My Cell Phone Is Haunted

NOTE: To enhance the frightening mood of this post, please pretend that I'm holding a flashlight under my chin. Oh, and pretend that the flashlight is turned on. If it was off, that would just be silly, like, "Why's he holding a darkened flashlight under his chin? What a weird guy. Handsome, though." So yes, do that, and also, pretend there's some creepy music playing. Something with lots of bass and maybe an organ. Yeah, organ's are way creepy. You should probably pretend it's not 9:15 in the morning, either.

I don't want to alarm anyone, but I'm pretty sure... no, I'm positive... that my cellular telephone is haunted. While it may not technically be displaying the creepy red text like the one in the picture (I added that for dramatic effect), it's definitely got some sort of paranormal creepy-crawly inside of it and, quite honestly, I couldn't be more terrified if you showed me a YouTube video of my Mom being chased by zombies on Halloween.

And, no Mr. Skeptical-Pants, I'm not exaggerating!!! Never doubt my sincerity when it comes to haunted technology!!!

What's happened is this:

2ND NOTE: Prepare for your bones to be chilled, yo.

On my cell phone's screen, an icon is showing up indicating that I have a new voice mail waiting to be retrieved. Nothing odd about that; happens every day, seeing as how I'm ridiculously popular and people are always calling to tell me that I'm awesome. But now, oh kids... now... when I check my mailbox... there's nothing there!!! No new voice mail, no new text message, not even a fax! And yet, the icon remains.

SPOOKY!!!

No? Not scared? Okay, fine. Well what if I told you that when I checked my voicemail, there, on the inbox was a bloody hook!!! Uh... the hitchhiker had been dead for years? It was Freddy Krueger?

Man, you guys are really brave. Er... will... one of you come sleep over at my house until the phone bogeyman is gone? Thanks!

Apropos Of Nothing, It's HERMAN'S HERMITS!

NOTE: Jesus, listen to the girls screaming in the background. Can you believe these guys were once that popular? Peter Noone is awful dreamy, though, so I guess I understand. Anyway, I totally love this song.

2ND NOTE: Whatcha doin'? I'm bored. Entertain me.

New Yorkers Will Be Nice To You

Apparently, Mayor Mike wants us to be more hospitable to the loads and loads and loads of tourists that visit NYC with the sole intention of standing on the sidewalk and not moving when I, personally, am late for work. My first reaction to this is, of course, to say, "HA!" and then go about my business of shoving in front of a taxi anyone who's looking up at a building. However, after some quiet reflection (drinking) and because I was after all once a frightened newbie here myself, I've changed my mind. Why shouldn't we be nice? Why shouldn't we welcome travellers from parts abroad with open arms and a large, non-threatening smile? It'll be good for the tourists, good for our city and, honestly, it'll be good for us. Because being nice is the nicest thing you can do... for yourself. Think about it, won't you. Anyway, to that end, I've come up with a few ways that those of us who live in New York can be nicer and more hospitable to our greatest civic resource: The Mighty Tourist.

Oh, Be Nice!, or, "Please, Let Me Hold Your Fanny Pack"

-Sure, when a tourist asks for directions to Chinatown, it's hilariously tempting to send them to the South Bronx and to tell them to, "Go after midnight, because that's when the dumplings are at their freshest." But doing that is very, very... well, hilarious, as I said, but it's probably not the nicest thing you could do. Send them to East Harlem instead.

-Okay, for real, we've got to stop them from going to see Mamma Mia. It was funny at first, but now it just feels mean.

-When you've got them pinned to the ground and you're digging their fillings out with a pocketknife, be sure to compliment them on their snappy, new "I Heart NY" shirt. It will make them feel like a "real New Yorker," and it will distract them from the rusty blade cutting into their gums.

-For once, sell them the good crack.

-Instead of having the tourists sleep in pricey hotels, offer them a cozy spot on your floor. Or your couch, maybe? Or even... hey, why not... your bed. I'm just sayin' that some of them tourists are mighty good-looking and maybe they like to party? You won't know until you ask.

-If you find a frightened tourist in a bad part of town, c'mon... be a good person and guide them to some place a little more suited to their vacationing needs. Of course you should take their wallet as payment for "the effort," but, starting now, lets all agree that we'll let them keep their shoes.

-Be sure to show 'em The Big Apple, ifyaknowwhatImean!!!

I Also Have Some Questions About Meat Loaf

NOTE: Since we're already talking music today, I feel that now would be a fine time to finally get some answers about this fella...

Questions

-How does a guy who looks like that get famous? I mean, I know it was the 70's and everyone was on dope (as is my understanding), but still... he looked like a guy who drove a garbage truck. Hell, he looked like an actual garbage truck! I guess my point is, there's no way that someone with a Meat Loaf-esque appearance could possibly achieve stardom today, even if he had in his pocket such catchy tunes as "Paradise By The Dashboard Light" and "You Took The Words Right Out Of My Mouth."

-So, you know what I look like, right? Okay, now imagine me with my beard shaved, and with long, greasy, brown hair. Meat Loaf's doppelganger, no? I know they already did a TV movie about him, but isn't it time that they made another one starring me, C-dog? If nothing else, I've put in 27 years of method acting prep when it comes to playing the part of a sweaty fat guy. Otherwise known as, "Emmy gold."

-Would you offer your throat to the wolf with the red roses? And, if so, is it or is it not true that you say that to all the boys? Because I'd be willing to place a wager on the former.

-Who's more in need of a tarp, the front row of a Meat Loaf show or the front row of a Gallagher show? Sure there's watermelon flying everywhere at the latter, but at the former, there's got to be just buckets of rocker drippings raining down like so much stinky... er, rain, I guess.

-All in all, though, Bat Out Of Hell was a kick-ass album. That's not a question. It's a statement of fact!!!

Should I Like This Band?

I've been listening to the free XM radio that comes with my AIM thingy (sorry, is that too technical a term?), and that, as is often the case, has lead me to a new band that I'm not entirely sure I'm supposed to like. I mean, yeah, okay... you like what you like and there should be no shame in enjoying music, no matter what it is, but c'mon... we all know that that's only true in theory. In practical application, there's tons of bands that people should be ashamed of for enjoying; music that should be hidden in an attic, Anne Frank-style, and listened to only under the cover of darkness. Creed, Stain'd, My Chemical Romance, Nickleback, any band who's lyrics could prompt a fifteen year old to write poetry... the list is endless, and it's full of an embarrassment known only to those who've been caught masturbating by a parent.

Which brings me back around to my problem. I've come across a band that made me go, and I quote, "Wow." I'd never heard of them before, so I've got no cultural basis from which to form an immediate opinion; all I've got is the few songs I've been able to dig up on the YouTube and, from what I've seen, me likey much much. The catch here is that they're a band that I could totally, totally see being the source for a wellspring of mockery, both for their music and for their overly-theatrical flourishes (there's a lot of elaborate make-up, which, unless you're Bowie in the 70's, tends to be a bad sign). Still... I'm kind of hooked.

So, gentle and non-judgemental readers, I turn this question over to you: Should I like this band?

"Coin-Operated Boy" by The Dresden Dolls

Please help, because if I'm going to get a ton of shit from society for liking these guys, I've seriously got to go find an attic in which I can hide. I guess Craigslist would be the place to start for that?

Arbitrary Rulings 2

Robocop - Not the movie, the actual concept of a robotic cop. Bad idea, gotta say, if for no other reason than you can't offer to "take care" of a Robocop to get out of a speeding ticket. He doesn't care. He's a Robocop and, therefore, immune to your heaving bosom and suggestive hand motions. Also, the nation's police departments would go broke from all the cases of expensive, imported Robocop lube that would be required to keep them in crime-bustin' shape. And, I should point out that, in case you missed it, I said "lube." So let it be known, ZFS! is officially against any and all Robocops, forever and always. Their technology would be better suited for Roboprostitutes, anyway.

Neil Young - Say you've hated green olives all your adult life. Don't like the way they taste, don't like the way they smell, would rather eat a dog turd a foot long than eat a nasty, briny, ass-y green olive. Then, one day, quite by accident, you find yourself with a mouthful of green olives and, before you can spit them out and give chase to the bastard that shoved them in there, you find yourself thinking, "Hey, these green olives that are currently swirling around my palate... they're not so bad." You think it must be a mistake, you eat another. Then another. Soon, you've downed a whole jar of green olives and it's like someone kicked open a locked door in your brain to reveal a rich, heretofore unknown landscape of tasty excitement. For me, the green olives are Neil Young. Actually, the green olives are also green olives, because I just discovered that I like those too. But mainly, I'm talking about Neil Young. Turns out, I'm a fan. Who knew?

Pink - The color, not the popular teen-oriented singer (though I've got some issues with her, too). Okay, pink, here's the thing... it's not that you're a bad color. I mean, you make do girly birthday cakes and girly infants look all cute and... well... girly, and that's just fine. And when it's cold outside, you're a welcome color on all of our cheeks. For some reason, though, you feel the need to do more; to go beyond cakes, babies, and cheeks. Pink, I've seen you on clothes and that's unacceptable. Women and men are wearing you around like you're not an unappealing shade of red, and it's time for you to end this. Guys won't stop wearing you because they mistakenly enjoy looking either "fierce" or "like a douchebag," depending on their sexual preference. And girls won't stop wearing you because they're desperate to look younger than they actually are and, thus, won't stop swaddling themselves in a color meant for infants. I'm generalizing here, but you get my meaning. Pink, please, step away from our fashion. You're hurting everyone, but most of all, you're hurting yourself.

The Toothpick In My Sandwich That I Accidentally Just Bit Into - Omigod, what's wrong with you??? Are you trying to kill me??? I mean, yeah, thanks I guess for holding my sandwich together and everything, but seriously... fuck you for sticking around long enough to stab me in the mouth. And, yes, I could have pulled you out of the sandwich before I started eating you. But this isn't about me. This is about you and how you're an evil piece of wood that can go fuck itself for being so hard, pointy, and in my sandwich.

Slacks - There is not, nor will there ever be, a greater word in the English language than "Slacks."Say it with me now... SLACKS!!! It's like a hilarious linguistic vacation for your tongue and your brain. Oh, and the slacks themselves are nice too, particularly in black. Very slimming.

And We're Back...

Hooray!!!

I'm back from vacation!!!

Hooray!!!

Who's excited to see me?!?! Don't worry, I'll answer for you: Everyone!!! You've all missed me so much, you've started cutting yourselves just so you'd feel something other than the crushing loneliness that comes with an absent C-dog!!! Well put down that razor blade and pick up a smile... I'm back, babies, and I'm never going away again. Until the next vacation. Or until the I eat a bunch of Chinese take-out and wash it down with a few cocktails and am then much too logy to make it to the computer. Or until I just don't feel like it anymore, preferring the company of the good folks at Mythbusters to the general goodwill of my blogger buddies.

But other than those examples, I'm here to stay. Ish.

So, first things first, a couple of "thank yous" need to be handed out like so many participation ribbons at a sixth-grade Field Day...

...To Braden, for pinch-hitting for me while I got my State Fair on. He did, as I'm sure we'll all agree, a spectacularly funny job. Some of you even though that he was... dare I say it... funnier than me??? Well, I don't know about that. I mean, how does one quantify who's funnier than whom? Humor is so subjective, I don't think there's any way to actively gauge our individual comedic merits anyway, and besides, Braden and I are old friends who aren't in direct competition with each other, nor will we ever be.

...To the large, Austin-based goon named The Fist, whom I hired to beat the funny right out of Braden in a back alley behind a porno theater. NO ONE IS FUNNIER THAN ME!!! YOU HEAR ME, YOU SKINNY BASTARD?!?! YOU BROUGHT THIS ON YOURSELF!!!

...To the true fans of ZFS!, who would never even think of forsaking me for another. Especially since they all know that I keep The Fist on retainer and he's more than willing to fly anywhere in the continental US to give people heapin' helpin's of "what for."

Now, let's look onward to the future. I'm sure you're all just dying to find out how the New York State Fair treated me, so take comfort in the knowledge that I've got two big posts planned for this week that should detail everything you want to know. As long as "everything you want to know" is limited to "what I ate and what horrifying carnival rides I rode." Otherwise, you're shit out of luck, because that's all I'm a-writin' about.

So yeah, be on the look-out for those soon.

And I guess that's it for the moment. I'm working the late-shift at the office tonight, so I'm going to go lounge around the house for another couple of hours before I have to put on pants. More this afternoon, because I'm got to get myself back in the bloggin' groove.

The ZFS! Guide to Anniversary Gifts, pt. 4

[And so we come to the end of the guest posts, with one final way to torture honor your significant other. Thanks to Clint for letting me pollute these precious mountain waters, and to all of you for being freshwater trout and not grizzlies. You're a valuable natural resource!
--Braden]



#4: The Evaluation

This anniversary, it's time to let him know where he stands. Literally -- will he be striking a Flintstone-esque pose on the back porch, duking it out with the emotional sabre-toothed tiger that is your anger? Or will things between you be, as Dr. Joyce Brothers is wont to say, "all good in the 'hood"?

Your Man's Performance Review: A Handy Checklist

Give your main squeeze props if, at any time in the last year, he:

__ Put on deodorant without asking

__ Refused payment for "Services Rendered"

__ Cried at any movie not starring Bruce Willis (except Hudson Hawk)

__ Did a 1080 Half-Nollie Grind under Adverse Weather Conditions (I mean, c'mon!)

__ Picked up the God-D***ed Check For Once


... And give him a Frowny Kitty, or "Jeer" if, at any time in the last year, he:

__ Dotted an "i" with a heart

__ Refused to stop calling you "The Ghost With The Most"

__ Ate one of your fingers

__ Asked you to put on his "special hat" and act out his favorite scene from Hudson Hawk
(Note: This is theoretically impossible)

__ Followed even one iota of advice from The ZFS! Guide to Anniversary Gifts



[The End! Tomorrow: The Return of C-Worthy!]

The ZFS! Guide to Anniversary Gifts, pt. 3

[The guest series keeps on rollin', this time with a gift idea for the ladies. Clint placed a huge responsibility on my shoulders when he handed me the keys to ZFS! for the weekend, so I'd like to thank everyone for using coasters, and for not breaking that priceless crystal egg on the mantle. Now if we can just ask all the prostitutes to leave, and find out who the hell invited all those prostitutes in the first place (Miles, I'm looking at you), I'd really appreciate it. --Braden]



#3: The Vacation ... From Hygiene

When you asked him what he wanted this anniversary, he said simply, "Surprise me!" Well, I can absolutely guarantee he won't be expecting this. Because this year when he wants to get intimate, he'll be heading for "Where the Wild Things Are".

Suggested Areas to Neglect:

- Teeth

- Pits

- Ears (bonus points for each actual earwig sighting!)

- Your Bathing Suit Area

- Nooks (see also: Crannies)


[Tomorrow: Part The Fourth]

The ZFS! Guide to Anniversary Gifts, pt. 2

[And now, part two of my humble but oh-so-four-part guest series. Hopefully this will be enough to warm your cockles until Clint stumbles back into his apartment on Tuesday, drunk, pantsless, wanted in four states, and ready to home key it into your hearts. --Braden]



#2: The Cart Full of Frozen Dinners

You're a genius. A freaking genius. You're what happens when a diamond covered in platinum angels goes supernova during halftime at the Super Bowl. Or at least that's what you're hoping she'll say when you come home with a month's worth of Hot Pockets.

But just in case you have to explain to her why you rock harder than a reincarnated poly-armed Jimi Hendrix, here are some things you can tell her:

- "Well we needed groceries, and I noticed that *someone* hadn't bothered, so ..."

- "Don't worry -- I put it on your credit card. So it's almost like you're *making* money!"

- "Okay, you've got yours, now where's my PS3? PS3! PS3! PS3!!!"

- "Now you can focus on cleaning!"

[Tomorrow: Part III]

The ZFS! Guide to Anniversary Gifts, pt. 1

[Hi folks. CeCe Peniston asked me to keep an eye on the class while he gets the last of this hormone therapy has fun at the State Fair. I heard his and Girlfriend's prize hog is the finest in the county, and after it takes the ribbon I'm sure it will fetch a fair price at market. In the meantime, here's the first of four short pieces I've put together as a service to you, the community, in an effort to work off my public indecency charge. -Braden]


Anniversaries. What are they? Webster's Dictionary defines them as something, probably ... I didn't check. But you and I know your anniversary is nothing more than an excuse for the Card & Chocolate Barons to gobble up more of your precious coin. Just like other people's birthdays.

With that in mind, here's a few gift ideas for the budget/effort/sentiment-conscious significant other. Presenting ...

The ZFS! Guide to Anniversary Gifts



#1: The Nude Self-Portrait

Nothing says, "I want to push your comfort zone in immediate and unwelcome ways," quite like a blurry snapshot of your junk. That face she just made means "it" (i.e., your freshly shorn frame) is working.

Not an ace with the aperture? Don't even have the necessary equipment? Think again. If you've got a new-ish cell phone, chances are they stuck a camera in that thing. So grab your magic talky box and get to disrobin', because if I know a woman, the quickest way to her heart is through her man's "area".

Bonus points if you:

- Magic Marker her face next to a particularly interesting feature of your anatomy.

- Assemble photos of you from all angles and composite them to form a 3-D Virtual Tour of The Good Stuff.

- Make the picture an "action shot". You could be cooking lasagna, hugging her parents, pedaling the "Foothill Surprise" setting on her stationary bike ... have fun with it!

[Tomorrow: Part Two!]

Programming Notice

Just a quick heads up, my sexies...

Girlfriend and I are going out of town tomorrow, bound for the New York State Fair. Needless to say, I expect to be chest-deep in funnel cake by 5pm, if not earlier. However, while it promises to be a fun-filled, photo-worthy trip, it will sadly mean that I'm going to be without a computer for the next four days. I know, I know... the tears are already welling up in your eyes and your hands are shaking like a Russian rocket. Sir... Ma'am... Get ahold of yourself!!!

So, since that's the case, and since I don't want you guys to go unentertained (if you can call this entertainment; it's really more like "manna from Heaven" than anything else), I've enlisted the help of long-time friend of ZFS!, Braden, to lend a talented, talented hand. He'll have a few things up between now and then and you should all be on your best behavior and treat him like you yourself would want to be treated.

Wait... scratch that, you bunch of pervs. Just be nice to him, 'kay?

See y'all when I get back, providing I'm not killed on a shoddily-maintained carnival ride!!!

Booze-ventions!!!

Ladies... Gentlemen... Drinkers of all ages, I give you Pocket Shots:



"Hey baby, I've got a pants-full of liquor and it's all for you. Don't worry, though... it's in baggies." Or whatever it's contained in; I'm thinking they're like the Capri Sun bags, except that if you put these in your kid's lunchbox, you get a visit from Child Protective Services. So yeah... Pocket Shots, once only a concept in the dreams of madmen, are now a real thing; I' m sure they've got an official website or something if you feel like using the Google. I'd look it up but, forgive me, I've decided to take the idea of novelty liquor delivery systems and run with it. Here's what I've come up with:

Booze-ventions!!! (Patents Pending, Yo!)

Booze Slacks - Say you're a businessman on the go. Say you want to pour liquor down your throat at a rate that would make a frat guy look like a uptight Mormon granny. What to do??? The answer, my friend, it's blowing... in your pants? That's right... it's BOOZE SLACKS!!! Booze Slacks are a tailored pair of English-cut trousers that have been specially retrofitted with a series of tubes that draw liquor directly from a hidden pouch (it's located near the balls) and straight into your drunkard mouth. You'll be soused before that Noontime meeting, my friend! What's that...? What do you mean, "Won't people notice the tubes coming out of my pants and into my mouth? Won't it look like I'm drinking my own bodily wastes?" No! Because it's BOOZE SLACKS!!! Drink up, you lush!

Booze Mintz - You're wasted to a blind stagger, yet no one has seen you partake in anything more nefarious than a package of breath mints for over two hours... what in tarnation is going on here??? Why, It's Booze Mintz; the mints that are made of booze!!! We start with only the freshest Everclear, then we distill it down to a fine powder, which we then form into a tablet that we flavor with peppermint oil... it's like a shot of Everclear in a mint! WARNING: Eating more than two Booze Mintz in an hour will cause alcohol poisoning. Eat Booze Mintz today, all day, for that never-stop drunk!!! WARNING: The "Z" means Booze Mintz are EXTREME-ly dangerous!

Meta-Booze - Ever heard the phrase "hiding in plain sight." Well, we've taken that saying to heart with our newest product... META-BOOZE!!! It's booze, cleverly hidden in a larger false-bottle that's been lovingly handcrafted to look exactly like a bottle of booze. People will never expect you're actually drinking booze from a smaller bottle out of that larger bottle of what appears to be booze! It will blow their minds, but you won't care... you're drinking META-BOOZE!!!

Wow

It's no secret that I've long since given up my fan allegiance to the Texas Rangers organization. Truthfully, that hasn't changed (nor will it ever, I'm sure). Still though, seeing them tonight set a new record for most runs scored in baseball's modern era makes me smile... It's kind of like attending the wedding of an ex-girlfriend who's marrying the greatest guy in the world. You couldn't be happier for her, even though you don't really have much reason to celebrate.

The punchline here, if you don't know already, is that this offensive explosion happened in game 1 of a double-header. We'll see how that ends, I guess.

Anyway, big congrats, Rangers... way to do something absolutely fucking nuts!!!

Today In Infuriating Products

We Americans are now forbidden... forbidden... from ever bitching about how much it sucks that other countries hate us. We officially have no leg to stand on:

Individually Wrapped Slices Of Peanut Butter

Seriously.

Now, look... I'm as big a fan of laziness as the next fat guy; there's no question that, when given the choice between doing something "the hard way," or doing it the way that doesn't so much involve me putting down my box of Cheez-Its, I'm going for the latter every time. This though... this peanut butter by way of Kraft Singles... is taking laziness to an extreme found only in coma patients.

NOTE: That's right, I just called coma patients lazy. Why? Because fuck coma patients and their shitty, "Poor me, I can't wake up so feed me and give me wonderful drugs" attitude, that's why!

Also, there's just no way these things taste good. Certainly nothing like the rich, smooth and creamy peanut butter we all love smearing on a fresh slice of bread. I can only assume that, due to the "individual slicing" process, these things taste the way a big mesh bag of dodgeballs smell... plasticky, chemical-ly, and like industrial sadness.

So, yeah... individually sliced peanut butter. Bad for you, bad for America. I'm pretty sure this can be proved with some simple research. Anyone want to get on that for me? Because I'm certainly not going to do it.

Here's A Picture Of A Happy Man

Discussion Questions

-His name is either Stewart, or it's Ethan. Which one suits him best? Or is there a possibility that it's something way out there, like "Basil," or "Vaugh?" And what about nicknames? I'm thinking it's probably something like "Eggy" or "The Squirt." It's certainly nothing cool (i.e. "The Fist," or "Lumberjack," or "C-dog."), and that's even if he actually has one in the first place.

-Have you ever seen a man more confident in his dessert choice? Because I don't think I have... hell, I don't think I'd want to. If he had any more confidence in his martini glass of strawberried whatever-it-is, I think it's safe to say that he'd be fucking it.

-Anyone else think he might be evil? It's in the eyes, I think... or maybe it's his close-cropped hair... whatever the case, there's no doubt that he's met true horror and found that it really complimented his sweater.

-Man, I could sure go for a little something sweet right now... IF YA KNOW WHAT I MEAN??? And what I mean is: A Snickers. Maybe a Fast Break. Nothing dirty, though, which is probably the conclusion you came to, what with my lascivious italics and all.

-Would someone please start a glam-rock band called The Lascivious Italics? I'll provide the glitter if you can come up with the musical talent, songwriting ability, and some tight, stretchy pants. Animal print, preferably.

NOTE: If you get all the answers right, you win a free dessert-date with our boy Eggy up there. If you lose, you have to play Seven Minutes In Heaven with him. Be warned: He gets pretty "handsy" when he's had that much sugar.

Exciting Features Of My New Office

NOTE: Yes, I'm aware that this is like the 800th post in a row that's had something to do with my new office. Eat me, okay... work is kicking my ass right now, thus it's kind of at the forefront of my mind. Deal with it.

2ND NOTE: That came out a lot pissier than I intended. Sorry about that... see, this is what happens when my brain gets all gunked up with that bad combo of stress and indifference that comes from jobs like the one I'm currently barely holding down.

3RD NOTE: You know what, now I don't want to talk about work anymore. I'm mad at it. We're fighting. Instead, I'm going to talk about... um...

Ten Crazy Drinking Stories Involving C-dog

1. Okay, so there was this one time that I drank a lot of... whiskey, I guess... maybe it was scotch. Or possibly it was rum. Gin? Vodka? Really crappy beer that even hobos think tastes a little too close to cat pee... yeah, it was one of those... anyway, I threw up... I guess... (sigh)...

4TH NOTE: You know... I really have done the "I used to get drunk all the time" posts to death. I'm pretty sure everyone gets it; C-dog's a drinker. Crazy C-dog and his hard-drinkin' ways. Blah, blah... blah. So let's try something different, shall we?

Ten Non-Crazy Stories In Which C-dog Was Very Sober

1. Okay, so there was this one time when I drank a lot of 2% milk, and then I went to the Post Office because I had to mail a package to a friend of mine... it was a birthday present... a book, actually. I'd gotten a really good deal on it because Barnes & Noble was having a sale...

5TH NOTE: Wow. That wasn't very interesting, was it? Oookay... well... it's getting late and, clearly, I'm completely tapped in the creativity department. Fine, hey, that's cool... I can recognize it when the well has run dry. I'm sure the juices will be flowing tomorrow, as it were. No use trying to force the issue. So... good night, I guess? We'll try it all again in the morning.

6TH NOTE: Okay, one thing...

My new office has a cafeteria. How weird is that? It's like being in the 5th grade again, except for everyone is better dressed and way more concerned about carbs. The pizza's much tastier than I remembered, though. I guess that's to be expected. "Important" business people need good food to power them through their "important" business stuff.

7TH NOTE: I used quotations to indicate sarcasm. I don't really think their business stuff is important. Ha! Take THAT, businesspeople!!!

My Gay Office

Okay, one thing I've GOT to share with the class...

In my new office, each row of cubicles is a different color. Starting with green, and moving on to blue, then yellow, then orange, then violet, then red. No joke, it looks almost exactly like this:

That's right. I'm now working in a giant Pride Flag! Which is totally awesome, because now I can listen to my ABBA albums and Original Cast Recordings without shame or fear of judgement.

NOTE: He's not kidding about the ABBA albums OR the Original Cast Recordings. He's listening to Les Miserables right now (and he's singing Eponine's part).

Anyway. It's crazy-busy today, what with the move and deadlines and all, so I can't really stay and chat. More tonight, though, no doubt. Well, very little doubt. Some doubt. Look, I'll post tonight if I don't immediately go home and fall into a bottle of stress-reducing booze. That's the best I can do.

In Business

Okay, there appears to be no issue with logging on to Blogger at work (see below, if you don't know what I'm talking about). So that's good. What's less good is that my computer screen is now waaaaay more visible to the prying eyes of bosses, nosy co-workers, maintenance men with revenge on their minds, etc... I guess I'll have to start employing the ninja stealth that I'm known for throughout Japan. Either that, or I'll just have to start blinding people.

Anyway. Today's going to be an absolute carnival of horrors, so I wouldn't expect just a whole hell of a lot out of me, blog-wise. If I get a chance, I'll pop in to say "Hi," or quite possibly, "Please, someone, anyone, just end it... make the pain stop... mercy, MERCY!!!"

Talk soon, kids.

Potential Programming Pickle

NOTE: Alliteration!!!

Hey kids... okay, so here's the situation: Starting Monday, I'll be working at a new office building. It's still the same job, of course... Sadly, I have yet to be offered the magical, writing-based dream-ployment that would allow me to quit my current life as a cube-dwelling, invoice monkey. And seriously, why is that? You want me to beg? Shower you with flattery? Because I'll do it. No shame here; that died off years ago. Tell me the time, the place, and the preferred moistness of my lips and I'll be on my knees, kissing your ass, for as long as you want if it ends up with me writing for a living.

"Ha ha, C-dog's so silly."

Not. Fucking. Kidding.

But I digress... So, as I said, my current job is changing locations. As of tomorrow, we'll be found in a fancypants, super-office somewhere around Penn Station. Alright, so why is this bad? Well, it's bad for a variety of reasons, most of which, trust me, you don't care about. However, there is one potential pickle that could very much bring your world crashing down like a stunt plane at a county fair, and it's this:

There's a good chance I won't be able to blog from work.

At this point, it's just a rumor. We know that this building is apparently "much more strict about web security," which we've already been told means no iTunes, no AIM, no nothing that could possibly infect the precious computers. For obvious reasons, I haven't asked whether or not Blogger will be blocked by the firewall, but if they're freaking out about iTunes... well, I'd say it doesn't look good.

Now, that doesn't mean the end of ZFS! is nigh. Not at all. It just means I'll only be posting stuff early in the morning of after 6pm; a shift in the schedule is really all it is. But it will suck, and it will displease me greatly because... and I'm sure you know this already... writing this blog, reading your comments, etc. is pretty much the only thing that gets me through a long, shitty day of doing unpleasantly tedious work. Well, that and the iTunes, which is already dead and buried for my purposes.

So now we wait and see. Tomorrow's going to be crazy-go-nuts anyway, what with the settling in and getting re-IDed and trying to find out the location of the nearest bars, so I'd say that if you don't see anything up here by noon, I'd go ahead and assume the worst. Just try to make it to the stairwell or the bathroom before you completely lose your shit and start crying like a war widow. Ladies, you might want to bring some extra make-up because if things go South, you're probably going to need a reapplication.

Anyway, there you have it. Fingers crossed, hold your breath, and try to be brave little toasters. I know it's scary and painful, but please know that I'm feeling all of that too, only ten times worse. In fact, if you want to know exactly how I'm feeling inside, here's a visual representation:

Now you understand... now you get my sorrow.

Oooh, Pretty...

Odd sculpture that's apparently on display at the Hong Kong airport. It actually freaks me out a little bit, but maybe that's just because I have an innate fear of sentient liquids that are in love. Oooh, pretty!!!

A Few Words About Les Miserables

-First off, I can't believe you guys couldn't figure out from my hints that I was talking about Les Miserables. I mean, I thought I was being pretty obvious but... hm, guess not. Maybe you guys just aren't big theater fans?

-Recent, regular commenter The [Cherry] Ride said this on the previous post, and it brings up an excellent point: "Is that shit still on Broadway?" What I'm taking that to mean (for the purpose of this conversation) is, "Why go see Les Miserables on Broadway in this day and age? It's been out for a million years and there's a ton of other shows out there, many of which include nudity." Fair points all, but here's my reason for wanting to see it: Girlfriend. As it turns out, Girlfriend was, in high school, obsessed with Les Miz. Like, she would reenact the entire show with friends during sleepovers; that kind of obsessed. And yet, she'd never gotten to actually see Les Miz performed live. Bad timing, too expensive, etc... it just never happened. So when a client at my job offered me free tickets to any show on Broadway, I figured... hey... guess what three-hour show about the French Revolution just happens to be playing in the town where we live. Needless to say, she was thrilled. I'm hoping scoring these tickets will in some way make up for all crap that I put her through on a daily basis.

-The guy who played Jean Valjean looked like a cross between Sawyer from Lost and an unwashed junkie and he had a voice like a Broadway-version of Robert Plant. Needless to say, he was just crazy hot. Like, I don't find myself actively man-crushing on the male leads of musicals very often but... and I mean this in a totally straight way... I would so hit that.

-Is it just the catchy tunes and showy sets that make the French Revolution so interesting, or is it actually interesting? If the latter, does anyone know any good books about the French Revolution that aren't a bajillion pages like the Victor Hugo "Les Miserables?" Because I'd really like to know more about the subject, but I don't want to lug around a book that's going to take me an entire sports season to read.

-I'd forgotten, what with Les Miz's long-standing reputation as a "tourist" show, that... surprise, surprise... it's actually really good. Great, even. Let's just say some tears were shed, and not just by my over-the-moon Girlfriend.

And finally...

Ways To Update Les Miserables For The Coming Generations

Les Miz in Space - Space barricades, the alien revolution, dramatically hoisted laser guns... hell, there's already a song in the show called, "Stars." Seems like a natural fit.

An All-Male Les Miz - Because nothing adds thick layers of meaning to a show like a rejiggering of it's sexual subtexts.

Les Miz, Starring ME!!! - I could play any part in the show better than just about anyone, and I include Cosette in that statement. My Fantine would have you all crying your eyes out.

Guess Which Three-Hour Musical About The French Revolution We're Going To See Tonight...

HINTS

-It doesn't have a bunch of cats in a junkyard that sing and dance around like assholes.

-She's a part of the cast:

-At one point, they wave a big, red flag around all crazy-like.

-It also doesn't have a scarred-up dude who hangs out in the sewers and tries to drop chandeliers on opera singers.

-It was huge in the 80's, much like Cyndi Lauper, although not really in the same way. Yes, both involved singing and elaborate costumes but... you know... apples and oranges are both fruit, and yet you can't really compare the two. Or so I'm told.

-The tickets are way expensive, but I got some for free from a client at work because I'm slick like that.

-It is about "the miserable."

Movie Poster A Go-Go

3:10 To Yuma



I actually really like this poster. It's simple, elegant, and classy... just like me, but with more of an emphasis on gunslinging skills. Which is not to say that I don't have gunslinging skills. I do. Mad ones. It's just that I don't like to brag about my talents in the deadly arts. But since you asked, I'm also a master of the bullwhip, the samurai sword, and I know 48 ways to kill a 300-linebacker with nothing more than a bag of Stacy's Parmesan & Garlic Pita Chips and a desktop calender.

Pathology



And here we have yet another in a series of posters that feature random objects, Polaroids in this case, that come together to form the ooky-spooky image of a terrifying skull. Please. That trick wasn't all that scary the first time they used it (I think it was on the poster for The Babysitters Club Movie), so at this point, it's become the advertising equivalent of shoving people's hands in a bowl of cold spaghetti and saying, "it's brains... BRAAAAINS!!!"

Dan In Real Life



Fuck you, Hollywood, for what you've done to Steve Carrell. Seriously... if I see your ass in a bar, you're getting a bottle of Budweiser upside your head so fast, you'll think you were caught in a nuclear explosion. Heed my words, Tinseltown... La Cienega Boulevard will run red with your hateful, career-destroying blood. Oh, and in case you can't tell, he's resting his head on a stack of pancakes. That means the movie is going to be "wacky."

Self-Medicated



I don't care how many fancypants awards you've won, Self-Medicated. Your poster is an obvious visual metaphor and it makes me want to force you to grade Junior English term papers for the rest of your life. Get used to the feel of a red pen between your fingers, because that's all you're going to know for a long, long time.

Hitman



Ew. I know I shouldn't care, seeing as how this is a movie adaptation of a video game and, thus, is about as likely to suck as a broke Las Vegas cocktail waitress with a serious coke habit... still, though... this poster is such a mess, it's like staring into the sun. You can't stop, even as you feel your corneas bubble up like egg whites in a skillet.

King Of California

Anyone else have a strong suspicion that Michael Douglas didn't even know he was being photographed. Like, he'd just rolled off of a crying Cathrine Zeta-Jones, and, as he stumbled into the kitchen to drink orange soda straight from the bottle and maybe make a fried ham sandwich... BAM... a photographer jumped out, took his picture, and slapped it on a poster for a movie that only twelve people will ever see (and of the twelve, seven will have the surname "Douglas").

Death Of A Dream

NOTE: Girlfriend and I just had this exchange via AIM. And now I'm crying my eyes out.

Me: (2:23:51 PM): Do you think I could get a job as an assassin for the government?
Girlfriend: (2:24:54 PM): No.
Girlfriend:(2:25:07 PM): They have standards.
Me: (2:25:21 PM): Ouch.

What do you do when you find out that your girlfriend thinks you'd make a poor-quality government assassin? Where do you go from there? Please, someone tell me how to make the hurting stop...

UPDATE: (sigh) She may have a point...

Me: (2:41:47 PM): I totally forgot to send off the Netflix today. BLAST!!!
Girlfriend: (2:42:03 PM): And that is why you'd make a poor hitman for the gov't. "I totally forgot to shoot that dude! Blast!"

Elsewhere In Blogland...

Everyone should run, not walk, over to friend-of-ZFS! Midwesterner's blog and check out his all-day live blogging of VH1 Classic. It promises to be the greatest feat of human endurance this side of the Iditarod, but with much less sled-dogs and much more drinking beer while watching Lionel Ritchie videos.

I know from my own brief flirtations that live-blogging can be a harsh mistress, so I, as well as the entire ZFS! staff (I could have a staff; you don't know), wish him nothing but the best.

So get a move on... I'll have some content up here later, but for right now, Midwesterner's Guide To Living In New York City is where the action's at.

Red Spot

NOTE: Here's an artistic representation of how I look today. Pretty much. I mean, I don't look like a fat Tim Burton, but the big red spot on my forehead is accurate enough.



This, kids, is what happens when you have one of those sunscreen glue stick-looking thingys and then do a poor job in the application department. I feel a little like Hester Prynne, but instead of being adorned with a red letter that means adultery, I'm marked with a red spot that means I'm an idiot who hasn't quite got a handle on "going to the beach" just yet.

It's totally the same thing, stop looking at me like that.

Anyway, it hurts and you should all feel bad for me and stuff. Send flowers. No, candy. NO, liquor and a large bottle of aloe vera that I can smear on my face. Okay, just the liquor.

Arbitrary Rulings

Walnuts - They suck. They're oily and they taste unpleasant, like they've got the flavor of the forest trapped within their too-hard-to-open shells. And I don't mean "flavor of the forest" in a good way, like, "ooh, this cup of cider tastes like a walk in the woods during Autumn." No, I mean it like, "wow, this walnut tastes like dirt."

Fire Escapes - I get the safety aspect of the fire escape concept, but has anyone ever seen one actually used for that purpose (movies don't count because movies aren't real)? Seems to me, fire escapes exist in the city mainly so that poor people have a place to hang their laundry. I'm going to say that, despite the fact that I guess they could possibly someday have the potential to save someones life, fire escapes are worthless and ugly and their mothers dress them funny.

Shot Putt Competitions - While being able to throw a large-ish steel ball farther than another guy doesn't seem outright like an ability I'd put my support behind, I'm going to have do a dipsy-doodle on this one and say, "Thumbs up, shot-putters!" It's not so much that I actually care about this particular Track and Field event; I don't. It's more that shot-putters are large, angry men who would probably quite enjoy using their huge muscles and dictionary-sized hands to pummel the soft, doughy flesh of a blogger who was snotty about their chosen athletic skill. I don't need to be chased around by a steroid-enlarged Russians, is all I'm sayin'.

McDonald's Stores That Don't Sell Ice Cream Or Milkshakes - It's hard to believe, but they're out there. I know this to be true because there's one down the street from my house. They're a McDonald's "Express," which apparently translates into, as I mentioned, a lack of an ice cream machine. One can extrapolate from this that the making of a strawberry milkshake or a caramel sundae with nuts is a time-consuming process that eats up man-hours and requires the toil and sweat of every employee behind the counter, perhaps even needing the extra assistance of those McDonald's workers that are off that day and must be called in for an "all-hands" situation. It can be further assumed that, should more than two ice cream-based items be ordered at one time, they have to call in the recently retired, salty ex-manager who's "too old for this shit," but is, "the only one who can get the job done without anyone getting killed." He makes everyone call him "Sarge." Anyway, these McDonald's Express stores are total bullshit because I'd like a milkshake right now, thanks.

William Shakespeare - It would be easy to be all, "Yeah, he's overrated and didn't even write his own stuff and he probably smelled like a wet horse's nutsack." But I can't harsh on Shakespeare. The guy was just that good. The way I see it, once you write something that's still being taught to bored 9th graders like a billion years after you shuffled off the mortal coil, then you can do all the criticizing you want. Until then, and especially considering that all you've cranked out in the last few years is a lot of MySpace surveys about "what you're doing RIGHT NOW, NO CHEATING!!!", then it'd be better for everyone if you kept the back-sass towards The Bard to yourself.

Deodorant - Nicely done, chemical product we all collectively smear under our arms... nicely done. I don't think you get enough credit for doing such a good job at making us not stink. Hey, tell you what, this Sunday... take the day off. Nobody will mind since, hey, it's the weekend and who are we trying to impress? Go to the beach, sit for a while in a bar, maybe take in a movie... whatever you do, just chill out, bask in how much we love you, and don't let some jerkwad rub you in his pits for at least 24 hours. Monday though, it's back to work. It'll be hard to get anything done if the whole office smells like a pilates instructor's hamper.

"The Frug" by Rilo Kiley

I'm back, I have medicine, and I'm going to settle in now to watch a whole bunch of House episodes on DVD. While I'm doing that (and having a BLAST), here's a music video for a song I'd wager you haven't heard in quite a while:

Isn't it weird that this is the "official" video from that kind of not-good Christina Ricci movie Desert Blue. That movie hasn't crossed my, or anyone else's, mind in like ten years, and yet Rilo Kiley are still kicking out the jams on a semi-regular basis.

Er... right?

I know Jenny Lewis is doing other projects right now, too. Look, my point is, I'm not terribly up on what's going on in the world of music and I'm currently gooned on antibiotics and liquor. Because that's what you do when you're sick.

Oh, also, Jenny Lewis is so adorable, it makes me want to punch myself in the face. That could, of course, just be a side effect of the drugs. Hm... well, on to House.

Head Colds And Head Cheese

Still fighting off this blasted sinus infection, so I'm going to the doctor today for a heapin' helpin' of antibiotics. I'm also considering stealing his stethoscope, because I think it'll add an air of believability to the "medical practice" that I've been running out of kitchen. Oh speaking of... until August 20th, our "Two-fer Tuesdays" special is still in effect. Buy one organ removal, get the second absolutely free. Also, you will probably die. No refunds.

Anyway, while I'm out, let's get a lively discussion going on the subject of head cheese:



What is headcheese, you ask? Well I'll let Wikipedia, the internet's nerdy best friend, fill you in:

Head cheese (AmE) or brawn (BrE) is in fact not a cheese, but rather a terrine of meat from the head of a calf or pig (sometimes a sheep or cow) that would not otherwise be considered appealing. It may also include meat from the feet and heart. It is usually eaten cold or at room temperature as a luncheon meat. It is sometimes also known as soucemeat, particularly if pickled with vinegar. Historically the cleaned (all organs removed) head was simmered to produce a gelatin (which would form from the bone marrow) containing any incidental meat which came off the head. The more modern method involves adding gelatin to meat, which is then cooked in a mould.

You're thinking, "Okay, C-dog, the concept of head cheese is kind of awesomely gross, but why bring it up to us on a Monday morning. By the way, you're still amazingly gorgeous, even when you've got a head full of snot." First of all, thanks (wink). And to answer your other question, over the weekend, Girlfriend and I had a house guest: Girlfriend's cousin, "Annie" who's ten and a child prodigy on the piano. The fact that she's a child prodigy isn't technically relevant, but I like bringing it up because, no joke, the kid can just wail on the piano. She makes Amadeus look like a large bucket of... well... head cheese, I guess, which brings me back to my original point. So we've got Annie staying with us and it's up to us to show her a good time. We decided to attempt a little horizons-broadening, so we took her to dinner at this kick-ass German restaurant in our neighborhood called The Schnitzel Haus. After a quick perusal of the menu, and after being assured that I wasn't paying for the meal, I decided that the time was right to be bold and adventurous on someone else's dime. So I ordered the Haus' head cheese. It came with a side of home fries and a little gravy boat filled not with gravy, but with this tarter sauce-esque stuff that was just absolutely delicious. Next to the home fries sat the head cheese, two thick slices worth, draped liberally with ice-cold red onions. The idea was to take a spoonful of the tarter sauce stuff and smear it on top of the onions and head cheese, then... bon appetite. And that's exactly what I did.

It wasn't bad. As far as taste goes, it was very similar to a ham salad sandwich, minus the bread. Very, for lack of a better word, "porky." The real issue, and I think the main reason why it's not served at, say, Subway, is the texture. It's wiggly. It's cold. It's basically meat Jell-O and there's no getting around that very particular mouth feel. It is, in other words, mildly disturbing. But I persevered. I ate almost all of my two slices, having to give up towards the end because, and believe me when I say this, a little head cheese goes a looooong way. I do, however, applaud myself for being brave and for trying new things, especially since I was able to do so without any personal financial loss. That always makes food taste better. And for the record, Annie and Girlfriend both were absolutely appalled at my head cheese eating ways, though Girlfriend was brave enough to at least try a small bite. She was, to say the least, not impressed.

At any rate, with all of that having been said, here's the discussion questions: Head cheese; are you brave enough? Would you order it, provided you didn't have to foot the bill? Does the concept of bits of pig head suspended in a gelatin of it's own fat make you want to hurl so hard you might set a world record for hardest hurling ever?

M'kay, off to the doctor for medicines and whatnot. Be back later, kids.

There's More To Me Than What You Know

NOTE: I'm currently sitting Saturday night out due to a rippin' sinus infection that's decided to turn my head into it's command center while it goes about the business of making my life miserable with a capital "SNOT." Usually I don't post on Saturdays (because even I need a break from me at least once a week) but, since I'm in desperate need of something to take my mind of the mounting pressure behind my face, here's this...

Ten Things I Haven't Told You About Myself In Over A Year Of Near-Continuous Blogging

1. I really enjoy a nice apple, but no so much that I'll just go on and on about it like some people I could mention *coughJohnnyAppleseedcough*.

2. It was originally called Bell Biv DeVoe & Davis, but I was released from my contract for not being "phat" enough while simultaneously being much too "fat."

3. You know Underoos? Totally my idea. Well, I like to draw on my underwear, anyway. Still think it's worth a lawsuit...

4. You haven't lived until you've tried my Strawberry-Rhubarb Pie. Literally. It's the first thing that doctors give to fetuses when they're still in utero. Once they've ingested my Strawberry-Rhubarb Pie, the process of becoming a real-live human can begin. It's that good.

5. I write the songs that make the whole world wish ears had never happened.

6. The homeless love me. Partially because I'm a witty conversationalist, but mostly because I sweat vodka.

7. Saying my name to the cashier at any Duane Reade will get you an automatic discount on batteries. I have no idea why this is, but it's true. True-ish. Look, I steal batteries from the Duane Reade, okay.

8. I was Baby Jessica. Or, rather, I spent a lot of time down a pipe in Midland, Texas during the late 80's. But that's pretty much the same thing, right?

9. All I can do is love you, even if you won't stop abusing drugs and alcohol. You're my man, Clyde, and I'll always stick by you, through thick and thin, through good times and bad, through the thrown bottles of Old Grand-Dad and all the spent needles laying around the apartment like they was a carpet. Even still, Clyde, even still... you're the greatest man I've ever known.

10. I came up with the slogan "ice cold and pube-filtered," but there weren't any takers in the world of advertising. Except for Coors, of course, but even I have standards.

Would Anyone Like To See A Picture Of Our New Bathmat?

Don't worry, I'll answer for you; Yes... yes, you would:

It's a crab. A happy crab. And every time I head in to take a shower, it's smiling face will be there to greet me. And that makes me glad. Glad to be alive, glad to take showers, glad to live in a world where I can freely drip water off of my body and onto a comical representation of a shellfish... generally, I've got the world on a string and a song in my heart. And it's all thanks to our new bathmat, which is available at Target for a reasonable price.

I do have to admit, though... I am a little worried about it watching me pee. Just seems wrong.

Here's A Picture Of A Pair Of Black Converse Hi-Tops

Discussion Questions

-Culturally, where are we on these? I just recently bought a pair, having not worn this particular style of shoe since High School, and I'm now curious if I look like a walking advertisement for "clinging desperately to a time when I was cool."

-Parenthetically, do you believe me when I infer that I was cool in High School? Because I totally was. Okay then, prove I wasn't. Can't do it, can you? Because I was so cool back then, your investigation immediately got shut down by the Awesome Cops (motto: Protecting Those More Awesome Than Most).

-I will admit, wearing my black Cons does make me feel a little bit like one of The Strokes. Do I mean that as a compliment? An insult? And if it's an insult, who am I insulting? The Strokes? The shoes? Hipsters in general? ZFS! is just packed with exciting questions on this dreary Friday morning!

-This is kinda off-topic (though it does tie in with the hipster discussion, I guess), but did anyone catch The Hold Steady at the Prospect Park band shell last night? I ended up not being able to make it because I totally suck. Was it as amazing as I'm assuming it was in my head?

-I can't think of any other questions to ask about shoes, so I'll just ask this: What's your favorite sandwich? At the moment, mine is salami, pepper jack cheese, V & O, S & P, and tomato on a hard roll with a little bit of mayo.

NOTE: Winner takes all. And by "all," I mean, "me out on bar-hopping excursion that begins with a few friendly pints and ends with us in a Mexican jail awaiting our upcoming trial for attempting to infiltrate their Army by posing as sexy nurses." Loser gets the same, but I'll throw up on you a lot more. Also, I get automatic dibs on the cell's top bunk.

Worth Your Valuable Time

Anyone here a big fan of bleak, horrifying fiction that makes you feel like absolute crap by the time you're finished? Anyone...???

Well, should you change your minds (you pansies), please do give The Ruins a look-see. It's, as I said, bleak and horrifying, but in an I-can't-stop-reading-even-though-I-feel-like-vomiting sort of way. I don't want to be Capt. Spoiler, so all I'll say about the plot is this: Six college kids, while on vacation in Cancun, decide to tromp through the deep, dark jungle in search of some ancient and abandoned ruins. It gets ugly, quickly, and all due to a very unlikely source.

So, yeah... if you're in really good place, mentally, and things are all sunshine and peach cobbler for you these days, you should totally check this book out. Everyone hates your cheeriness and, believe me, there are worse ways to help you turn it down a notch.

You're Killing Me, Texas

I love my home state of Texas, I do, but there are times when I'd like to lift it up by it's ears (or it's borders, I guess) and give it a good hard shake. And it's not just because of all the crazy Bible-thumpers that live there, and it's not just because it occasionally has tolerance issues that would make people in 1960's Alabama go, "Whoa, friend, you're being kind of dick," and it's not just because of the unfortunate George W. Bush connection... No, my frustration, my embarrassment, stems largely from the fact that we, as a state, continually insist on doing things like this.

Yep. The Texas Redneck Games.

(sigh)

You know... I work really hard to do my part to convince people that we Texans aren't all a bunch of gross idiots who fling stuff off the back of a pick-up truck. I try to tell people at every available opportunity that we're not all "that way" when it comes to eating possum, say, or driving stolen four-wheelers through private property on the way back from an illegal fireworks run. I've put years of effort into this cause and, BLAM, it's all undone because a bunch of my fellow statesmen insist on participating in an "ugly butt-crack" contest, whatever the hell that might be.

So, fuck it. Fuck. It. If my people are all going to act this way, then fine... FINE...

If you can't beat 'em, join 'em on the national stage of public humiliation. Here now, since I've apparently got no choice as it's in my blood, are my ideas for some additional events to be added to next year's Texas Redneck Games. Enjoy, while I weep:

-The 100-Yard Wife Beat

-The Great "Y'all's Mom'n Them" Debate and Mud Wrassle

-The Ceremonial Lighting Of The Big Pile Of "Fancy Book-Learnin' Books"

-The Fart-Off

-The Twelve-Lap Shower Dodge (prize awarded to he who is stinkiest at events end)

-The 600-Yard Cousin-Fuck Relay (must have multiple cousins to enter)

-The "Why I Loves My Dog... Biblically" Poetry Contest

-The Free-Food-From-The-Government Speed-Eating Competition

-The 1200-Meter Immigrant Chase

-The Big Shit (not a game; we just all squat in a field and take a big shit while hooting as the eyes of our nation's media outlets turn to Texas and judge us harshly)

Three Douchey Items Now Available Through The SkyMall Catalogue

An Automatic, Voice-Activated Grocery List Maker



Apparently, rich people don't have access to pencils and paper. Now, I know that the SkyMall catalogue, in general, caters to our nations lazier tendencies with an unmatched vigor, but this product is just at the absolute apex of slothfulness. For some reason, I can only imagine it being used by shriveled, wealthy opium abusers who are laying on soiled linens while lackadaisically fondling a handful of golden ducets. "Milk, cheese, a new Chinese servant, more opium..." they'll whisper into it's microphone, and then the list prints out, ready for the houseboy to fetch their master's wants. It saddens me greatly that this thing will in all actuality only be used by uptight soccer moms in Westchester county who've never had a real job and consider spending their husband's money "a hobby."

A Monogrammed Brand For Your Meat



I used to work in a video store in the East Village called Kim's Video. If you're unfamiliar with it, it's basically a snotty place for snotty people to gather and be snotty about music and movies, before making their purchase (snottily, of course) and heading back out into city to come up with new and interesting ways to be snotty. Needless to say, working there, I met just an unbelievable amount of jerkwads who's sense of entitlement was only matched by the sheer density of their pretentiousness. One of my favorites was the guy who, though clearly a lifelong resident of the NYC area, dressed entirely and only in cowboy regalia. We're talking full on Stetson, bandanna, artfully mussed-n'-stressed Levi jeans... the works. And he had that "I'm a desperado" swagger too, which made every single employee who came in contact with him want badly for a scalping hatchet to materialize in their hands so they could dispatch of this blowhard in a manner fitting his attire. My point is, he totally owns one of these steak branders. I just know he does.

The Airplane Douche Pillow Deluxe

Can you imagine sitting next to this guy on a flight? With his hateful mustache and his "Dad" shirt and his giant, pale-blue douche pillow on his tray so he can "catch some shut-eye" before the "big sales meeting?" The urge to rabbit punch him repeatedly in the back of the head like a cheating prizefighter would be so overwhelming, it'd detach the wings from the plane and everyone would die because this guy made the most ridiculous purchase ever in the history of wasting money. Ugh, he has no idea that he's sleeping on a plush representation of how much everyone hates him.

Click here for any further douchebaggy needs.

Welcome Home, I Guess?

First, a bit of business: To the surprise of everyone (myself included), and despite the fact that our plane was 45mins late leaving Memphis, Girlfriend and I managed to get back to our apartment by the relatively early time of 7:45pm!!! Not sure how this happened; the current theory is that we hit a wrinkle in time somewhere around LaGuardia's baggage claim. At any rate, we made it home ahead of schedule and, thus, all your guesses were wrong. This means that you ALL should report to the Memphis airport for work on Monday morning, 9am sharp. Bring a hairnet.

Now, on to Brooklyn's ass-kicking this morning at the hands of Mother Nature... Yeah, so that happened. I don't know about the rest of you Burrough-dwellers, but up where I am in Bay Ridge, around 6:45am, it was like the mighty hand of Zeus swept down the avenues in a Southerly direction. Trees knocked over, awnings torn down, windows smashed... seriously, it looks like a bomb went off around my apartment building. Craziness, yo.

Have to say, this is not the kind of weather I signed on for when I moved to New York. Blizzards, moody fog, lots of rain that's also moody... all of that is my idea of East Coast weather. However, powerful winds that destroy shit and make me leap out of bed like a frightened schoolmarm because they sound like sonic booms... not cool. Not. Cool. If I wanted to experience that kind of weather on a regular basis, I'd move back to Texas, where tornado-dodging is a state-wide hobby that ranks just below drinking large amounts of Coors Light and watching girl's boobies bounce when they ride the mechanical bull at Gilley's.

Anyway, it appears, judging by the amount of damage done elsewhere, that Girlfriend and I got off pretty light. Some grit to clean up and a frightened cat to soothe, but that's about it. Hope everyone else came through at least somewhat unscathed.

Beyond that, the commute this morning was a carnival of horrors, complication and duration-wise, but at least it was an air conditioned carnival, so I won't complain. I'm sure other blogs have the details on that, if descriptions of mass transit snarls are your idea of pleasant at-work reading.

Okay, so I've got 200+ emails here at work that all desperately require my attention, so I suppose I'd better get on that. Or maybe I'll just eat some sunflower seeds and stare off into space. Hmm... decisions, decisions...

More later, when the coffee's kicked in.

Travel Day

From Dallas to Memphis (oh. joy.), then from Memphis to New York. I'm hoping to be in my apartment by 8pm this evening, particularly since I have to go to work tomorrow. Why, you ask, didn't I take Wednesday off so that I could have a post-vacation decompression day? Well, kind and svelte readers, the answer is simple: Because I am an idiot. Obviously.

Fingers crossed, kids... if I have to spend another long delay in the Memphis airport, things are going to get ugly. Like, "Elvis, the later years, when he looked like an inflated, sequin-covered ham" ugly. And no one wants that.

So, place your bets: Home by eight, or getting there late. The person with the closest guess to the actual time that we walk into our apartment (the winner, as it were) gets absolutely nothing besides the satisfaction of knowing they were right. Which, as I said, is absolutely nothing. However, the one who's farthest away from the correct time... well... you'll be forced into a lifetime of toil at the Memphis airport, serving unfortunate BBQ and hearing "Hound Dog" so many times that your ears will detach and try to kill you with a souvenir Elvis statuette. Sorry, I don't make the rules.

Except that I DO!!! Ha ha, suck it!!!

Anyway, time to fly. Literally. Catch y'all later.

One Day More...

NOTE: Tomorrow, I turn 27 and, thus, tomorrow is the day that I must say goodbye to my mid-20's. Fortunately (for me AND for you) I've gotten past the "Holy shit-ness" of the situation and have now moved on to the "Good times, man..." portion of the grieving process. So, with that in mind, here's a tribute to my 24th, 25th, and 26th year...

Mid-20's, I Hardly Knew Ye: A Tribute

First, to get us in the mood, let's all listen to the only song that is appropriate for wistful, fond remembrance montages. Also, can you believe this song came out ten years ago!?!? I mean, fuck:



Ahhh... it's just like prom, isn't it? Or, if not prom, then that retrospective clip show that NBC did before the last episode of Seinfeld. Anyway, let's get on with it:

2ND NOTE: As I was reviewing my memories of the last few years, I realized that I mostly just hung out with Girlfriend, drank with friends in bars, saw some baseball games, and started this blog. That was about it, unless you count work, which I don't. So, in order to make this a more lively, interesting look back, I've gone ahead and made up a bunch of crap that didn't technically happen, but probably would have had I been in the right place at the right time. You understand, I'm sure. Go ahead and play the Green Day song again, as it will help to sustain the mood through the obvious fictions. Oh. and keep playing it for the duration of the read, too. Unless you're sick of it (which is understandable). Then... uh... don't, I guess. Whatever. Maybe you could play that new song... that "Hey There, Delilah" by the Plain White T's... instead. It's pretty much the same thing.

Hey, remember that time...

...I had a dramatic fistfight in an alley behind a bar? I looked like a husky Jackie Chan as I beat up all those guys and everyone cheered when I finally snapped the last thugs neck. That the "thugs" turned out to be a bunch of Boy Scouts and I ended up going to "jail," is of no consequence. Well, what were they doing wearing those ski masks???

...I took a long, dramatic walk in the rain as I nursed a broken heart, just like Lloyd Dobler (or any of John Cusak's classic characters)? I caught a horrible case of pneumonia, but it was totally worth it for the aesthetic value.

...I hit the winning home run, dramatically, in the final game of a non-specific, uncopyrighted baseball tournament that saw us go from lovable loser underdogs to champions with hearts of gold?

...I was wacky? With pies, maybe? Or perhaps a seltzer bottle.

...we danced around in our pajamas to classic Motown music while singing into our hairbrushes and bonding as sisters?

...I thought I saw a ghost, but it was really Old Man McGillicutty who owned the abandoned taffy factory just outside of town? I killed him, stole his wallet, and buried him in a shallow grave outside of town! Or... uh... no, I didn't. (wink)

...I learned the true meaning of Christmas when I served soup at the orphanage? Even the botulism that everyone contracted because I forgot to wash my hands after handling all that raw pork couldn't dampen the magic of that evening.

...I got freaky with a naked Reese Witherspoon? Yeah, me too. That was awesome. And it totally happened. Prove it didn't!!!

...we all hung out at my place and watched scary movies and ate Doritos until we felt kind of sick, but it was all cool because we felt better after we took some Maalox and had a nice BM? (What, they can't all be dramatic home runs, ya know)

...I met our special guest stars THE HARLEM GLOBETROTTERS!?!?

Yep, we had some good times. Good... times.... (sobbing hysterically while clutching a bottle of something strong). Goddammit... stupid Green Day and their songs that were written totally just for me!!! Why do you torment me so, Billie Joe Armstrong?!?!