just me, is it?
- Dwarf tossing. Simply to make it more exciting. Adding the extra rush of offending the Lord might really make it take off as a sport.
- Not tipping. Wife insisted I include this, having worked in the service industry and suffered from terrible tipping practices. "It's 20%, or you may as well throw your drink in your waiter's face, because that's what you're doing anyway."
- Double parking. All you New Yorkers are going to hell.
- Witchcraft. I know it's already a sin, but it's a popular one, and Catholics can renew their ongoing feud with the Wiccans. For we Jews, it's always fun watching the Church persecute some other undeserving group. Two religions, both flamboyant and edgy, with heavy emphasis on cloaks and dog collars? This will be so exciting we could sell tickets.
- Marital sex. And yet procreation is still a prominent commandment. Try and unpack that, believers.
- Metaphorical cannibalism. "Blood and body of Christ?" That's wine and crackers, people. It's a wussy copout, and real cannibalism is a new daring way to win back the youths who are always looking for the Xtreme!
- Loud music. Just because you're reaching out to the kids with one hand doesn't mean you shouldn't smack them down with the other. Remember, you're the Catholic Church.
- Going to Mass in jeans. It's just rude. Jesus would so not appreciate it.
- Long hair on men. Admittedly Jesus looks a little too hippy-ish in hundreds of old paintings, but no one is confusing him with some 12-year-old with nicer curls than Salma Hayek. Especially not any priests. Cut them some slack, would ya?
- Wimples. You're married to the Lord, you're not dead. Show off that holy hot bod. Who doesn't love sexy nuns?
I don't know what they mean by "genetic manipulations," or whether "drug use" includes alcohol and smoking, but I had some other suggestions for sinful behavior that might draw some more attention to what is already a supercool, ultrahip religion:
- Insulting the Pope's hat. I'm sure the big guy is sick of having to wear it, and even more annoyed with people calling him "Penis Head" behind his back. Come on, that's not just me, is it?
- Dwarf tossing. Simply to make it more exciting. Adding the extra rush of offending the Lord might really make it take off as a sport.
- Not tipping. Wife insisted I include this, having worked in the service industry and suffered from terrible tipping practices. "It's 20%, or you may as well throw your drink in your waiter's face, because that's what you're doing anyway."
- Double parking. All you New Yorkers are going to hell.
- Witchcraft. I know it's already a sin, but it's a popular one, and Catholics can renew their ongoing feud with the Wiccans. For we Jews, it's always fun watching the Church persecute some other undeserving group. Two religions, both flamboyant and edgy, with heavy emphasis on cloaks and dog collars? This will be so exciting we could sell tickets.
- Marital sex. And yet procreation is still a prominent commandment. Try and unpack that, believers.
- Metaphorical cannibalism. "Blood and body of Christ?" That's wine and crackers, people. It's a wussy copout, and real cannibalism is a new daring way to win back the youths who are always looking for the Xtreme!
- Loud music. Just because you're reaching out to the kids with one hand doesn't mean you shouldn't smack them down with the other. Remember, you're the Catholic Church.
- Going to Mass in jeans. It's just rude. Jesus would so not appreciate it.
- Long hair on men. Admittedly Jesus looks a little too hippy-ish in hundreds of old paintings, but no one is confusing him with some 12-year-old with nicer curls than Salma Hayek. Especially not any priests. Cut them some slack, would ya?
- Wimples. You're married to the Lord, you're not dead. Show off that holy hot bod. Who doesn't love sexy nuns?
Tuesday, November 20, 2007
Remixed by DJ Hackett...
On my dope, whacked out new album, these are the folks I want dropping 16 bars on some hot waxed tracks:
For the social conscience songs, that speak to the soul of the streets:
1) Lauryn Hill (vague anti-Semitism be damned)
2) Mos Def
3) Boots Riley
4) Killer Mike (you know, he's a college graduate)
5) Common, for the white folks
5a) El-P
For the gangsta style, when I want to glamorize slinging rock in the ghett-o:
1) Snoop
2) Nas
3) Wu-Tang, in this order:
a) Ol Dirty Bastard
b) Method Man
c) Ghostface Killah
d) the Genius
e) Rza
f) Raekwon
g) Masta Killa
4) Eminem
5) Nate Dogg
For the crizzizzay nutty business:
1) Busta Rhymes
2) Pharaoh Monche
3) Andre 3000
4) MF Doom
For the social conscience songs, that speak to the soul of the streets:
1) Lauryn Hill (vague anti-Semitism be damned)
2) Mos Def
3) Boots Riley
4) Killer Mike (you know, he's a college graduate)
5) Common, for the white folks
5a) El-P
For the gangsta style, when I want to glamorize slinging rock in the ghett-o:
1) Snoop
2) Nas
3) Wu-Tang, in this order:
a) Ol Dirty Bastard
b) Method Man
c) Ghostface Killah
d) the Genius
e) Rza
f) Raekwon
g) Masta Killa
4) Eminem
5) Nate Dogg
For the crizzizzay nutty business:
1) Busta Rhymes
2) Pharaoh Monche
3) Andre 3000
4) MF Doom
Thursday, November 1, 2007
OJ is a killer - of teeth
This is what I don't understand about healthy food. Evidently, sometimes it's healthy, and sometimes not. Orange juice, for example. Drink it in the morning, noon, afternoon, evening, dusk, tea-time, brunch, morning snack, afternoon snack, pre-nap munchy time - all good. Drink it at night, however... and the evil OJ molecules start wailing away on your tooth enamel like an ex-wife and her new boyfriend. According to "science," vitamin C turns, werewolf style, into an acid-like substance, somehow related to citric acid.
Whatever. No one can take away my orange-y goodness.
Also, here are my top five foods I use to perform mold experiments in my fridge. Kids, take note - each of these products can be used for at least a B on a science fair project.
5) Apples. In a plastic bag they make a nice juicy slurry chock-full of bacteria.
4) Potatoes. They shrink, grow new potatoes, and somehow transmogrify into yams. Magic!
3) Salad. Whether it's the mix of vegetables, dressing and croutons, or maybe the fact that it tends to get lost in the back behind the english muffins and the glorious, glorious orange juice.
2) Bread. You'd think, with its protective shell of yeast organisms and whatnot, that it would survive the frozen tundra of my GE. But then it's forgotten, and the greenies get it, some white spots, and then the apple-y slush.
1) Milk. This is a no-brainer. It has almost no shelf life, and it's white, which is somehow more fragile. Also, it's got all that goddamn lactose, which makes holy hell in my large intestine, so it becomes some sort of divine retribution of epic proportions. Also, it gets chunky.
Whatever. No one can take away my orange-y goodness.
Also, here are my top five foods I use to perform mold experiments in my fridge. Kids, take note - each of these products can be used for at least a B on a science fair project.
5) Apples. In a plastic bag they make a nice juicy slurry chock-full of bacteria.
4) Potatoes. They shrink, grow new potatoes, and somehow transmogrify into yams. Magic!
3) Salad. Whether it's the mix of vegetables, dressing and croutons, or maybe the fact that it tends to get lost in the back behind the english muffins and the glorious, glorious orange juice.
2) Bread. You'd think, with its protective shell of yeast organisms and whatnot, that it would survive the frozen tundra of my GE. But then it's forgotten, and the greenies get it, some white spots, and then the apple-y slush.
1) Milk. This is a no-brainer. It has almost no shelf life, and it's white, which is somehow more fragile. Also, it's got all that goddamn lactose, which makes holy hell in my large intestine, so it becomes some sort of divine retribution of epic proportions. Also, it gets chunky.
Tuesday, September 4, 2007
Tuesday List: Things to Do in Israel When You're not Dead, But Only Mildly Decayed
This is what I did last week in the Land of Milk & Honey:
1) Got "Mary was a slut!" tattooed on my chest in the middle of the Church of the Holy Sepulcher;
2) Walked onto the Temple of the Mount wearing a "Muhammad Was a Pussy!" T-shirt;
3) Led a Gay Pride parade while blaring "It's Raining Men" on my ghetto blaster through Meah Shearim on the Holy Sabbath;
4) Threw rocks and Molotov cocktails at Israeli soldiers while surrounded by women and children;
5) Demolished Palestinian homes with a Caterpillar bulldozer;
6) Snuck Sudanese refugees past security;
7) Evicted 3 entire settlements from the West Bank;
8) Gave a lecture at Gaza University on "The Myth of the Law of Return; '... And Don't Come Back!'"
9) Openly proclaimed the existence of the Israeli nuclear weapons program; and
10) Led a Holocaust denial rally at Yad Vashem.
All in all, it was a great trip.
1) Got "Mary was a slut!" tattooed on my chest in the middle of the Church of the Holy Sepulcher;
2) Walked onto the Temple of the Mount wearing a "Muhammad Was a Pussy!" T-shirt;
3) Led a Gay Pride parade while blaring "It's Raining Men" on my ghetto blaster through Meah Shearim on the Holy Sabbath;
4) Threw rocks and Molotov cocktails at Israeli soldiers while surrounded by women and children;
5) Demolished Palestinian homes with a Caterpillar bulldozer;
6) Snuck Sudanese refugees past security;
7) Evicted 3 entire settlements from the West Bank;
8) Gave a lecture at Gaza University on "The Myth of the Law of Return; '... And Don't Come Back!'"
9) Openly proclaimed the existence of the Israeli nuclear weapons program; and
10) Led a Holocaust denial rally at Yad Vashem.
All in all, it was a great trip.
Tuesday, August 21, 2007
Tuesday List: …That’s a Paddlin’
“FTW.”
“That is all.”
No-longer-obscure Simpsons quotes
Not having the common decency to switch lanes if the H on my badass Civic has pressed itself into your rear bumper. I’m tailgating you for a reason, lady.
Encouraging young women to dress appropriately and modestly: Pure Fashion
Serving paint chips instead of potato chips. Sure, there’s no trans fats, but there is an extra slice of stupid, courtesy of Slate.com Getting the Lead Out
Not fulfilling your potential before tossing your life away over some puppies. Real men cock fight, Vick.
Believing that cock fighting involves birds, and there is no other subtext. Not at all.
Ring tones. Congratulations, anonymous older woman. Now I know, merely from hearing your phone ring “Umbrella,” that if your husband hasn’t cheated on you, within a week he’ll be all over his secretary.
Zac Effron associated with actual music. But who deserves the paddlin’? It’s not Zac’s fault he’s an androgynous mannequin with caterpillars on his forehead, paid ungodly sums to sing vacuous Disney melodies. And Rolling Stone has to report on the musical zeitgeist as it is, regardless of value judgments. So the paddlin’ goes to Walt Disney’s frozen undead head. Zombie racist son of a bitch.
Rodrigo y Gabriela’s version of “Stairway to Heaven.” Because no one should be allowed to show up Jimmy f’in Page on a guitar, not on this song. And yet there they go, innocent Mexicans, flying in the face of tradition. You’re supposed to be washing dishes, dammit.
Wednesday, August 15, 2007
I'll Take Encyclopedia Britannica, Thanks Very Much
Things I would edit in Wikipedia if a) I cared; and b) had nothing better to do with my time:
How Jesus’ nickname changed from Jeenie Weenie to the Son of G-d (hint: it had something to do with the IPhone);
List of animal rights violations committed by my neighbor’s eight-year-old son Felix against the cat that lives across the street;
The details of Microsoft’s involvement in WWII Norwegian internment camps;
The existence of Norwegian internment camps during WWII;
Icelandic folktales based on the Voltron mythology;
The brutal oppression by Native American tribes of early arrival British dandies (whatever happened to Sir Rollo the Effete?);
Karl Rove and philately: the REAL 9/11 conspiracy.
Wednesday, August 8, 2007
This is your Democratic Party
Here are the Democratic Senators who either voted to allow warrantless wiretapping last Friday or couldn't be bothered to show up, and some reasons for their actions.
Blanche Lincoln (AR): to honor her family name Sen. Lincoln dedicated her yes vote “all the slaves owned by terrorists.” She also grew a beard and built a log cabin with her bare hands.
Mark Pryor (AR): Sen. Pryor split with the Democratic party line because of their refusal to support his Love Thy Sibling Act, which started as a voter referendum that passed by a record 98% in Arkansas.
Barbara Boxer (CA): didn’t vote. Unconfirmed reports placed her and Sen. Harkin attempting the difficult but deeply satisfying Congress of the Cow in the Millard Fillmore Coat Closet while roll was called.
Diane Feinstein (CA): Wanted badly to vote no, but was just too curious about what her neighbors were saying about her rose garden to let this opportunity pass her by. Incidentally, they think it’s exquisite. So it was totally worthwhile.
Ken Salazar (CO): “because fuck
Tom Carper (DE): according to his bio, fell in love with
Bill Nelson (FL): the President promised Sen. Nelson that if he voted yes he’d get to go take another trip on the Space Shuttle where he could enjoy all the drunken weightless sex he could handle.
Daniel Inouye (HI): did you know that smoking too much weed can make you confused and disoriented?
Evan Bayh (IN): the extra h stands for Hitler.
Tom Harkin (IA): didn’t vote.
Mary Landrieu (LA): as a self-proclaimed Senate leader in education from Louisiana, Sen. Landrieu knows there’s no better lesson than to show others how not to do something.
Barbara Mikulski (MD): The Senate’s Dean of Women learned that, while “no” definitely means “no,” no one ever told her what “yes” means.
John Kerry (MA): didn’t vote. Learned the hard way how the voting process can really screw him over. Take that, democracy!
Amy Klobuchar (MN): her “
Claire McCaskill (MO): Was worried Missoura would see her as too girlie if she voted no. After her “aye” vote, got some football buddies together and date-raped some cheerleaders. She’s all man now,
Ben Nelson (NE): If he doesn’t keep himself in the news Sen. Nelson might have to go back to
Kent Conrad (ND): figured the only way to keep
Byron Dorgan (ND): didn’t vote. Maybe if Sen. Conrad had returned Sen. Dorgan’s phone call, Sen. Dorgan might have known what he was supposed to do when his name was called.
Bob Casey (PA): replaced Rick Santorum. In preparation for each vote, drinks a tall glass of santorum to boost his confidence and remind him of his days at Holy Cross.
Tim Johnson (SD): didn’t vote. In fact, Sen. Johnson never votes unless the bill in question mentions
Jim Webb (VA): Rolling Stone called him the Senate’s Most Unlikely Revolutionary. After he voted yes, he grabbed some Tazo Teas from Starbucks and threw them in the
Patty Murray (WA): didn’t vote. Sen. Murray learned while growing up near
Friday, August 3, 2007
Friday List
Things I have said, out loud, in polite conversation, at which only I laughed. And laughed hard. (8 of 10 actually happened. Guess which ones!)
“Women can’t read.”
“Women shouldn’t be allowed to vote.”
In response to a comment about a friend’s wife going to the kitchen to get more food for her husband – “Well who let her out in the first place?”
“Why would you let your wife drive in the first place?”
On Passover (obviously): “Would you like some Christian baby blood with that?”
“My goal tonight was to hook up with someone I’ll never see again. You’re leaving tomorrow, right?”
“You are too already involved with someone. You’re just not counting it cause he’s engaged to someone else.”
“If you’re anti-abortion, then have you never even tried eating fetus? Wait, is that why you guys enjoy bacon so much? Is that the tradeoff?”
“Actually, we did kill him. 30 pieces of silver! Do you know how much that was worth 2000 years ago?”
“It’s about time you broke up with her. What were you thinking? Wait, what? I thought you did it already. Well now that you know, you should definitely dump her.”
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