In Regards To Your Copious Pant Length I Challenge You To A Game Of Risk

Recently, I've discovered something. Emeril Lagasse is full of shit. As a caring and active citizen, I'm writing an open letter:

Dear Emeril,

We don't know each other at all, but I've stumbled upon a strange "coincidence". I have never had your food, nor will I, unless I go to your restaurant. Even then it will not be personally made by you. I'm not simple, and understand the fact you cannot make EVERY dish. This has nothing to do with this letter. As a matter of fact, I'm sure you are very nice and make delicious food. However sir, you can fuck right off.

I'm writing in regards to "your" catchphrase. BAM? I mean, really. Normally I wouldn't even have a problem with that being a stupid fucking catchphrase. It has absolutely no bearing on my day to day life. However, fuck you.

How dare you steal a catchphrase from America's number one sketch show: In Living Color. I loved this show with all my white heart. I feel, despite the common racial themes, they had a way of capturing the zeitgeist of the time. It paved the way for such greats as The Chappelle Show. How in your black heart could you rip off the Funky Fingers Productions characters in such a blatant and malicious manner? Again, fuck fuck fuck you.

I'm still unsure of the action to take to counter this slight on the American Public. I tried getting drunk and yelling at the patrons of a Chili's restaurant and throwing pamphlets with John Lithgow's face photoshopped to look like jalapeños. The public merely turned a blind eye to my blind rage. You evil bastard, fuck you.

I will keep this plan of action, actually.

<3 Dan


Support My Quest. You know I'm right.

It's 4am. I was reading Missed Connections again. I'm listening to DJ/Rupture's I Am Sound Boy. We Started This, Big Work Everlasting Life. A cigarette is hanging out of my mouth, and like any disconnected 24 year old, I'm staring. I noticed a rise in meta-MC. Are we all so lonely we use the internet to connect? It's as if The Nothing has spread, now I'm listening to Outer Space by Freezepop. If you don't get or love this song we aren't friends.

How common is it to feel absolutely lost? I'm fascinated by the concept of anomie. Surrounded by people and alone. It's weird. I'm lighting another cigarette. It's fine. I have a hard enough time with humanity. God, I'm whiny. I know for a fact you've stared at your wall, maybe drunk, just blank. We seek constant stimulation to avoid the real fact. It's hard to be alive. Not in a bad way by any means. It's just that you're thrust into life completely unaware of everything. You're constantly required to re-evaluate what you know and why you know it. Wham City by Dan Deacon is playing. I'm still smoking. I fucking love smoking.

I love the anti-corporation people that smoke. Myself included.

"A pox on them, but don't take my nicotine."

I love the arpeggio in Wham City. I feel like it's the payoff I want. I keep listening and I'm given this life confirming 2 minutes. An explosion of pure happy. Thanks Dan.

Back To The Funny, I guess.





Uncle Nezbit fought hard for boyscout freedom. In the 1800's he fought because he knew this rare and strange leech species needed protection.


People hunted the things to near extinction. Why? Cruelty and misunderstanding. The meat of the boyscout is gamy and tough. At best, the trophies are a chuckle at parties for the bourgeois.


I sought my local shaman in search of answers. I needed to understand this great man. To know his inspiration for the deeds of greatness he performed.


I found wisdom in the dumpster of a local Target.


I was wary due to the fact that the link between the spirit world and ours is very weak there. One can easily be lost amongst the Wil O' The Wisps. They aren't mean creatures, merely playful gremlin like beasts.



Following the unmistakable smell of year old gin, I found my advisor. With glee I asked for all the information I could. I asked the BIG questions, about Unkie Nezbittles, Douglas Adams, you name it.


His words were few. I was stunned. He spoke in quatrains like Nostradamus. These short beautiful poems of prophecy scared and delighted me. While raving and jabbering, I learned various ways to cook boots, find hope, and the mystery of the boy scouts. Those rare inedible marks of mid 1920's social artifice. Trends create false need, false need kills.


With eagerness, I questioned. My fear gone, I became bold. Soon though, his rantings became slower and more focused. Trailing off after he found a lid from a can of Spaghetti-O's to lick clean, I cried. For no reason (like how Cathy can't get a boyfriend) I sobbed.


Burgerteeth taught me much in my young age. I can drive most trains with ease. I still don't know why those fields of wild boy scouts were killed, and I weep. One day Man will find peace and his terrible nature will wash away like Burgerteeth's tan.

-Monty's Baseball Soup

I was going to stop, but I thought of something. Sabrepulse fucking RULES. Listen to him for your own sake. I'm on cigarette 8989738. Still awake and mind is running. I was going to write a huge wildlife factfile on the boyscouts. I'm not, though. I think about these things I write forever. I also don't. It's a weird blend of thinking/unthinking. I also constantly worry if they're good. Like bad.

It's a weird new anxiety to face.

Like I need a new one.

I already compulsively read lists. I can't help it. No matter how stupid or predictable. I'm reading shit like "The Top Ten Reasons Why You Fail" or "Is He A Cheater?". I have no worries about either topic. They are not relevant. I do, though. For the record ladies, he is. Sorry to break it to you, blog style. I just believe whatever Yahoo! news tells me. Without question.

Ok. I promise no more false endings. I won't promise good writing, though.