Wednesday, December 31, 2008

Tuesday, December 30, 2008

Monday, December 29, 2008

Federico Lombardi, Your Table is Ready

Israel is dropping bombs on the Gaza Strip right now. They're targeting Hamas and Palestinian militants who've been shooting rockets into Israel from Gaza.

This was so inevitable, and not surprising at all. And that's what's fucked up. Of course some Palestinians were going to fuck with Israel, and of course Israel would push back, hard. It's the same game they've been playing for decades. Both are belligerents. Both play the victim. And now the third intifada, or uprising, is likely to begin. It's not going to be the last one, either.

Hey! Intifadas for everybody, on the house!

I'd rather not be a fatalist. I'd like to believe that there could be some sort of tolerance, not friendliness or drum circle love-ins, but tolerance between Israelis and Palestinians. But until the pricks who are firing stray rockets into Israel stop what they're doing (which is not likely), and Israel stops overreacting with its superior military (which is not likely), there will always be bloodshed, paranoia, and finger-pointing.

Part of my family has a trip to Israel planned for March. That's probably not gonna happen now. It's pretty minor, considering how many people have been killed, but still. Why they gotta fuck with my bubbie's last trip to Israel?

And the most well thought out statement concerning this mess? It came from the Vatican. The fucking Vatican!

Reverend Federico Lombardi
, a Vatican spokesman had this to say about the conflict:

"Hamas is a prisoner to a logic of hate, Israel to a logic of faith in force as the best response to hate. One must continue to search for a different way out, even if that may seem impossible."



Saturday, December 27, 2008

Bubbling Brain Eggs

I am now dedicated to creating a video on par with this one. Some game tightening is in order, but I'm up for it. Jesus Christ and Buddha and Babylon Ron! This is what I want to do with my life!

The music ain't that bad, either.

Friday, December 26, 2008

Carl Winslow's Corner: In My Room

Hey gang!

It's your ol' buddy Carl Winslow here.

Wanna know a secret?
I eat nothing but black lemons.


Moldy leftover fruits contain all the nutrients I need to thrive in the hurt-dome. The hurt-dome is my bunk bed. I share it with two dead orangutans. One is Don, who fell out my closet. The other is Lurie... I shot Lurie. Caught him looking at my photos. He knew better. Now, all he knows is my comb, gently teasing his hair. Forever.

The photos I protect are of sad orangutans and their bunk beds.
Have a look...



Yeah, you like what you see, don't ya? Ape emotions + bunk beds = satisfaction. I can stare at these babies for hours. It's too hot in my skin. I hate everybody, including dead people and candy wrappers! Blessed be the man who lights his house on fire with digital righteousness!

Other shit happened since the last time I shared my thoughts with you, children...

Blew my arm off. Regenerated it.
Hang glided into a Pizza Hut. Threw up on the manager.
Googled my name. Cockroaches poured out of the USB port.
Woke up underwater.

Yep. I'm pretty normal once you get to know me. Which you won't.

Until then, you know where to find me. In my room.

Monday, December 22, 2008

Robust Buffet


Just got back from Miami. It was 82 degrees and sunny the whole week. It's -2 right now in Chicago...
Happy Hanukkah.

Monday, December 15, 2008

Letters From an Afflicted Admirer : Part 2

I introduced a weirdo the other day. Troubled Tony. He messaged my friend Kellie via myspace, and the things he wrote were like malignant drips of sap from the madness tree.

Here's another unedited (except the name) message...

Date: Jan 20, 2008 6:49 PM

Subject: RE: shrak vs. tomatoe

It's too bad that I cre ep you out a little. It's too bad that I can't come over right now to fly kites with you instead of writing these retarded messages. I creep out a lot of people including myself. I can easily be so much creepier. I'm not that creepy. I can be pretty charming also.

Sometimes I just don't use much tact.

Because I know your a bit crazy; I thought that maybe you would succumb to my crazy wild desires. I really only wanted to try and be friends. But then I was thinking that if you were single, maybe we could try to be something more. Because I would really like a serious long term sort of or forever type of girlfriend or a very special temporary short term girlfriend.

But I don't want just anyone, I only want someone who is perfect. Like you. I think your perfect because you write the best poetry, your a talented artist, the way you see the world I find so intriguing, and your the most beautiful creature I've ever seen practically I think. With out a doubt actually because you always have the best hair and complexion and make up. Inside and outside I think you are quite special. It feels good to be desired. So I hope your flattered at least. And not disgusted.

I do really like you. I think that it's fine. I'll find someone to fly kites with sometime. Usually, lately 2 to 4 girls a week ask me for my phone number. I usually don't ask them for theirs though. I haven't found any that I am really about but I'm sure eventually I will. A swimsuit model was calling me a lot even. But then she left the country and I don't think she's back yet. So, I am sort of struggling for girls at the moment because I just can't seem to find one that is good for me. But I'm not too worried. I'm just getting so bored. Sorry for sending you such odd requests and messages. And for rambling.

I hope we can still talk sometime in the far future. Maybe someday we can fly a kite together or something. I wont mail you anything though. Because I don't want to be creepy. And I doubt that when ever I feel like communicating with you that I would be sane. I just can't see into the future that far. And I'm usually perceived as the opposite of sane in reality and writing. At least I'm not violent. So what evers good. I hope your well.

With utmost courtesy and respect,
Troubled Tony

..."At least I'm not violent."

Great line, pity boner. If you have to assure somebody that you're not crazy, you're probably crazy.

And why don't you string together a paragraph that doesn't contradict itself in frightening ways while you're at it? That's my rhetorical question to you, Troubled Tony.


....That's all I got this week, because I'll be in Miami till Sunday.

Perhaps Monty has something cooking on his sticky stove to feed y'all while I'm gone.

Smell ya next week, zap flaps!

Saturday, December 13, 2008

Candy Land Panagramic Message Service: Full Service Stops

Wake Up Mr. Mint Or Dear God The Gin Is Gone.

I awoke to the sound of glass breaking. The only reason I was upset was because of the delicate nature of my stomach at the moment. I knew one wrong move and last night's gin harvest, along with my peppermint chicken tacos from TacoHell, would come out. Why the fuck can't I get one non-mint flavored item? I feel like Midas but without any curses. I don't have a childhood. All I remember is this mint hellhole and serving bratty children life stories when their parents get divorced or they need confidence or some shit.

Rolling over proved to be more hazardous than I thought. The bottle I was nursing last night to forget that I'm in this shit hole, forever, also makes an effective arm cutter when you are trying to get out of bed and not puke. Yeah. One big happy Candy Land. There is no justice.
(via Nuglife)

After my morning Mint Beer, Day Old Mint Eggs, and a good cry, I watched the blood trickle down and felt...alive. I tentatively tasted it. Copper with bready undertones. It was incredible. I can't remember the last time I haven't had that sickly sweet mint taint.

I cut more to eat a meal that wasn't something scrounged from lollipop trees or family friendly gummy chicken.

Hours later, laying in a mess of my own blood and Mr. Mint Baby Batter™, I heard a knock at my door. I knew my next meal, or any meal, wouldn't have that foul taint ever again.


Friday, December 12, 2008

No Tights.

Wednesday, December 10, 2008

Little Hero

Yes. Yes yes yes! Yes! Holy shit!


I can die now.

Tuesday, December 9, 2008

Letters From an Afflicted Admirer : Part 1

During my visit to Grand Rapids, Kellie showed me some creepy messages she received on myspace from a suitor who isn't suited for social interaction. Let's call him Troubled Tony, so as not to, uh, embarrass him further.

She received about 6 of them and replied only to the first one. The first one isn't that bad. The rest of them are. He must've thought that he was making progress, and therefore could reveal his inner feelings. His feelings are wrong.

I've met this guy a couple of times, and was startled by the level of casual dementia he exhibited.

Here is the 4th message, selected as an introduction to the madness. It's amazing.

I'm not joking. This is real. And unedited.

Here she is...

Jan 12, 2008 6:03 PM

shrak vs. tomatoe


Hey, I think I want you to move to Wisconsin with me when I get back from Belgium if I go. Because your pretty fantastic. I'm going to build a farm there and underground bases on about 30 acres of land that I have. Then we have 5 acres here in Illinois to build on also. I'll get more eventually.
I might apprentice for an innovator in greenhouse technology. I go to lectures on farming. I already know what I'm going to build. Poured concrete and Dome structures with greenroofs and fish ponds. I want to be able to grow year long without the use of the sun. And outside with the sun. My domes will look like burial mounds! I talk to a lot of consultants about engineering, farming, and energy. I read.

You should come hang out with me. But you might not want to because I might be insane. And you don't know me that well.

I might have trouble communicating. But not really.

I just like the pictures you put in your general pane.
Yesterday my dad got me 192 cans of spray paint. He supports my graffiti now. It was $521.00. The most I ever spent on spray paint in one day. I got it from Arnie, he's our friend. A media consultant who owns TV production companies and produced my dads public access cable TV show. He also owns a paint distribution warehouse. He got me a job to animate a TV commercial for Amtrak. I'll get more TV jobs. I'm using the spray paint to make a mural in my little brothers new Dojo. (Martial Arts School)
Houston Alexander The Nebraskan Assasin (MMA UFC Fighter) is also going to paint something because he's a writer. But I'm OK with that. If it's wac I'll go over him.

I should probably move back to Hollywood where I know many good people and could get a good job but I'm going to try this farming thing first because there is a food crisis going on. And I will have time to build 3D models and work on my demo reel. Still. I'll go back to Hollywood soon enough. Now I need to learn more.

I am so bored.

You should come over and watch documentaries with me. Then maybe we could go bike riding or something? Please. Im so bored! I could die.
I'm suffering.

I hope your well!

Much love,

Troubled Tony

...Yeah, nothing wrong here.

My favorite part is when he breaks down and lays down some truth...

"You should come hang out with me. But you might not want to because I might be insane. And you don't know me that well. I might have trouble communicating. But not really."

These letters are gold!

Thank you, Kellie, for giving me permission to put out these hissing dispatches. And for the hospitality. Ben, too.

More to come, pilgrims!


Monday, December 8, 2008

Ukrainian Village Grease House

8 months a year
the window
in my building's hallway
is wide open

Letting stinks
and sounds

It's winter

The window
is now
fixed shut
to retain heat

And I'll be damned
if it doesn't smell like
thick-ass meatloaf
in my bedroom
right now


Friday, December 5, 2008

Guilt Trippin'

Holy shit! I got a burnt by a shame thrower yesterday. Bad.

I was planning on visiting my friend Kellie in Grand Rapids yesterday.
(Lee and Kellie, lookin' all grown up, and slightly deranged)

I canceled via email in the wee morning hours, like a yellow bellied scoundrel. My reasoning was simple: (Arctic cold snap + snow+ icy roads) = difficult travels. I knew it was a pussy excuse, but it seemed rational at the time.

I must've poked a dog in the eye on this one.

When I woke up, I was feeling much better than the night before. Until I opened an email from Kellie. Now, Kellie is neither a Jew nor a mother, but I'll be damned if she didn't secretly train at a Jewish Mother academy. Oy! She pushed the guilt button hard enough to transport me into another dimension. A dimension filled to capacity with chili mac.

Usually, getting me to change my mind is like trying to push a wet rope up a hill. But when a friend says that they're disappointed in me, bought stomach friendly food for me, got hockey tickets (!) for me, stresses how important it is to spend time with the people you care about, and hopelessly sighs via email? Well, this man has a shame limit. And if the shame is valid, I change my tune and rectify my wrong.

So I'm off to visit Kellie today, like I should have done yesterday. I got called out, and now I'm making it right.

And to those who would try to exploit my shame bone, now that the secret is out, you should know something. Guilt trippin' only works on me once a year, per person, and that person has to be a good friend. A person I have farted loudly in front of...see you soon, Kellie!

Thursday, December 4, 2008

Weird, Odd, Strange, & Plus

Howdy, pilgrims.

Our site tracker collects data on how people find our site. We've done a few of these in the past. It's amazing that this blog came up first or second when people searched for the terms below. And weird. But I like weird, and if you're reading this, you like weird, too. Ga-gow!


Starting now, I'll do a post on the weirdest search phrases from the previous month. And I will select the first, second, and third best phrases from them all. These are the cream of the crop, people. Enjoy!

Referrals for November

"Arnold Schwarzenegger perm" (It's all the rage in Thailand)

"Andre the Giant was a Jew?" (I wish. But no, he was not. Check my "biography" of him here)

"creepy adult babies"

"fleshlight alien"

"the life of BABE BROTH THE BASEBALL PLAYER" (Babe Broth was underrated)

"hairy douche" (Robin Williams?)

"fleshlight crystal"

"douche for sale" (3rd place)

"clayface nephew" (1st place)

"Kid N Play on Sesame Street"

"fdr was a pig killer" (It's true, he ran 'em over with his wheel chair)

"beginner guitar pack boner"

"douche making lips numb" (don't douche with Novocaine, dummkopf)

"Soup carl" (Daddy?)

"Carlos Zambrano gay" (Say that to his face and discover a world of lasers)

"beard syndrome"

"mumia chipmunk" (2nd place) That gives me an idea...

"washing LSD off clothes" (idiot)

"knee skins sale" (stock up, ma)

"can i put lsd in soup" (yes, but you shouldn't)

"cannibal beach" (romantic honeymoon?)


"fat guy fleshlight" (no!)

"toronto lsd guide" (The only time I'd consider taking LSD would be at a hockey game up north. Think about all the vapor trails and colors as the players flew around the ice, chasing an insignificant black disk. Oh, the things people do for rubber black disks. How foolish and fun it would all seem on LSD...then again, think of the violent collisions and 20,000 people surrounding me. Freaking out is a definite possibility. I'd have to enlist the aid of a WindMILF...Nah, if I freak out at a hockey game, my brain would forever associate hockey with panic. I love hockey too much to let that happen. Good call, Kid Douche)

"douche pontoon" (all aboard!)

"carl david hyman jr kiddie sex"

"DRAGONBALL Z kamasutra" (Vegeta...eeewwwww)

"put fleshlight inside teddy bear" (Sir, yes, sir!)

"sister and daughter douche sex pictures" (

And here's a little claymation zombie gore short that I was really impressed with. Good stuff starts around 1:00.

Smeh-hellz ya later, brobrah.

Wednesday, December 3, 2008

Stranger Danger

I was watching The Strangers yesterday, and was I was all, "Where's Balki and Cousin Larry? This isn't what I ordered. You're not my pretty butterfly. Are you my pretty butterfly? No!"

I made my own version of The Strangers and sent it to director Bryan Bertino, who should spell his name Brian like the rest of us. So far, he hasn't returned my calls. I did a mock up poster and everything. I wonder why he hasn't gotten back to me?
(original poster here)

My version would be way cooler. And funnier. Two Jews and a black TV cop from the early 90's? Box office gold.

But I guess there's no use fixin' what ain't broke. The Strangers is a damn fine movie. I felt vulnerable and tense throughout my viewing. Word of advice: If you plan on watching it alone at 2am in complete silence, have a hatchet nearby. For safety swingin'. You're gonna need something to feel more protected. I wanted to buy a gun after watching it...

And that is why I recommend The Strangers.

Smell ya later.

Monday, December 1, 2008

Learn The Lessons, Master Biter

A couple weeks ago, my friend Rob decided to have his head shaved. At a party. Here's what happened...

Twas good fun. Afterwards, we refined the creepy pick up lines, and laughed the night away.

A doll was made with the leftover hair. I sent it to my grandmother, whom I hate. She sent me a photo in response. It was of herself in bed, snuggled up to the doll. I just can't seem to creep her out. Never been able to. She's unflappable. Except for her skin, that's mighty flappable.

Sunday, November 30, 2008

Getting Pissy About Diarrhea

True story time! Also, the second Nest of Grump entry.

Please note that this is a post about my guts. I have written a letter to my stomach. Don't enjoy belly aching? Well, you're never gonna get anywhere with that attitude. And if you're reading this while taking a poo, I love you unconditionally.
(via Fart Party. Love ya, girl)

First, some recent history...

I have stomach issues. Straight up. I had an endoscope put down my esophagus in July. In fact, that experience was the catalyst for this blog. The GI doctor that performed the procedure didn't find anything physically wrong with me, therefore limiting any effective treatment. Official diagnosis, dyspepsia. Essentially, I have IBS of the upper intestines. He put me on some muscle relaxants that supposedly target the intestines, but the results have been mixed at best.

I've also been told (and believe) that 80% of my stomach problems are caused by my mind and the anxieties that dwell within it. Nerves in the gut have the highest amount of serotonin in the body. Serotonin is a neurotransmitter that regulates mood. I'm a moody fucker. Correlation? You bet your cthulhu.

In conclusion, I have the capacity to cause my own physical suffering. Neat!

Onto my letter...

Dear My Stomach,
I know we haven't really talked in a while, but I feel that some things need to be addressed. About us. Please bear with me and take what I say into consideration. You'll always be a part of me, that's a given. But, tell me, how did it ever come to this?

We used to be so close. Remember back in high school, when I fed you grilled cheese sandwiches for lunch and Mongolian Beef for dinner, with a couple Twix bars in between? Yeah, you remember. You broke down all that stuff with the grace of a figure skater. Those were some good times. We had a great love for each other back then. An excess of love, actually. I was fat. Remember?

But you were industrious and I was happy back then. Even when I was eating entire pizzas, 4 times a week, you never hassled me. We were in love with amounts and flavors. Chinese buffets and microwaveable junk food. Pop Tarts and burritos. Cheddar Sun Chips and peanut butter. Crab Rangoon! Those were the days.

Sure, I felt bad about my body. Buying larger pants and trying to conceal man-boobs took a toll on my self-esteem. Forever. But you never betrayed me with pain or digestive difficulty. You did your job and I did mine.

Then, about six years ago, you started to rebel against my cavalier eating habits. You stopped breaking down dairy. Pizza, once a source of delight, became an agent of distress. Horrible cramps and diarrhea occurred. I had to sacrifice all lactose. I felt greatly restricted at first. But with a little time and some perspective, I got over it. After all, everything else was still fair game. We were still pals. There was no use lamenting the things I could not change. Tacos without cheese are still delicious. And without cheese in my diet, I was able to drop a few pounds. Perhaps it was a blessing in disguise. I went from 255 to 180. Not bad.

But the hostility didn't stop there. It grew. Tacos soon brought with them a nauseous wrath. Butter made my belly bubble. Eggs, spicy foods, green peppers, pie. All became forbidden after incurring hefty penalties. And the list of verboten vittles continued to swell.

What exactly were you trying to prove? I mean, what the fuck?!

And lately, you've gotten mean. For the past three years, you have made my life a living hell, not to mention severely limiting my food options. I have discovered that you will not tolerate anything with fats or oils in them. There's not a fried thing I can eat without indigestion, nausea, bloating, and heartburn. Nuts are out. Guacamole? Nope. Chocolate? Not unless I want some Chernobyl farts. No more steak, either. Peanut butter cookies, gone.

You tyrant!

The things I can eat without problems? Cereal, oatmeal, toast, rice, chicken, turkey, dry crackers, pasta, soy milk, and other bland edibles. Woo-fucking-hoo.

If you disapprove of anything I give to you, anything that even slightly glistens, you make the next 6 or 7 hours of my life unbearable. All I can do is drink water and ride it out while watching TV. I can't go out. I can't write or be funny. All my efforts are put into recovering from these erratic bouts of lousiness. Do you realize that my quality of life, our quality of life, suffers from your never ending wickedness? Something has to change. And soon.

I know that I may have overworked you in the past, but those days are long over. There's no need for revenge, partner. I cut a lot of bad shit out of my diet for you. We've hit a rough patch, sure, but without your appetite suppression tactics, I wouldn't own the lean body that I sport today. I'm grateful to you for that.
Sex-machine. Minus the sex.

But, this can't go on forever. It just can't. The future I desire doesn't include agonizing nights curled up in a ball, clutching my stomach. I'm at the end of my rope. If you stop this war right now, all will be forgiven. I want a truce. I want for us to be buddies again. I'm reaching out to you. Please take my hand.

All My Love,
Kid Douche

Wednesday, November 26, 2008

NASCAR Reading Club

Two more payments and she's all mine.


Tuesday, November 25, 2008

Homeless People Sleep Outside

This photo made my day. Now I must sleep.


Monday, November 24, 2008

Rambo A-Go-Go

Have you seen the new Rambo? It's all heads being chopped off and exploding shins. And some shaky-cam infant slaughter thrown in for good measure.

How many steroid-filled syringes has Sylvester Stallone popped into his stump? Judging by his monstrous neck, I'd say a duffel bag full. I wouldn't rule out pit bull DNA injections as well. Maybe that explains the mindset of a film where everything erupts in red slop and a child is torn from his father's arms and thrown into a burning house. Jesus!

New Rambo carnage...I don't toss around the word pogrom a lot, or at all, but this is pretty much what I'd expect a pogrom to look like.

There's also some moral hooey about interfering in another nation's misery, and fighting for humanitarian rights, but all that goes out the window when a man holding a small child gets shot in the back and the bullet goes through the kid as well. Social commentary voided. And all these moments I'm describing are edited together really fast, leaving no time to process what you just saw.

If it was up to me, I'd rename this film Zoom Zoom Burmese Guttin' Hut.

Sunday, November 23, 2008

Ralph Wilson Stadium

Ralph Wilson Stadium in Buffalo is nicknamed "The Ralph".


Friday, November 21, 2008

8 Creepy Pick Up Lines

Over the past week or so, Lee and I (with some collaborative help from Monty, Lindsey, and Rob) have been brainstorming a bunch of creepy pick up lines. Lines that convey a slippery grip on sanity, and an utter lack of human communication skills. We wanted to prove that one sentence, spoken with the awkwardness of 5 senior proms combined, can strike fear and uneasiness within the hearts of women worldwide.

Warning! If you actually say these things to a woman, you'd better know how to take a punch in the dick.

But two things first;

1) These also qualify as things you don't want to hear while walking alone in a dark alley. Boy or girl.
2) Use a gruff, axe-murdery, unsettling interior voice when reading them. Trust me. Way better payoff.

Also, whisper one of these lines to your dad, and send a picture of his reaction to me at You will be rewarded with Cheez-Its.

Here's them gems...

1. "Time to look at my jammies."


2. "Do you like soft things?"


3. "In 15 minutes, we won't even be here."


4. "You smell cultural."


5. "Milky Pete wants his bologna."


6. "They found ticks in me."


7. "Hostage party!"


8. "Wanna take a ride in my giggle buggy?"


Well, I'm off to the bars, ladies.
Smell ya later.

Thursday, November 20, 2008

Take Your Goiter To Work Day

Got a few things to ramble about this evening/morn...

Haven't had internet for a few days, hence the lack of postage. I was at my folk's house in the burbs, where I average 14 hours of sleep a night and pound my drum set like it owes me money. I cherish these two things. I take 3-4 days every month to visit my family, the executive producers of Team Kid Douche. It helps hone my brain bone, and keeps me grounded.

Although I always seem to come up with Carl Winslow scenarios when I visit. I don't think this is a coincidence.


The craigslist missed connections are getting pretty weak these days. No intrigue, no stories, just pathetic crap like, "Hey, I saw you walking your dog and you said hi to me as you picked up poop in a Best Buy bag. Drinks? :P"

How come there aren't any homeless gentleman getting miss connected? They're out in the streets all day, talking to females. No connections? Really? That's sad.


W4M- To Rowboat Leroy from Spare Some Change, Sexy? - 26 - (outside 7 eleven)
"You were blinking your left eye rapidly and coughing into a bouquet of flowers you stole from the cemetery. Your right eye was bloodshot and transfixing. You told me that you'd humped somebody in Texas that looked like me, but it was a long time ago. I was flattered.

Then you tried to sell me a rolling suitcase. I said OK only because I was smitten and wanted to hear you talk some more. You unzipped the suitcase, revealing a staggering amount of pee bottles, but I didn't care. You were ashamed and ran away.

I like you, Rowboat. Come back! I hope you see this ad when you use the computer at the library tomorrow, while not so discreetly rubbing your pants.

Monday, November 17, 2008

I've Got The Arthritis In Atlantis (Sung To The Tune Of Cinderelli In Chord D)

If you think it through it works well, I think.

Sung to the tune of misery.

Am I the only person who sees a vein of nihilism in every conversation?

Everyone I know is on the brink of total collapse.

By everyone I mean me.

And by me I mean all of us. Douglas Coupland is an amazing writer. He shot his wad too early. He pegged Gen-X as the dejected and over educated. Bull Shit. What about Us? The completely rejected and over educated not because of money but because we seek reason in a world of madness. Raised in broken homes and lonely times, Origami does not a friend make.

When I was a kid I spent a lot of time in libraries. Not because of a need for learning but because I sought a companion. Craft books make great friends when your only true companion is a hobby. When I needed friends I would read harder. I would work more to avoid the fact that in middle school loneliness is not common, or fun, or hip.

I don't get current nerd chic. I learned and read because I was too awkward, too un-socialized to be a birthday buddy.

I love pop music because it provides those feelings foreign to me.

Take from that what you already have.

I know I'm not the only pessimistic person from birth. Being dealt a bad hand today doesn't mean blues. It means standard. Everyone has it hard because being aimless and hopeless is no longer a John Hughes fantasy. It's something we all face. The degreed and serving.

How many people do you know are more intelligent than the people they serve?

How many times can I get drunk before it's old? How about you?

We all exist somewhere between mild breakdown and complete nervous system overload. Is that healthy? No. Does anyone in advertising care? No. Your free time is up for sale. Every blank thought should be filled with consumerist need. I have my addictions. You have yours. We all have one. It may not be chemical. I'm horribly addicted to music that makes me feel "OK".

Not for fun or enjoyment. As a mid-twenties nervous breakdown, I need it. I need to know something will be ok. Otherwise, I'm lost in my own internal neurotic rambling. The desperate fear of being totally isolated because my social skills are intensely uncomfortable. For me and anyone in a point five mile radius.

What gets you through your day? The mild hope of a human interaction not marred by fear and crippling self consciousness? That's our hope. Being hyper aware of you, yourself, all the millions of scenarios played by pop culture for you,

This moment brought to you by Sony, BMG, Zach Braff, and pseudo-involved interactions with everyone.

Do yourself a favor. Walk away. Take a breath. No one can take the time you set for yourself. Dream the dream of a life not wrapped in pain and fear. The burrito of our times. Good Day.

Saturday, November 15, 2008

It's Getting Later Earlier Nowadays


Scotch and Salad homage...

Wake up at 2:30 in the afternoon
Heart beating fast
cheetah's pulse
Look out the window
gray and getting dark

Urge to do something
I'm missing precious moments out there
My happiness
my future
my Malibu honeymoon

I'm fine right here
watching wet leaves
fall off the tree
outside my apartment

All I need
is a dog
to sit beside me
and look out the window
while I eat his
heart worm pills

Friday, November 14, 2008

Kamasutra Maneuvers: Terminator T-800 Edition


Terminator sex is the new werewolf sex, or so says Us Weekly. Here are the maneuvers involved and what they go by among robots in the post-apocalyptic streets.

The Lumpy Helicopter

The Laser Penis Surprise

The Icicle Goes In, and Never Comes Out

The Maximum Vacuum

This one's called Eating Lunch at a Picnic Table By Myself, Crying

The Irish Taco

The Paul McCartney Special

The Ejector Seat

And finally, The Bologna Pony

Roborgs, they're just like us!

Smell y'all later

(all photos via cszar's Flickr)