Saturday, February 28, 2009

That's So Russian!


Who wants to bet on the number of potatoes consumed by this monster in its lifetime?

Hint: Look at its fingers.

Thursday, February 26, 2009

Wicked Nipples


...Been focusing on my video editing as of late, slacking on the word writing. Videos coming soon.

Tuesday, February 24, 2009

8 Things I Hate

Note: I wrote most of this while recovering from the stomach flu. I lost 8 pounds and envied the dead. Thankfully, I feel way better now, but here's last week's positively frothing nest of grump...


I enjoy classical music. I can tolerate fat people. I like vocal harmonies and choirs singing in unison. But. I. Absolutely. Hate. Opera. It's so pretentious. And it all sounds the same. Some porky bitch has lungs the size of garbage bags and howls like a dinosaur. It doesn't delight my senses or lift my withered soul. It's just boring. I'd rather kick pretty flowers. At least I'd feel something.

The first time I saw someone oozing some neon yellow sauce onto a bologna sandwich, I shuddered. It looks disgusting. The first time I tasted it, on a hot dog, I nearly threw up. It tastes disgusting. The sound of mustard being squeezed out the little jimmy hole of a yellow squeeze bottle? Melts my ears. It sounds disgusting. Mustard is yellow terrorism. Case closed.


3.Subculture aficionados
I actually don't have any beef with people who are legitimately into something, be it cars or comics or beef. My problem is with people who won't give it a rest. Enough about your bike, your workout regimen, your veganism, your cat, your computer, your garden, and your commitment to Christ. See my eyes wandering around the room? I'm looking for a place to cry.

I consider myself to be a pretty big hockey fan, but I'll only talk about it when prompted. Why? Because I believe in America.

4.Having a body
Oy, my stomach! Sausage coils rumble through mein jungle. Dark rivers of hate, dissolving all canoes. I got Satan in my guts. He's got a cabin down there. And he's doing push ups on the roof.

See the stomach flu post. And this. And this.

Thanks for blocking my view of the heavens, asshole.

6.Flat screen TV filled bars
There's a sports bar a couple blocks away from me called Boundary. The number of flat screen TV's lining the walls is appalling. Being anywhere near that place is brutal. But hey, dicks gotta eat and drink someplace, don't they? Gotta watch the game, drink $6 beers, laugh at Bud Light commercials, hate fags, eat greasy food, groom the goatee, reek of Axe, rock a bluetooth ear piece, and brag about how awesome your weekend was.

I can drink and watch TV at home. I go to bars to fail at girls.

January kicks my ass regularly. It comes along in the middle of a good for nothing wintertime filled with depression and freeze. Next year, I'm going somewhere warm for the entire month of January. I'll hit up Florida and California, maybe Texas. I'm leaving January like a bag of shit on my rabbi's doorstep. Shalom!

I'm going out on a limb here, but I think slavery is wrong.


I know. I know.

Friday, February 20, 2009

Holding Pattern

Stomach flu ripped apart my life for almost a week, but I'll be back soon, children... as the gaunt specter of a man you once knew.


Saturday, February 14, 2009

I Hate My Body: Stomach Flu

Hola from the nest of grump!

(via Rafa Toro)

I have the stomach flu. My body temperature is 100.5 degrees. My muscles ache. I'm all diarrhea and nausea, but no vomiting, although there have been a couple close calls which involved me leaning over the bathtub, waiting for the custard to spurt. And gas. My entire torso is bloated with malevolent air.

All I can think about, besides wanting to sleep through this whole ordeal, is that I need to be careful about what I eat, drink, and watch.

Hear me out on this...


In 2002, I had a two week stomach episode and ate nothing but Club crackers during that time. I can no longer eat Club crackers because of the negative connotation they hold in my sensory bank. Which isn't so bad. There are other crackers in the world. Like my Uncle Barry, for instance. But it sets a very dangerous precedent for future sicknesses.

I gotta be wary. I don't want to accidentally eliminate any favorite food and drinks from my diet forever. And I don't want a likable movie or TV show to get ruined with poisonous flu memories.

Example: When Masters of the Universe came out in the theaters, my parents took me and a friend to go see it. I was 5 at the time. Little Kid Douche (not talkin' bout my penis) gave it 4 stars. On the ride home, my friend power puked inside my dad's Camaro (yup). A few years ago, the movie was on TBS. I wanted to see it again, but I had to change the channel. All I could think about was my dad retching while he scrubbed the soiled car seats. He sold it a month later. And my friend blamed popcorn for the barf. Never ate popcorn again.

You see what I'm getting at? I need to rest and watch TV to take my mind off my ill health, but the potential for a tragic association stalks my thoughts. Therefore, I can't see new movies, only old ones. And TV shows I've watched a billion times.

I'm also going to be carefully consuming off brand versions of the food and drinks I like, just in case. Nothing from my regular diet. I will ingest Powerade, Canfield ginger ale, Eden soy milk, and Carr's water crackers. With these items, I hope to nurse myself back to health.


My body is a prison, and until I get better, I'm going to watch The Simpsons over and over again. And maybe Robocop.

Friday, February 13, 2009

Spreading the Thighs of God

Here's animation #2. It's about a woman and her local butcher...

The last line pretty much sums it up.

Wednesday, February 11, 2009

Whiskey Juice

It might be my birthday today. I might be turning 27 or so. I might take a huge dump and masturbate in front of my window, one leg up on the sill. I might play Carmen Sandiego at the library amongst the soggy homeless. I might wonder why I hardly see any homeless women at all. I might shrug and proceed to an old timey monkey knife fight in Humboldt Park.


I might break my legs off and throw them at a cop. I might try to scurry away on my bloody stumps. I might feel a sharp pain in the back of my head and black out. I might wake up in a landfill. I might find an abandoned ukulele amidst the rubble. I might play a ballad set during World War I about a soldier who threw bread at enemy soldiers and ate grenades. And I might laugh so hard that I don't hear the rats approaching...

Birthdays are very rad.


Tuesday, February 10, 2009

8 of My Favorite Jokes

What did the hobo get for Christmas?


How do you know when it's bedtime at Michael Jackson's house?
He yawns and says he's tired.


How many Hindus can you fit in a BMW?


Three men walk into a bar. They're alcoholics.


How do you keep your wife from reading your e-mails?
Ask her nicely.


How come black people are so good at basketball?
Because they practice.


What do you call a Japanese man with arthritis?


What's the difference between a Jew and a sausage?
One is food and the other is someone who believes in Judaism.


Monday, February 9, 2009

Abraham Lincoln


He's still got it

Thursday, February 5, 2009

I'm in Love...

...with an online animated movie making application. Here's our first child...

We're getting married in the spring.

People Are Shitty

As a pre-schooler, it was all toys and swings. To impress my friends (4 year olds!), I would make fun of the only kid who still wore diapers. He wore brown pants. Very clever. I was too young to appreciate this gamesmanship back then. I was very busy. I had LEGO castles to build, weirdos to mock, and bathrobes to pee in. No time to think about brown pants. Let’s just laugh at him and play fart tag.


His mother must have been a smart woman to dress him that way. A smart, disappointed woman. She had dreamed about the joys of child ownership since puberty, and when she finally got one, it was a dud. Oftentimes, she stared at him coldly, calculating the years lost.


But she trudged on and put diapers and brown corduroys on her urchin and got to work on a second child, whom she would love with all her heart. Leaving nothing to chance, she went to a sperm bank without her husband’s knowledge. She had faith in second chances. She wanted a girl. A healthy girl. No defects. A proud biological specimen to shower her love upon.


And when she went into labor, she basked in the glow of her future. She refused to accept any drugs, trusting that with pain came a greater reward. She did everything the doctor instructed. When he coughed on her vagina, she didn’t complain. Nothing was going to ruin the moment. She pushed with all her might, and out it came. She looked down and her face turned pale, for she had just given birth to a signed photo of Mark Wahlberg.


Tuesday, February 3, 2009

Lou Piniella's Secret Shame

During my brief tenure as a Wrigley Field security guard, I received all sorts of irregular Cubs merchandise from my employers. They saw it as a way to assuage the criminally low wages I was working for, and it seemed like a decent benefit at the time. But when I actually looked at the stuff they bestowed upon me, it became painfully obvious as to why they had so many leftovers. Nobody else wanted the crap. It was junky, worthless, and in the case of my beloved Lou Piniella bobble-head, ugly.


(I think they took the head from a Slavic villager action figure)

A month ago, during a party at my place, I entertained my guests by gluing a little gun to Lou's pelvic girdle. And the legend of "Lou Piniella Gun Crotch" was born.



We even made a song about it. It's sung to the tune of "If I Were A Rich Man" and it goes:
Lou Piniella Gun Crotch
Yibby Dibby Dibby Dibby
Dibby Dibby Dibby Dum

I'd like to meet Lou on the street one day. I'll tell him all about my bobble head shenanigans and I bet he'll laugh like he was in on it, too. Then he'll ask me if I like Italian food, and I'll say "You know it, Louie P!" He'll take me to his favorite restaurant and feed me the finest pastas and wine, flown in from Rome. Oh, the deep philosophical conversations we'll have! And the laughter we'll share when I put my leg out and trip the waiter, sending him to the hospital.

It'll be great! I'll give him some advice regarding the starting lineup, and he'll humor me. Then I'll bring up the playoffs and the Fukudome fiasco. His affable facade will wither and he'll excuse himself to go to the bathroom. When he returns, I'll apologize and he'll tell me it's no big deal. He'll acknowledge that starting Fukudome was a mistake. Then he'll order another bottle of wine, an old favorite, and pour me a glass. I'll gulp it down.

All of a sudden, I'll get sleepy and dizzy. A grin will grow on Lou's face. Then I'll black out. When I wake up, I'll be in Lou's basement. My arms and legs will be fastened to a chair. Lou will stand before me, shirtless. He'll be wearing an executioner's mask. He'll be holding a tube of glue in one hand and a .357 Magnum in the other. And he'll take his time.

It's gonna be awesome.