Your Rock N' Roll Hall Of Fame Nominees

Madonna - Yeah, I guess. She's an icon and a trailblazer and she's been a pop cultural cornerstone for as long as I can remember, not to mention the fact that she's sold like a bajillion albums (which is secretly what the Rock N' Roll Hall of Fame is all about). Still... I just don't really care for her all that much. Her as a person, I mean; her music is... well, it is what it is. Her though... that accent... and all the Kaballah nonsense... ick. Granted, I may be a little biased seeing as how at work I sit next to one of the biggest Madonna fans in the Northern Hemisphere. Seriously, I can do the "Like A Virgin" album from memory, with appropriate dance movies, and that's pretty much the best example of osmosis science has ever seen.

The Beastie Boys - Now these guys, I'd be okay with. There's not a single person my age who doesn't own a copy of "Licence to Ill," and "Paul's Boutique" was about as close to a masterpiece as you can get without oil paints and a nice frame. Their last couple of albums have been worthless to varying degrees, and every time I see Mike D wandering around the Village, I have a strong urge to help him find a homeless shelter so he can get a hot cup of soup, but you know... not everyone can be perfect and young forever. Really though, their across-the-board stellar music videos should be reason enough to punch their ticket to Cleveland.

Donna Summer - "Bad Girls" was a pretty good song. "She Works Hard For The Money" was okay, if you like that sort of thing. And... did she have any other songs? And "I Will Survive" doesn't count, because Gloria Gaynor did it first, better. She did have some pretty intense hair, though. I'll give her that.

Chic - Really? The "Le Freak" people? Does the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame owe Chic some money? Because I can't think of another reason for them to be here. Please, kids, correct me if I'm missing out on some deep, rich mine of musical genius here.... but I'm not, am I?

Afrika Bambaataa - I know nothing about him other than he looks like an absolute lunatic and he's so guilty of abusing the letter "A," he should be thrown in Alphabet Jail and never, ever let out.

Leonard Cohen - Yes! One nominee that I can wholeheartedly throw my entire, considerable weight behind. Love his music, love how shitty it makes me feel, love how old and weird he is now... love everything about him except for the fact that he's one of those artists that other musicians name-check as an influence out of habit, even though their music sounds nothing like his. I mean, Bono goes on and on about Leonard Cohen like he co-wrote "The Joshua Tree," which is great except that we all know Bono only heard about Leonard Cohen two years ago when he was Googling: "what+will+give+me+more+rocker+ cred+so+I+don't+look+like+such+a+pop+weenie."

The Dave Clark Five - They were famous for not being The Beatles, which you wouldn't think is something upon which a group could build a career. Turns out, totally the case. I'm sure they were excellent and stuff, but I had to hit Wikipedia to see what songs they'd sung, so there you go.

The Ventures - Obligatory instrumental band that everyone is supposed to like, but never actually gets listened to.

John Mellencamp - Oookay, now... look... I like "Jack and Diane" as much as the next guy, but come the fuck on. Mellencamp? This is like Van Halen getting nominated last year; proof positive that, as I mentioned earlier, the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame is secretly only about artists that made the most money during the prime of their careers. Mellencamp was a poor-man's Springsteen and I'd love to hear the argument claiming otherwise.

Arbitrary Rulings 4

Life-Changing Experiences - This is what we're all looking for, I think. Something that shakes up the sno-globe of our life and lets the individual particles of fake snow fall into new and interesting patterns we've never seen before. But you have to be careful with life-changing experiences, especially with the ones that involve, to any degree, Jesus. Now, I've got nothing against the guy... seemed like a cool dude and, hey, that whole water-into-wine thing was all class... but the problem is, he has a certain effect on people that can take your normal, everyday bartenders or data entry clerks or medical professionals and turn them into assholes who can't carry on a conversation about anything without shoehorning in talk of our "lord and savior." You don't want to be these kind of people, trust me, because no one will want to hang out with you except for other Jesus-y types and then that's all you'll talk about and it becomes a big circle of self-defeating sadness that ends up with a relative trying to beat you to death with your own Bible. I've seen it happen and it ain't pretty. Anyway, when you're looking for a life-changing experience, you should really shoot for something along the lines of world travel, Spacecamp, or sex with a guy or gal of a different ethnicity than your own. Or hell, all three at once; ain't no party like a Spacecamp party!!! WOOOO!!!!!

Staple Removers - Gotta love an office supply that can double as the vampire enemy of your favorite hand puppet. Because, you see, it's got sharp... pointy bits that... look like... teeth... anyone? Anyone??? Fine. Fuck y'all. When the International Society for Awesome Hand Puppet Enthusiasts (the ISAHPE) meets up for our annual walk-a-thon/chili showdown/puppet-off, none of you bastards are invited. And it's going to be a blast, too; Old Man McGovern's going to bring out his puppet pal, Mr. Socksley, and they're going to sing a duet of "Don't Go Breakin' My Heart." And he never does that bit anymore!!! So you're totally missing out, is all I'm sayin'. Bastards.

Frosted Mini-Wheats - This is going to be at least as controversial a statement as John Lennon claiming that The Beatles were more popular than Jesus, but I'm here to tell you right now that Kellogg's Frosted Mini-Wheats is the best cereal on the market today. Yes, Lucky Charms has made a strong showing in recent years, and I've heard some good things about that cereal that's supposed to taste like Oreos, but at the end of the day (or first thing in the morning, rather), in my bowl you'll find nothing but some Frosted Mini-Wheats and occasionally some milk. They've got everything: Sweetness, fiber, a satisfying crunch... it doesn't need a bunch of tarty marshmallows or neon colors to whore up Breakfast. It just has to be itself, and that's all we, as a global village of unique individuals, will ever need.

"Bad Babysitter" by Princess Superstar - I don't really do the whole "rap" thing. I'm almost comically white, so me listening to rap music is as incongruous as an old man drinking a Red Bull or a heroin addict giving a lecture on nutrition. However, occasionally... very occasionally... a rap song will penetrate the layers and layers of Death Cab for Cutie and Gram Parsons tunes and lodge itself firmly into my brain like that thing that Arnold Schwarzenegger pulled out of his nose in Total Recall. This, my lovelies, is such a song. Now, I'm sure there's a whole college thesis that one could write on the fact that Princess Superstar is white, therefore, subconsciously I feel it's acceptable for me to like her music... I don't think that's the case, though. I think it has more to do with the fact that she's a really hot-in-a-trashy-way chick singing about lewd things cleverly to a catchy beat. Or, at least, that's my story and I'm sticking to it.

NOTE: The video linked above is *slightly* NSFW, due to language and Princess Superstar in some skimpy outfits. Like that's a bad thing.

Being Broke - There are few things more lame, I think we can all agree. Because when you're broke, the whole world suddenly wants to hang out at an awesome bar and eat buffalo wings and, sure, you'll go because it don't cost nuthin' to just hang out but... it's not the same, is it? You think it'll be cool; you'll eat a peanut butter sandwich before you head out and you'll nurse one beer all night or, if times are really tough, a glass of ice water, and everyone will just be thrilled you showed up. But slowly you'll find yourself studying the jukebox by the bathrooms, or you'll realize you've been watching the muted ballgame on the TV above the bar for the last half hour. Then it will hit you that watching everyone else get liquored up and rowdy is making you more depressed than you would have been had you just stayed home and watched slasher movies like you'd originally planned. In other words, being broke makes you antisocial, no fun, and it's pretty much the worst thing that can happen to a late-20's individual that doesn't involve getting run down by a city bus at a crosswalk. Frankly, and I'm sure that I speak for everyone, being broke can go fuck right off. So there... good... now we'll never have to hear of people being broke again. I told it! *snap*

It's Back!!!

If you're anything like me (handsome, an appreciator of good humor, a sexual tyrannosaurus, and wanted by "the man" in three states), you religiously watched every episode of Midwesterner’s Guide To Living In New York City, or MGTLINYC to it's superfans (us). It was a show that taught us, among other things, how to feel love again, how to put back the spark in our collective relationships, how to properly and safely use a soldering gun, how to make a tangy chicken salad on a budget, and how to cure all the diseases of the world with a bear hug full of hope. And sadly, it also taught us that good things never last. Tragically, it was taken off the air over the summer, never to shine it's light upon our open, searching faces again.

Or so we thought.

In a rare move of intelligence and "giving the people what they want," the Powers That Be at the network have issues a last-minute reprieve! MGTLINYC has been allowed another season, which has it's premier on October 2nd! It's a great day in the morning for all we fans who grew to love the Ol' Midwesterner, to be sure.

Now, yes, there have been some changes. A house band has been added, there's some business with a cornfield, and most noticeably, the lovely Gal Gotham has been replaced by the gruff, show-killing mug of one Ted McGinley. I've heard talk as well that a wise-cracking robot/kid-sister/ethnic neighbor/POW Camp Sergeant will be waiting in the wings, ready to join the cast should the ratings take another dip.

However, these are but superficial changes. The heart will still be there; the warmth and joy remain unchanged. And this time, it's here to stay!

Until it gets cancelled again!

NOTE: Be sure to pick up the complete first season of MGTLINYC, priced-to-own on DVD!!! It's got all the episodes you've grown to love, plus exciting bonus features which quite possibly include director's commentary, a video tour of the set, several nude photos that were found in a dumpster behind Ted McGinley's house, and an annotated bar guide that details what drinks pair the best with each episodes.

Talking To Monks About Music

So, yesterday, I caught up with my monk buddies after they got done with their protest. I had a very important question to ask them and the conversation went exactly like this:

C-dog: Whassup, my main monks!
Monk 1: Hello, C-dog. Many blessings upon your family.
Monk 2: May you live a long and prosperous life. Beer me.
C-dog: Sure, catch! So how'd the protest go down?
Monk 2: Same old shit, different day. Makes me wish I'd been reincarnated as a musk ox or something. Beats hanging out in the town square trying to calm this crazy fucker down.
Monk 1: Dude, I already apologized for losing my shit, okay. I just get all raged out when the government starts puttin' it's foot on the neck of my people, choking the life from our bodies while it laughs and laughs and laughs and LAUGHS-
C-dog: Hey man, take a deep breath.
Monk 1: Sorry, sorry...
Monk 2: You see what I have to deal with?
Monk 1: Hey, I'm just a passionate guy. Can't help it; I'm part Italian.
C-d0g: Anyway, monks, I got a question for you.
Monk 2: Shoot.
C-dog: Alright, so you know how I really dig cover songs?
Monk 1: Of course. There's something about a classic and/or popular song that has been reworked in a new, interesting way that really gets your toes a-tappin'.
Monk 2: What, are you Exposition Monk all of a sudden?
Monk 1: Eat me. At least I didn't fart during the morning chant.
Monk 2: Omigod, fuck you, you said you wouldn't bring that up!
Monk 1: Step off my nuts and maybe that's the last time you'll hear about it.
C-dog: Guys, guys... seriously... I got a question for you.
Monk 2: (under his breath) Such a fucking prick... Anyway, yes. Cover songs. What's up?
C-dog: Okay, so I was thinking about how much I love cover songs and it occurred to me... I don't know what exactly is the best cover song ever recorded.
Monk 1: Sid Vicious singing "My Way." No question.
Monk 2: Are you fucking retarded? Sid Vicious was a mentally ill murder who barely knew where he was most of the time. Listening to him screech out Sinatra was like watching a bus full of ten-year-old musical prodigies drive off a cliff and crash land on a pile of The Greatest Generation's most precious memories.
Monk 1: You have no respect for punk rock and you never have! Gah!!! Why the fuck do I hang out with your ignorant ass?
Monk 2: Yeah, yeah...
C-dog: Man, aren't you guys supposed to be all peace and love and shit?
Monk 2: This guy would make Buddha want to take a swing at him. Alright, C-dog, so what's your question?
C-dog: Okay, my question is this: Would it be possible for you guys to use your awesome monk powers to help me figure out just what, exactly, is the best cover song of all time?

(the monks are momentarily silent)

Monk 1: Um, like, do you even know how being a monk works?
Monk 2: Because it's not like being a wizard or something.
C-dog: What, you guys don't like commune with the spirits? Get answers to important questions from the great cosmic beyond?
Monk 2: Dude, you gotta lay off the Sci-Fi Network.
Monk 1: Okay first, I already told you what the greatest cover song of all time was-
Monk 2: Oh please.
Monk 1: Fuck off! And second, we meditate with the hopes of achieving enlightenment, but we don't ever actually achieve enlightenment because man is imperfect and therefore is unable to truly connect with the holy deities.
Monk 2: Plus, if we did, we'd be out of a job.
Monk 1: Exactly. But look... we like you, C-dog. You're totally awesome and you're always willing to help us move we get evicted from our temple.
Monk 2: Yeah, and those golden Buddha statues aren't light, ya know. You da man!
C-dog: Holla!
Monk 1: So I'll tell you what... I think I know of a way that we humble-ass monks can help you find the answers that you seek. We may not be wizards, but we still have a few tricks up the sleeves of our loose-fitting robes.

So we went back to their ashram and once there, they made this big, hairy deal about showing me the mystical, monks-only portal to the realms of music which turned out to be just an old PC where they'd bookmarked YouTube. Anyway, long story short, we've begun our quest for the best cover song of all time. It's going to be a long road, but so far this is what we've come up with:



Pretty damn awesome, if you ask me. Those monks really know their shit. Anyway, we'll keep at it. And if any of you guys got some suggestions, feel free to speak up.

Yikes!

Omigod, what do you have to do to get a monk that pissed off? He's a monk! Those guys are usually so chill. Like, you could kick a monk in the nuts and he'd be all, "That is the way of the leaf on the water." Or something. I don't really know a lot of monks, so I'm just guessing as to what he'd say, but I'd bet that's pretty close.

Anyway, this picture was taken at some sort of political protest somewhere in Asia. Dunno the details. I didn't actually read the article. Looks pretty serious, though. I'm totally on the monk's side, whatever it is.

Oh, and I love how that other monk on the right is totally like, "Dude, you might want to take it down a notch." You've got to have that guy in volatile situations like this. He's the monk equivalent of that one friend who you always have talk to the cops because you know he won't get all crazy and make things worse, no matter how much he's had to drink. He keeps everyone out of jail or, in this case, away from the government-sponsored firing squads.

NOTE: I've decided, based on this post, that I should be a reporter for CNN. Anyone have the hook-up thereabouts? I've got good-ass references.

Right Now's Drink

Over the weekend, and through a byzantine series of events that I am unable to talk about for fear of retribution from the mob/the government/aliens/your dad/your dad's alien friend who is in the government's mob, I came into a free bottle of Gin. Good Gin, too... the kind in the green bottle with the red dot on it that looks like a wax seal... you know the one... it's got a name that's hard to spell and would be too much trouble to look up.

Anyway... so I've got this bottle of Gin and, to be honest, I'm a little wary to drink it. See, a few years ago, Gin and I had a little run-in. An altercation, as it were. In short, it kicked my ass, hard and mean, and it left me puking behind a dumpster outside an Outback Steakhouse in the Northridge section of Los Angeles. It was, to say the least, a memorable occasion. So memorable, in fact that since then, I have touched nary a drop of Gin. Not a single sip. None. Nada. For fear that my sense-memory would kick in and I'd start projectile vomiting, mostly. In much the same way that one tends to avoid cops once they've had their teeth knocked out with a nightstick, I've kept my distance from Gin for a good long while and that's been just fine.

Until a few days ago, when a bottle of the stuff, this hateful, brass-knuckled stuff, was almost literally dropped in my lap. And what was I to do... not drink it? Ha! Clearly you're unfamiliar with how it is that the C-dog rolls.

One thing I knew: I could not drink the stuff straight. That was the mistake I'd made the last time, and it was most likely the reason that the Gin had used my stomach as a trampoline to aide it's bounce back up my gullet and out into the open air for a spectacular rainbow-style dive onto the dirty Californian pavement. Well, you know, that and the fact that I drank an entire bottle of it by myself, in less than an hour. Look, it was a night of bad decisions, let's leave it at that.

So... what to do?

I scoured the internet, looking for drink recipes that were palatable to my gin-nervous mind, and that fit two criteria:

1) They weren't boring, like a Martini or a Gin and Tonic. Meh. Everyone drinks those and am I everyone? No! I'm C-dog, a man who craves drinks that are sold at a roadside stand along the Unbeaten Path to a mythical, wonderful, possibly enchanted place known simply and in hushed tones as, "Adventure."

and...

2) They really had to require a bare minimum of work. Because while I enjoy blazing new trails and so forth, I'd like to do so without expending just a whole hell of a lot of energy.

After some light Googling, I hit upon the perfect cocktail. One that's bold, exciting, and isn't going to require a lot out of me or my wallet. This drink is, in fact, one of the best I've tasted in a long time and, as a matter of fact, I'm drinking one as I type this (Could you tell? What are you looking at? You want to fight me??? BRING IT OOWWN!!!). So what is it? Why, it's a...

Gin Rickey

What you need:

-Some Gin, preferably a good brand that you got for free

-One lime

-Some tonic water

-Ice, ice baby. Too cold!

-Actually, you can leave out the tired, cultural reference and just use regular, from-the-freezer ice.

How you make:

Take the lime, cut it in half, and juice the ever-lovin' fuck out of it until it can't be juiced no more. Take said juice and dump it into a rocks glass. Add two ice cubes. Next, take your Gin and pour some of it into the glass. How much? Dunno. Depends on how far gone you intend on getting. Let your conscience be your guide. Finally, fill the remainder of the glass (if there is any remainder) with tonic water, which gives it a nice fizz. Stir, then drink deep and be refreshed. Also drunk.

What it tastes like:

It's a lot like being slapped across the mouth by a crisp, clean, 80-proof waterfall that was recently the site of a horrific plane crash. The plane's cargo? Citrus. Lots of it. Also, the water's fizzy. Just fucking drink the Gin Rickey, okay? And you can thank me later.

If the hangover's not too bad, of course.

Movie Stars And Movies

Movie Stars

NOTE: Okay, technically, there's only one movie star in this story. However, I thought that the plurality had a much nicer ring to it, and I'm sure you agree. If not... if you feel like you've been lied to this early in the morning by my deceptive use of pluralization... well, let me just tell you from the bottom of my pork fat-clogged heart that I never meant you harm and that I was merely trying to achieve the Power of the Plural, which is a concept I just came up with as a direct result of me not having my coffee yet. Anyway, let's all now move beyond this hurtful incident and try to reclaim a little bit of our innocence, like back when we were kids by the lake. I think there was some sailing and maybe a tire swing. Or...something... What were we talking about?

So, Saturday, Girlfriend and I decided to go catch a movie. We had some time to kill before it started, so Girlfriend decided to get her browse on at the The Strand while I forged ahead to pick up our tickets. As I approached the theater, I noticed a couple of guys standing outside, poring over a copy of the Village Voice, apparently attempting to decide which movie they should go see. One of them was instantly familiar to me, but I couldn't place the face. He was scruffy, with a beard, shabby clothes, and a UCLA ball cap pulled low over his eyes. Still, though, there was something immediately recognizable about him... yet I couldn't get it to click. So I went in, waited in line, bought my tickets, and exited the theater to relocate my girlfriend. But the guys are still standing there. I looked at the guy again, the familiar one, his face in profile, and I realized that would bug me all day if I didn't figure out who this guy was. So, since I don't wear a watch, I used the old, "Hey buddy, you know what time it is?" excuse to get all up in his grill. He looked at me, right in the eye, and very pleasantly said, "Oh yeah, it's two o'clock."

*CLICK*

I said thank you and I walked away, secure in the knowledge that Leonardo DiCaprio had just given me the time.

Anyway, I thought it was kind of cool. Not, it should be noted, as cool as the time I helped Nicholas Cage shop for old Ray Harryhausen movies when I worked at a video store in the East Village (true story), but still... a pretty nifty brush with someone much, much, much more famous and wealthy than I. Oh, and for the record, I'm really not even that big a fan of Leonardo DiCaprio. I'm just a huge starfucker, as it turns out. Look, my point is, Leonardo DiCaprio and I are best friends now and I'll probably be a part of his entourage until forever. See ya in Hollywood, beeyotches!!!

Movies

2ND NOTE: Two mini-reviews for the price of one. That's right, you have to pay me now that I'm all famous-by-association. Fork over the cash and/or delicious baked goods!!!

Across The Universe - I would have fucking loved this movie when I was sixteen. Like, the scary, irritating kind of love that happens when Drama Club geeks invest themselves emotionally into a given entertainment property. As it happens though, I'm not sixteen anymore, so a movie about young love in the 60's that's told almost entirely through Beatles tunes just isn't going to have the same delirious effect on me. Which is not to say that I didn't like it; I totally did. The concept worked way better than it had any real right to and, if nothing else, Across The Universe manages the not-small feat of recontextualizing a bunch of songs that we've all heard a million times before. This a great thing for a lot of reasons, not the least of which being that it gives me an excuse to use the word "recontextualize" and have it sound like I actually know what I'm talking about. If you're a Beatles fan or if you're still able to tap in, if only briefly, to that part of your brain that remembers what sixteen was like, you should check this out. Not everything in the movie works 100%, but most of it does and, all things considered, it's really quite cool.

The Host - I know I'm a little late to the party on this one, but whatever. The awesome people always arrive late, usually with a booze restock and tons of hilarious stories that kick the party into overdrive so fast that all of a sudden it's dawn and everyone realizes that they just had a night out that they're going to use as an example when their grand kids ask them to explain the idea of "fun." Right, anyway... The Host, an action/horror/comedy/drama from Korea, takes the concept of American popcorn films and shoves it right back up our asses. The only movie I can compare it to is Jaws, but that's not really very accurate because the giant, mutant fish-monster in this movie would eat Jaws like an hors d'oeuvre. The monster in this is sick, totally, and what's cool is that the monster isn't the only gun that The Host has in it's arsenal. There's a real, live heart beating beneath the rampage and destruction and it will make you want to kick Transformers square in their metal nuts. Check it out, but be sure to warm up your mouth beforehand so you don't pull a muscle going "Wow" every five minutes.

Oooh, Nifty...

Creating latte art like this does, I'll admit, smack of pointlessness since you're basically going to have to drink your masterpiece as soon as it's created (unless you're a big fan of cold coffee and/or wasting food). Still... got to say... as far as pointless activities are concerned, it is one of the more awesome ones I've seen. Makes the folks at Starbucks look like a bunch of lazy bastards, that's for sure. Anyway... Oooh, nifty!!!

Dead Professions

NOTE: Credit where it's due, this was totally my friend and co-worker Andrew's idea. Andrew would also like it pointed out that he's never, personally, met a hot air balloon pilot.

The Poet



Once considered the rock stars of their day, the poet has long since disappeared from our cultural landscape, a fact that can mostly be attributed to all of them being, as the historical scholars put it, "major weenies." I mean, wearing tights and talking in clever rhymes all the time just isn't in a way to live a long, not-beaten-up-all-the-time sort of life. Understandably, as time marched on and the real, "modern" rock stars started showing up (bringing with them endless tour buses full of cool, not to mention that they had the good drugs), the interest in becoming a poet among our society's youth plummeted fast. Eventually, the quill pens and foppish hats were put away entirely, or at least they were relegated to the various Renaissance Faires around the country. And, yes, I'm aware that there are still poet laureates out there and there's even a few famous poets still kicking around. Whatever, that's like ten people out of billions. For your profession to be considered "alive," there's got to be enough of you out there to fill the stands at a high school basketball game. Because science says so, that's why.

The Viking



I'm sure there's a metaphor here linking the brutality of the vikings of yore to the ruthless tactics of today's modern corporations, but it's one that should be made by someone much more "Liberal Arts major (with a Poli-Sci minor)" than myself. All I can say is that vikings were bad asses. Sure they killed and raped and plundered and visited untold destruction upon everyone they met, but... um... where was I going with this? Yeah, okay, I guess they were assholes and, generally, it's probably a good thing that they're no longer around to stab people and such. Still... what they lacked in people skills, they certainly made up in nifty hats. Horns!!!

The Clown

And I'm not talking about those fruity, spandex-clad, French clowns that wouldn't know a good pie in the face gag if it walked right up to them and shouted, "Bonjour, you unfunny clownesque-but-not-quite-a-real-clown clown!" I'm talking about the hilarious, scary, alcoholic clowns that they had back our parents days; Clowns that could do a somersault, get hit with a blast from a bottle of seltzer, down a pint of cheap bourbon, and then hole up under your bed with hunting knife. Today, clowning is all about the technical skills of a pratfall, and about the witty nuances of a joke that requires of a viewer a deep, intricate knowledge of Comedia Dell'Arte. In other words, clowning today is boring. And thus, it's dying out as a career choice for crazy drunk teenagers who run away from home. Which is a shame really, because who doesn't love a clown?

I'm sorry, I meant "who isn't terrified to their very core by the icy, painted visage of a clown that's crawling a cross the floor covered in a fresh arterial spray?"

Worth Your Valuable Time

If either Ben or Jerry (hell, or both) are looking for a husky male sex-slave to do their awful, perverted bidding, as well as some light typing and general office work, I'd like to put in my application. I'd also like to mention that it would be perfectly acceptable to pay me for my duties exclusively in this new flavor of ice cream, which tastes exactly like a Cinnabon and makes me feel like a newly-arrived citizen of Delicioustown.

NOTE: Delicioustown is the capital of the great state of Tastychucettes, which is located squarely in the heartland of The United States Of Mmmm. Which, of course, is but one of the seven continents on Planet Yumtastic. Anyway, who's up for ice cream?

2ND NOTE: WHEEEEEEE, SUGAR RUSH, WHEEEEEEE!!!

Arbitrary Rulings 3 (Body Edition)

Hair - Hair's cool, I guess. I mean, it keeps our heads warm and it does look nice once you've run a comb through it. Or not; you can just roll out of bed, leave it sticking out at all angles, and call it a "style." Really, that's hair's main selling point, particularly if you live in New York or LA or wherever there's an abundance of hip people: Being lazy and greasy makes you the Mayor of Bands That Are In Right Now. Also, hair gives serial killers something else to fetishize besides boobs, which is what makes them (the serial killers) extra-creepy. And if there's anything that serial killers love, it's being extra-creepy. It's true, just ask them! Wear a hat, though.

Nose - Yeah, yeah, flowers and a cooking steak and your girlfriend's perfume as you snuggle down with her at night... they all smell great and because you can smell them, for that you have your nose to thank. Except that there's a dark side. Farts, obviously. And fat people who haven't "gotten" soap yet. And the smell of paint drying that makes you (okay, me) all pukey. Walk into a freshly-painted room filled with a bunch of fat dudes that have just eaten a large taco dinner, take a big whiff, and tell me how awesome your nose is now. You won't be able to, of course; you'll be too busy trying to hack it off with whatever implements they were using to serve the tacos.

Eyes - Eyes kick so much ass, it's like they're from the future. I mean, how do they work? I couldn't tell you. I think it has something to do with lens and cones and rods and a wizard's spell. Whatever the case, though, eyes make everything better. Particularly being around naked people. Because, with eyes, you can look at the naked people! And you can go, "Hot damn, sir/madam, you sure are looking fine in your nakedness. I know this because I have eyes! Now, let me tell you about some of my other parts. Let's start with the wang..." Granted, these types of conversations usually end in a macing and a lengthy prison sentence, but still... when you're counting the hours alone in your cell... at least you'll have the memory of that nakedness to give you comfort. And that's a gift from your eyes, free of charge.

Toes - Useless. Okay, maybe very occasionally you can use your toes to pick up a pen or a quarter that you've dropped, but that's only if you happen to be barefoot and even then, it's really hard. Almost not even worth the effort. In fact, I think it's fair to say that toes are just about the only part on your body that have absolutely no purpose in being there. It's like their sole function is to give women another place to slap on some colored paint and/or to get broken in soccer matches. And as you may have sussed out, neither or those are a function that would be terribly missed should they happen to disappear. Stupid, stupid fleshy bits, is what toes are, and I for one say it's time we start ignoring them in the hopes that they'll just go away. Oh, you can also "Hang Ten" with your toes if you're a surfer, but since almost nobody is a surfer, no one cares.

The Butt - Hilarious! It's like the Swiss Army Knife of your body! It's what makes sitting such a pleasant experience, it makes funny noises, it looks sexy in a pair of tight jeans... is there nothing the butt can't do??? Alright, no, it can't drive you home when you're drunk and it can't do calculus, but to be fair, we are talking about two lumps of fat and muscle here, so why would you even think that the butt could do those things? Really, sometimes I worry about you. Anyway, the butt is such a tidy multitasker, I'm going to go ahead and nominate it for the Noble Prize. When it wins and it takes the stage in Oslo, you better prepare yourself for the funniest acceptance speech of all time. Because that speech will be told entirely in farts. And we, as a planetary community, will be healed with laughter. And yes, I know I just made a big deal about how farts smell up in the "nose" section... being both smelly and hilarious is the essential dichotomy of farts. It's the truest balance achieved in nature and we should all genuflect in awe. So yeah... get on that, already.

Oh My God, The Zombies Are HERE!!!!

NOTE: By "here" I mean "the 60's." Still... they don't look all that hungry for brains. And... they do play musical instruments way better than I would have thought a bunch of undead ghouls ever could. So that's nice, I guess. When the Zombie Apocalypse finally comes (shouldn't be too long now), at least we'll have some catchy tunes to listen to while we're eaten.

Wake Up, People!

I know that we as a society have become desensitized to a lot of things and, generally, I think that's just fine. At the end of the day, it beats living in the Joseph McCarthy, "Everyone is a Communist" era, no doubt. But... um... sometimes, I think maybe it's okay to freak out a little bit. Things do happen on occasion that warrant a worldwide crazy-go-nuts panic. Things like... oh, I don't know... THIS!!!

Kids, it's a meteorite that fell from the sky, and now the people that live where it landed are sick!!! DID NO ONE SEE NIGHT OF THE LIVING DEAD?!?!

I can only assume that these sick individuals are like seconds away from turning into brain-thirsty zombies and Peru isn't so far away from the United States, if you catch my drift.

NOTE: Is Peru far away from the US? I don't know, nor do I have the desire to look it up. Someone be so kind as to answer that because how freaked out I get, specifically, will depend on how far away from the Zombie Apocalypse's jumping-off point I currently am.

Anyway, my point is, we've got to be better about keeping up with zombies and zombie-related events that are happening on our planet. We don't want to be caught unawares because, believe me, one minute you're chilling out on the stoop with some friends, enjoying a nice glass of iced tea and discussing the previous evening's baseball scores, and then suddenly the next minute you're running for your life because the reanimated corpse of your old high school teacher just ate your best friend. It can happen that fast.

So eyes open, ZFS!-kateers. I would really hate to be the guy doing the "I Told You So" boogie while everyone else's screams are drowned out by the chewing sounds of a million undead ghouls.

You've been warned.

Which Is Worse?

A) It's almost 7pm and I'm still at work, inputting an invoice long enough to give an average Senate sub-committee report a run for it's money in a dull-informational-text competition.

or...

B) The fact that I'm so brain-fried, I just sat through the Vanessa Carlton song "A Thousand Miles" in it's entirety when it came on my radio.

I swear to fuck, I can't choose between the two.

Man, what's wrong with me? What kind of creature have I become? And more importantly, which one of you good people are going to buy me enough liquor to make me not care?

Makin' my way downtown, walking fast, faces passed and I'm home-bound... (cue piano part that will be running through my brain non-stop for the next three days, even after I jab myself in the eye with a pencil to just... make... it... STOP!!!)

I'd Like To Discuss A Very Serious Matter With All Of You Today...

That's right. Toilet paper... the unsung hero of our lives. Now, I know what you're all thinking: "C-dog, we get it; you've got the emotional maturity of a ten-year-old and you think foul, scatological humor is hilarious. Please, please... write about fast food again or something because we're tired of all the potty talk around here. Oh, and also, you're looking so incredibly handsome this morning, it's like reading the blog of an exotic male dancer, except you haven't got the clap."

Well, first of all, you're right... I don't have the clap. How sweet of you to notice! Now if I could just convince the NYC blood banks of that, I'd be rollin' in free cookies and juice. But that's hardly the issue at hand. I want you to know that I hear your concerns; I'll be the first to admit that my content does have a tendency to skew nasty. However, we're all adults here and I believe that it's my duty (heh... "duty" sounds like "doody") to bring into a public forum topics that are usually discussed only behind closed doors with the closest of friends, relatives, or guys that you've brought home from a bar whose expensive coat you've just ruined. Why, exactly, do I believe that this is my duty (heh...)? Well, let's just say that I have my reasons and that they are gross.

We've reached an understanding, yes? Good! Because we've got to talk about toilet paper now and I don't want anyone begging to stop the ride before we've safely returned to the station. As it were.

Now, let's get on with it:

Toilet paper... what is it, really? Is it man's way of coping with an unfortunate aspect of human biology? Is it the last line of defense between a civilized life and all of us living in a forest, smelling really bad? Is it the greatest invention ever to be applied directly to the butt? Yes, yes, and most definitely yes. It's a wonderful product, one that most of us use on a daily basis, and one that, when it's doing it's job the way it's supposed to, we rarely even think about. And why should we? It isn't the most pleasant thing to ponder in your free time, especially when there's so much available pornography on the internet. And it's not something you're going to bring up in after-work conversation with a bunch of buddies at the bar (unless you're me, but that's beside the point).

But, people, there are times... dark, harsh times... when toilet paper doesn't do it's proscribed task; when it fails to clean us in an unnoticed and respectful manner. Ladies... gentlemen... I know this to be true because I, C-dog, am going through one of these times and, worse yet, I will be forced to endure it for as long as I'm employed by my current... er... employer.

The toilet paper in my office is substandard. There. I said it. Actually, "substandard" doesn't even cut it, because "substandard" implies that there was actually a standard for which it's manufacturer was striving. That is so clearly not the case with this particular brand of toilet paper. Truthfully, I'm not entirely convinced that this toilet paper was manufactured. It seems much more likely that it was discovered deep in a cave somewhere in a jungle, clinging to the walls and fearing the light of day. It's horrible... words cannot describe the roughness, the stiffness, the unwillingness to yield. It abrades. It scratches. It rasps like a cat's tongue, but with none of the inherent adorableness.

It is, in short, responsible for the unending misery that permeates my day and I have absolutely no idea what to do about it. I mean, sure, I could start bringing my own toilet paper from home, but then I'd be the guy in the office who's known for carrying toilet paper around in his tasteful man-bag and that's not a distinction I'd particularly favor. I could file a complaint, I guess, but again... I'd be known as the guy who bitches about the toilet paper, which in turn would have everyone in the office staring at my ass and, frankly, they do that enough as it is (I hear the phrase "like it was sculpted from a block of fine, Italian marble" whispered by men and women alike every time I walk from my desk to the printer).

So this is my fate. To suffer in silence, blog excluded, and to forever dread my bathroom time in much the same way a prisoner dreads a shower with a group of men all larger than he. Pity me, friends, and take stock of your own toilet paper usage. Because I guarantee you don't know how good you've got it.

A Bit About The Emmys And Then We Can All Get On With Our Lives

-Ugh. Seriously. Why do I watch the Emmy Awards? All they do is make me mad, which in turn makes me the kind of guy who gets mad at awards shows, and believe me when I say that that's not the kind of guy I want to be. I'd like to think I have a little more going on in my life but, as it turns out, nope. Anyway, we all know at this point that the Emmys are basically bullshit and that the most deserving actors/writers/shows are rarely ever the ones handed a shiny gold statue, so I won't further beat that particular quite-dead horse. Let's just say that the Emmys are generally very lame, but will on occasion have a moment that makes the whole world smile. And by "the whole world," I of course mean "me." Ego!!!

-Of all the winners last night, there was exactly one (1) with which I was truly pleased. That would be Terry O'Quinn taking the trophy for Supporting Actor in a Drama for his work on LOST. He's been an epic badass on that show since the beginning and it's nice to see him rewarded for a performance that will long be remembered by the fans as a thing of pure awesome. Beyond that, there were an additional two (2) that I was okay with, but not enough to put down my sandwich or anything. Those would be Katherine Heigl winning for Best Supporting Actress in a Drama for her work on Grey's Anatomy (I don't watch the show, but she's way hot and was funny in Knocked Up), and 30 Rock winning for Best Comedy Series (It is very funny; maybe not The Office funny, but still...). Otherwise, I was completely non-plussed by everything and everyone else.

-Ryan Seacrest... (sigh)... Like, I don't think he did an awful job as host or anything but... I don't know... he just reminds me of... okay, you remember that part in Say Anything when Lloyd Dobler takes Diane Court to the big graduation party and she's all awkward and doesn't really know how to talk to people at first because she spent her entire high school career studying instead of making friends? THAT'S how Ryan Seacrest is as a host of anything. It's like he's spent so much time analyzing old tapes of Dick Clark, he forgot to work on growing any kind of personal charisma. As far as wet blankets go, he's certainly not the most moist, but he is plenty damp and that just doesn't make for engaging television.

-Steve Carell storming the stage and group-hugging with Jon Stewart and Steven Colbert may have been the funniest thing I've seen in at least two weeks. It was also the only moment of actual spontaneity in the entire show. Go figure.

-Was it just me, or did there seem to be an over-abundance of technical problems during the show, especially during the beginning? I mean, even considering that it was live and things do happen, it really came across to the audience (me) that the control booth had been manned by a bunch of drunk guys who hadn't technically ever run a broadcast before, but had had the whole thing explained to them by some dude in a bar who looked like he knew what was up.

-So yeah... the Emmys. Whatever, I guess. Carry on.

Here's A Picture Of An Instuctional Book On The Art Of Juggling

Discussion Questions

1. Is there a hobby out there sadder than juggling? I mean, it's basically masturbation without the exciting finale. And, for real, could you possibly think of a better way to waste more of your own time than tossing various objects in the air and trying to catch them? At least with stamp collecting, there's a chance you could sell your collection and make some bank. Juggling, though? Your only reward is never being sexually desirable again. No one wants to cuddle with a juggler.

2. That being said, I should probably point out... for the record and all... that I, C-dog, do in fact know how to juggle. I mean, I'm not prepping an audition tape for Cirque Du Soleil (that you know of), but still. Knowing this, do you think the above unwarranted attack on juggling enthusiasts is an act of self-loathing flagellation, or do you think I'm just a big hypocrite who's unbelievably attractive?

3. Dave just has to have the creepiest basement ever, right? Look at him... stare into his glassy eyes and tell me that he doesn't have an ominous room down a hidden stairway that would fit right in with the set design from the latest movie in the Saw franchise. His crawlspaces are filled with the answers to the question, "Have You Seen Me?"

4. Okay, hypothetical... let's say you meet a nice guy or gal in a bar and, after a few drinks, you decide that you would like to see them naked. So you go back to his or her house, drink a little more, and then, finally, you have yourself some sex. The next morning, you wake up and your guy or gal is totally chill about it, even offering to make you some breakfast. Things are going great until... as you're wandering around the apartment, the smell of cooking bacon in the air... you notice this book on his or her shelf. It's dog-eared, clearly well used, and it's sitting next to what appear to be hand-crafted juggling balls that clearly cost more than his or her stereo system. What do you do? Besides feel so dirty that you don't think normal showers will ever make you feel clean again, I mean.

NOTE: The person with the most correct answers gets to never think about people who juggle "just for fun" ever again. The person with the most incorrect answers, however... well... Dave's having a slumber party. He wants you to bring chips, a fun board game, and to tell no where you're going or when to expect you back. Dave says it's easier that way.

I Have A Migraine

You heard me.

Here, watch this. It's funny. Pretend it's me making you laugh. Wrap that laughter around you like a blanket and take comfort in the knowledge that I'll be back tomorrow, when my skull stops trying to explode like a poorly-maintained moonshine distillery in a bootlegger's basement.

Or something.

God my head hurts.



Clip courtesy of the boys at Derrick Comedy. I'd link to them, but... well, migraine. Do seek them out, though, as their stuff is quite amusing.

The Things I'm Proud Of Are Gross

I think at this point we're all familiar with the concept of "web trackers," even if, like me, you have absolutely no idea how they work. But for those of you who are using a computer for the first time (welcome to the Internet, by the way; enjoy the porn), basically a web tracker is this: A doohickey that tells you how many hits you've gotten on your blog, where said hits came from, and what time the "hitters" stopped by to say howdy and/or plagiarize your writing.

Anyway, I bring this up because last night, while checking my web tracker for my daily dose of ego-boosting narcissism, I noticed that someone from Albuquerque, NM, had reached ZFS! by Googling the phrase "getting shit stains out of underwear." While that's hilarious in and of it's self, what's even better is that, turns out, ZFS! is the #1 result for that search criteria!!!

Check it out!!!

I cannot tell you how proud this made me. I mean, it's like a validation of my life's work, especially given the fact that I've never actually written on the subject of getting shit stains out of underwear. The Google just knows that, even though I haven't covered the topic as of yet, I'm still the best man for the job. Poop humor and poop humor-related topics are my beat, people, and now everyone on the Internet knows it.

Seriously, I'm Will Smith at the end of Pursuit of Happyness, where he's walking down the street, crying, and he's clapping his hands over his head. I'm Rudy after he sacked the quarterback. I'm Luke when he blew up the Death Star.

But more than anything, I'm a man who's known for talking a lot about gross things... and I couldn't be more proud.

My Life Story, Coming Soon To A Theater Near You...

Thanks to Braden, for the usual reasons.

Further Proof Of My Superior Evolution

NOTE: So, remember when I revealed to you guys that I've evolved beyond the growing of wisdom teeth? Yeah, well, turns out, that was merely the tip of the iceberg. I went to a genetic specialist this morning who was able to shed some light on what features, exactly, are present in and on this superior, sexy form of mine. It was kind of crazy; wouldn't have thought I could get in to see a genetic specialist this quickly. I mean, sure, this genetic specialist's office was really more of an alley. And... he was clearly suffering from "the shakes." Come to think of it, I've never known a genetic specialist to demand payment in the form of "a place to shit all private-like"... well, irregardless, I think he was right on the money. Here now, the wonders of the (my) highly-evolved body:

Further Proof Of My Superior Evolution, or, "Evolvin' 2000!!!"

-My neck's got gills that let me breath like normal when I'm submerged head first in a bucket of Everclear. I will forever be a huge hit at frat parties and after-work Happy Hours.

-Due to the unique structure of my vocal chords, I'm able to get the George Harrison song "I've Got My Mind Set On You" stuck in anyone's head at any time just by humming a few bars.

-My navel and a kangaroo's pouch have nearly the exact same function.

-My balls glow like they're at a rave. It's to attract mates. Raver mates.

-Apparently, my elbows are first joints ever in the history of anatomy to hold over 250 songs in the MP3 format.

-I can move things with my mind. Well, not "things," really. Just bananas. But if anybody wants a banana, I can totally get it for you without leaving this chair.

-I have the ability to rock and roll all night and party every day. Also, I can hear Beth calling, I can lick it up, and some other KISS references, too.

-Instead of intestines, I have a fully functioning arcade console that plays nothing but free games of Arkanoid. I can regulate my digestion by getting the high score!

-I've got a tail like a horse, but it's cool. Keeps the flies off.

-I never get sick, I never age, and I envy those that die peacefully in their beds!

Worth Your Valuable Time

I don't know your musical preferences. Maybe you dig Punk. Maybe you like a lot of rap music. Maybe you're really into a very specific math-core, screamo sound that's got a distinct shoe-gazer feel but with chunkier glasses and chord progressions that are only taught in Belgium. It doesn't matter. I think that, whatever your particular sonic predilections may be, the one thing we can all agree on is that what happened to Ozzy Osbourne is a fucking tragedy. I mean... fuck... the guy's become a befuddled cartoon; one that gets trotted out on stage a couple of times a year by a screeching harridan who's trying to ensure that the plastic surgery money keeps a-rollin' in.

Now, yes, there's a case to be made that Ozzy did a lot of damage to himself and, thus, it's probably better to have someone like Sharon around to make sure he doesn't piss on the Alamo again (true!). Still... I don't know... it just seems like it would have been better for him in the long run to have gone out like his bandmate Randy Rhodes; old enough to put out some classic albums, but young enough to avoid a smothering pseudo-death at the hands of reality TV.

Look, my point is, once upon a time, Ozzy used to rock. And last night I rediscovered that little nugget of truth when I randomly threw on Blizzard of Ozz, an album I haven't listened to since High School. The fact that I was doing the dishes while I gave it a listen doesn't matter (although it is extremely uncool). Let me just say that I've never in my life had such a good time scrubbing hardened cheese off a plate. And I've had some really fucking good times scrubbing hardened cheese off plates, so know that I'm being entirely sincere when I say this.

Anyway, if you haven't listened to Blizzard of Ozz in a long time, you should give it another whirl. It won't let you down. However, it will rock your socks.

NOTE: Just for the record, I'm 27; I was only just born when Blizzard of Ozz came out. All of my appreciation for Ozzy Osbourne and his ilk came during mid-90's, when I discovered that there was other music... older, awesomer music... than what was being played on 94.5, "The Edge."

I Am Evolved

Rare is it that you discover hidden truths about yourself during brunch, but as yesterday proved, occasionally that's totally what happens.

So I'm sitting there with Girlfriend, our friends Dan and Kate, and a strong Bloody Mary and we're having a very pleasant late-morning conversation about general stuff while we eat our eggs. During the course of said conversation, the topic of wisdom teeth and wisdom teeth-removal comes up (as it does), which allows me to bust out my one wisdom teeth-related factoid: I, C-dog, am one of the 20-to-30% of humans who will never have wisdom teeth. According to my dentist, I just flat-out won't grow them and that makes me a lucky, lucky boy. I sip my Bloody Mary in as self-satisfied a manner as possible while my table-mates stare at me, open-mouthed, in awe. This is usually the reaction I get when I drop this particular bit of knowledge on people, because let's face it... not growing wisdom teeth is the most awesome thing you can do with the back part of your gums and, therefore, I'm worthy of their adulation and reverence. But then, Dan says this:

NOTE: I'm paraphrasing; Bloody Marys, ya know.

Dan: You know what this means, right?
C-dog: That I'm awesome. Duh.
Dan: Well obviously. Handsome, too. But also, it means that you're the next stage in evolution.
C-dog: (perking up immediately) What's that you say, good sir?
Dan: I've read that, eventually, humans will out-grow wisdom teeth all together. With each generation, there will be fewer and fewer people that have wisdom teeth as our DNA adapts them right out of existence. The fact that you don't have them now, nor will you ever have them, means that you've already evolved to that point. Good for you.
C-dog: Yes... yes... Good for me indeed! I AM A GOD!!!
Girlfriend: Maybe you don't need another Bloody Mary.

Now, before you even think of questioning the science of my boy Dan, keep this in mind: He's starting grad school at Stanford this Fall. Ergo, he's wicked smart. From this, we can extrapolate that all smart people think I'm "the next phase of humanity" and, eventually, they'll ask me to be the leader of their revolution.

I'm not saying you have to or anything, but... um... you might want to start kissing my super-evolved butt now, so that I might be persuaded to spare your lives when The Reckoning is upon us.

Just a suggestion from your genetic superior.

Britney Spears's Career: Dead

It seems that, since I leaked the story last Friday, Britney Spears abandoned her plans for the greatest VMA performance ever and went an entirely different route:



Seriously, it was like watching a a fat stripper work the tail-end of a double shift at The Tit Barn. No, it was like watching a sad fifteen-year-old dressed up in Big Sis's clothes trying to wrap her mind around the concept of "lip-syncing." Or, no, it was like watching a pathetic husk of a former pop-star trying to recapture her former glory, except it wasn't so much "trying" as it was "trying to move while doped up on enough pills and booze to knock down 'Refrigerator' Perry."

Oh, sorry, it wasn't like that... it was that.

All in all, it was the worst reason ever to switch over from the Cowboys game and I regret that decision wholeheartedly. For shame, me... for shame. I should have known better.

Apropos Of Nothing, it's NEW EDITION!!!

NOTE: Why don't they make music like this anymore? The royal "they," I mean; not New Edition specifically. They're all old and giving Whitney Houston drugs (Bobby Brown only), so nobody cares. Anyway, this song makes me wish I was black teenager in love in the early 80's.

2ND NOTE: I chose to not go with "Candy Girl," as that would be too easy. And ZFS! is not about being easy. Unless you're buyin', there, sailor (wink!)...

Britney's Big Night

In a move that's sent our nation's community of trashy whore enthusiasts into a collective hot-mess panic, Britney Spears has been scheduled to perform this Sunday at the MTV Music Video Awards. It's known that she'll be singing her latest single, "Gimmie More," but beyond that details as to what exactly will happen on stage are being kept a closely-guarded secret.

UNTIL NOW...

That's right, using my elaborate web of contacts, spies, and morally ambiguous hair-and-makeup artists, I've managed to uncover a transcript of Spears' intended spectacle. Here now, the highlights of what promises to be the greatest live-to-tape performance ever recorded by an aging pop starlet whom no one will touch for fear of catching crabs:

Britney Spears in "This Is My Comeback! And This Is My Cooter!!!"

30sec- The stage goes dark. Strobes flicker, multi-colored lights flash around the auditorium, a guy rides a white horse across the stage while waving a black light and screaming, "The Britney is Coming! The Britney is coming!!!" No one under 21 gets the historical reference, which is intended as a sad commentary on the state of our public schools.

45sec- A thunderous boom is heard, followed by the chorus of an angelic choir, which is interrupted by thirty seconds of what sounds like Britney Spears backstage, unaware that her mic is now live, complaining about a nasty yeast infection.

1min- Britney takes the stage and immediately begins to strip. Her handlers rush out and catch her attention with something shiny while whispering in her ear. A look of intense concentration comes over her face and then she nods, slowly, while re-hooking her bra. A handler turns to the audience and shouts, "Okay, she's ready!"

1min, 30sec - Thumping club music pours from the speakers. A legion of jock strap-wearing, hard bodied men take the stage and begin to perform an elaborately choreographed dance routine that somehow brings to mind both the early work of Martha Graham as well as "the Hokey-Pokey." Britney appears transfixed by the gyrating buns and thighs of the dancers and is heard muttering to herself, "Penispenispenispenispenis..." One of the men hands her a microphone and an "Oh yeah" expression washes over her face.

2mins- She begins to sing; first her ABCs, then a pause, then a spirited rendition of "B-I-N-G-O," another pause, then, oddly, an aria from Don Giovanni. After some frantic hand motions from her handlers, followed by a few flash cards, Britney begins to sing her new hit single, "Gimme More."

5mins- It becomes apparent that she only remembers one verse of "Gimmie More," and that she's intent on singing it over and over again. The male dancers are clearly exhausted, but carry on gamely.

6mins- Britney continues to sing the same verse of "Gimmie More," but is now singing it to the tune of "B-I-N-G-O."

7mins, 30secs- The dancers have all sat down and are now quietly chatting amongst themselves. Britney is marching back and forth across the front of the stage, alternating between singing her one verse of "Gimmie More," and shouting out a recipe for a "kick-ass Bloody Mary that m'kids just love, y'all!!!"

8mins, 15secs- The dancers are all making out with each other. Britney's turning cartwheels.

9mins- Britney announces that she's "gotta take a thunderdump" and quickly exits the stage with her hands clenching her buttocks. The dancers stop making out, collectively roll their eyes, and wander off hand-in-hand.

10mins- It becomes clear that Britney has yet again forgotten about the live mic. The noise, magnified by the bathroom tiles, is deafening.

12mins- The MTV Music Video Awards begin!!!

Guess What?

NOTE: Remember this moment in time, for it will forever be known as the day that ZFS! officially "went there" with regards to 5th-grade humor involving the posterior of a barnyard animal. And just think... You were here. You're a witness to history. When Ken Burns does the inevitable documentary on this blog, I bet he'll totally want to interview you.

Luciano Pavarotti: Dead

This probably won't come as much of a shock, but I know absolutely nothing about Luciano Pavarotti. I mean, sure, the basics... he sang opera, was fat, Italian, died of pancreatic cancer (I just read that; wouldn't have known otherwise), but beyond that, with regards to his career, his talents, his life in general... I got nothing. Oh, wait, I do know that he was one of the vaunted 3 Tenors, along with that other guy and the one with the hair. Otherwise, the man remains a mystery.

It's the opera, really. Don't care for it. Don't "get" it, which I'm sure speaks volumes about my levels of sophistication and class. I've seen exactly one opera in my days; an interpretation of the Herman Melville short story, Billy Budd. It was to say the least an experience I'll never forget, like salmonella, or when I broke my arm. Seriously, time stopped; it was the one and only moment in my life that I had a good, hard think on the subject of suicide. Since then, I've been downright opera-phobic, avoiding it at all costs and damning the consequences.

Not that there were consequences; it's just opera, after all. Boring, boring opera. The musical equivalent of a coma.

Question: Are there really still opera fans out there? I mean, opera fans under 60. Because it seems like that's something that's going to die with the outgoing generation. Maybe I'm wrong; someone educate me and, thus, the world.

Anyway, despite all that, it's sad to see Pavarotti go. If for no other reason than it's always a bummer to have another person fatter than me pass on. Just moves me up on the list of all-time fatties still lumbering across the planet. I'll weep openly and unashamedly the day John Goodman dies.

ZFS! extends our (my) thoughts and whatnots to his family, friends, fans, etc...

The Future Me

I travelled into the future and came back with a picture of myself in the year 2058:

A few things...

1. So glad that I lost a a lot of weight because I was really worried I was going to be a fatty my whole life. That would have been a total bummer, to go to all the trouble of going into the future and locating my self-to-be, only to find out that I haven't left the all-u-can-eat buffet in like thirty years. Let's just hope I didn't achieve my new-found slenderness through plastic surgery, though, because cheaters never win. Even futuristic cheaters.

2. Kind of sucks that my eyesight deteriorated. I mean, the glasses I picked out are pretty stylish, but... still, ya know... it would have been nice to carry my current 20/20 vision into my golden years. Eh, but what can ya do? At least I've got my health.

3. Speaking of, dude, I don't know if it was some kind of new Diet of the Future or what, but I was absolutely in the best health of my life. And it wasn't just me; everyone I met was, at minimum, healthy and athletic enough to be a stunt-double in a Jet Li movie. I did see a whole lot of people eating grapes so... dunno... maybe that's the secret. Don't hold me to that, though. Oh, also, everyone was injecting some kind of green fluid right into their eyeballs every two hours. That probably doesn't have anything to do with it, though.

4. Apparently, in the future, I speak fluent German. Who knew?

5. Otherwise, everything else was exactly the same. Despite some basic health differences, it's kind of comforting to know that nothing else really changed about me through those many years.

An Example Of My Mythic Powers Of Perception

NOTE: This actually happened two nights ago but, in the interest of easy storytelling, we're going to pretend that it happened last night. I'm sure you won't mind this little history rewrite because, as is my understanding, you're all the most awesome people ever to own computers. And besides, we all know that time is not a fixed construct, all facts are malleable to one's own fiction and, of course, this is my blog and I can do whatever the hell I want. Snap!

Let me set the scene:

It's 4:30am and I've just woken up in my darkened apartment. Girlfriend sleeps beside me, our cat sleeps at the foot of the bed. I need to pee, badly, so I gently slide out from under the covers and head for the bathroom. Thus far, nothing is unusual. I stumble through our apartment, half-asleep and entirely handsome, unaware that I'm but seconds away from a brush with... DANGER!!!

I enter my office, en route to the john (our apartment is railroad-style), and, with the suddenness of a car crash, I'm aware that something is amiss. My whole body goes on Red Alert and I immediately spring up into the Crane Kick position, ready to unleash a deadly blow to the face of whatever enemy is lurking in the darkness. I am also prepared, if necessary, to sweep the leg. However, I hear nothing; no pistols being cocked, no knuckles being cracked in anticipation of a punch, no giggles at my usage of the word "cocked." Nothing. And yet, because I'm mythically perceptive, I'm positive that something is still very, very wrong.

Slowly, I drop the Crane Kick position; yes, doing so leaves me vulnerable to a sneak Cobra Kai attack, but dammit, that's a risk I have to take. I take a step into the room. Then another. Then...

*CRUNCH*

Glass. Underfoot. A lot of it. I reach behind me and flick on the light (which, granted, is probably something I should have done a lot sooner; sense of perception and not being an idiot are two different things). I take it all in and, using my brilliant skills of deduction, I conclude that a light bulb has fallen from it's socket on the ceiling down to the floor, where it then smashed like all those ice blocks during that one scene in... Karate Kid 2, maybe... the one where he was in China, or Japan, or whatever. Anyway, I swept the glass from my feet, and then I swept it all up from the floor, making my office once again safe for all feet everywhere. Or, rather, Girlfriend and my feet in our apartment. You catch my drift though.

At any rate, it was then, finally, that I was able to go pee with a peaceful mind, secure in the knowledge that my mythical sense of perception had saved the day and, possibly... the world?

No. Not the world. However, it did save me from walking across a roomful of broken glass, and that right there is worth it's weight Karate Kid references.

It's C-Dog Time!

A reader, who identified themselves only as "Regis Card," just emailed me this:

I... well... I don't really know what to say. Thanks, of course; while it's clear you have too much time on your hands (pun so totally intended), it's nice to see that you're at least putting it to good use. Also, "Regis Card?" Seriously? That's so obviously a pseudonym, you might as well have called yourself "A. Nonny Mous." We're all about taking credit for our actions at ZFS!, so why not step up and lay claim to the glory that's rightfully yours. Unless, of course, your name really is Regis Card. Then let me just say that Regis Card is a lovely name, probably with deep familial significance, and you should be proud to have it on your drivers licence, military ID, and/or parole sheet.

Anyway, I'm sure it goes without saying, but I do expect every single one of you to print this clock face out and paste on top of a real, working clock.

Me!!! ME!!! ME!!!

Food Fun At The Fair

NOTE: Last weekend, Girlfriend and I went to the New York State Fair where I, to the surprise of no one, ate a lot of very unhealthy food. Naturally, we took pictures. Please ignore the horrible presence of my hair, which appears to be as greasy and unpleasant as the mound of "ribbon fries" that will be discussed further down the post. Now, to get you warmed up to the sight of me eating (which has sent stronger men than you to an early grave), let's start off with some food-related pics that don't contain images of me shoving things in my mouth...

I Have A Way With The Chicks



If Girlfriend hadn't been around, I could have totally hit that because, as you can see, I had that chick in the palm of my hand. A-HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA!!! GET IT?!?!

Large Man, Large Pumpkin



This is me posing outside of the Agriculture Building. Next to me, there is a large pumpkin. [Insert your own pop-culturally relevant "It's The Great Pumpkin, Charlie Brown" joke here]. I would also like to point out that, despite the sign's stern warning, I touched the pumpkin. Because when I'm at the State Fair, I do what I goddamn well please.

Would Anyone Like To See A Good Use For A Lot Of Butter?



Though it may not look like it in this pictures, what you're seeing is actually a life-sized butter sculpture of a quaint barnyard scene. They used something like 800 pounds of butter to carve out this monument to wasting food and if that doesn't make you proud to be an American, I don't know what will. I'd really like to think that, when the Fair is over, they let this slowly melt in front of a large group of hungry orphans. Because fuck the hungry orphans and their need for food, that's why!

2ND NOTE: The horror of me eating begins...

Shoving Fried Dough In My Face



I know, it's rough going, but this is the worst one; best to get it out of the way early ( WARNING: looking at this picture too long will make you sterile, so be careful). It should be noted, however, that the fried dough was covered in table sugar and was absolutely delicious. The fact that my heart let out a protracted, unbroken scream after I had consumed the whole thing did nothing to diminish my enjoyment of it's tastiness.

A One-Dollar Baked Potato? Why, Yes!

This is but one of the many potato items that I had during my time at the fair. It is, however, the only potato item (as well as the only item period) that cost me but a single American dollar. It was covered in butter, sour cream, and cheese and it tasted like an excellent bargain!

A Herculean Mound Of Ribbon Fries

These were a bit of a disappointment. I mean, yes, you certainly got a lot of oddly-cut potatoes for you money and, true, that's a pretty hard thing to screw up. Still... they were just kind of meh. Only about half the mound was cooked correctly; there were a lot of undercooked ones hanging around, grossing up the joint. Really, the only thing of note was the lack of ketchup offered at the Ribbon Fries stand. In it's stead, they offered a janitorial-supply spray bottle full of what I hope to god was vinegar and not, say, toilet cleaner. It made them taste... well, exceedingly meh-ish. The lowlight, for sure.

I Am Wide-Eyed With Beer And Salt Potatoes

The third and final potato-based item on my menu, and the only one that can be called a Syracuse speciality. They're really nothing more than little potatoes that have been boiled in salt and then covered with melted butter, but there's nothing wrong with that. Sometimes, simple is good. Especially when you've been knocking back region-specific beers all afternoon.

Oh, I Also Drank Region-Specific Wines, Too

Raspberry wine, to be specific. It was sweet, good, and packed a wallop like I was run over by an 18-wheeler made of fermented fruit.

Somehow, This Was The Only Meat I Ate All Day

To be more specific, it was homemade "Sweet n' Spicy" beef jerky. Ridiculously good, and I said as much to the old fart behind the counter who'd sold it to me. He was immune to my niceties, sadly, and I did not score the extra free samples that I desired.

The Best Picture Ever Taken Of Me Drinking Milk

That's chocolate milk I'm swigging there, and it was only a quarter a glass. They had, no joke, a milk bar, which I'd like to think is something you can only find at a State Fair. Or in A Clockwork Orange, I guess, but this was different. Not as "droog-y."

And, In The End, We Have Dippin' Dots

Ah, froze globules of ice cream... the perfect end to a perfect buffet of foods that will eventually be responsible for my death.