Zombie Apocalypse: It Could Happen

Despite the fact that it appears on Cracked.com, I really think we should all give this article a healthy once-over. Gotta say... humor site or not, this all sounds pretty plausible. Which means I'm buying a shotgun sooner rather than later.

Thoughts?

Thanks to fellow former Oakridge Owl and long-time friend of the site, Scott H, for the tip!

Happy Halloween, Kids!!!

I figured, this Halloween, why not try to inflict as much emotional and psychological trauma on my unsuspecting readers as possible. Good luck trying to sleep tonight with visions of Sprinkles up there slowly crawling through your brain! Jeez... I'm the one who brought him here and even I'm a little freaked out. He looks like all of the world's bad vibes put through a Play-Doh Fun Factory and then slathered with some greasepaint stolen from Satan's private stash. Oh, but it's cool... there's no way he's real. There's no way he knows where you live. There's no way he's hiding under your bed right now, slowly running his fingers over a kitchen knife, waiting for your return. I mean... there's just no way.

Right?

(creepy music; thunder and lightning; cackle of a crazy person)

UPDATE: How To Make The Saddest Sandwich

UPDATE: If you're looking for a tasty, heartbreaking beverage to go along with your Saddest Sandwich, here's Girlfriend with her quick n' easy recipe for The Smoothie of Sorrow:

Take some Freezer-burned ice cream, a can of generic fruit cocktail, and skim milk left over from a failed diet.

Combine, drink, and cry.

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NOTE: This is a recipe for woe. And by "woe," I mean "sadness." Not the Joey Lawrence kind of "whoa," which as you can see is spelled differently. And really, I think you knew that already; didn't need me to point it out. Hey, maybe I just like thinking about Blossom. Did that ever cross your mind? Nope, because you never think about C-dog's wants and needs.

Okay, so let's assume that you're hungry. You'd like a sandwich, but you're bored with peanut butter and jelly, and you really don't feel like putting on pants long enough to head down to the Subway (and, let's face it, it's not like you can afford to eat there anyway). In fact, you want something completely different; you want a sandwich that will not only sate your hunger, but will also make you feel bad about yourself while you prepare it, eat it, and digest it.

Well, friend, I've got just the ticket:

THE SADDEST SANDWICH

That's right! It's a sandwich that's main ingredient is your own sorrow! First, let's start with what you're going to need on hand:

2 Slices of White Bread - Preferably not a name brand; something generic and, if possible, slightly stale. Don't eat anything that's moldy, of course. This is not The Meanest Sandwich, after all; the hurt that The Saddest Sandwich inflicts should be purely psychological.

1 Slice of Off-Brand Turkey Salami - Again, avoid the name brands. I like to use White Rose Turkey Salami, because it's only 99 cents for a package and buying it makes the cashier look at me with a strange mix of pity and contempt. If White Rose isn't available in your area, just go with what's cheapest and most shameful.

1 Slice of Pre-Wrapped, Processed, American Cheese - Only one, understand. And it shouldn't be large enough to cover the an entire slice of bread. It should sit in the middle of the slice like an off-yellow bulls-eye, taunting you while highlighting your loneliness. It goes without saying at this point, but the cheese shouldn't be of a well-known brand. Cheap, in every sense of the word, should be your motto.

A Good Smear Of Miracle Whip - Oh... go ahead. Use a name brand just this once! It's the same thing as when you buy really expensive beer that's out of your budget thinking that it will make you feel better because, while you're a wretched person living a horrible existence, at least you can savor something of quality. It won't work of course; nothing can penetrate the fog of your failures. But isn't the illusion of happiness just as good as actual happiness? No, it isn't, but that's not for you to worry about now.

Because now, it's time to...

ASSEMBLE THE SADDEST SANDWICH

-Take the two slices of bread and place them side-by-side on a cheap, paper plate. Stand there for a few minutes, staring at the bread, while you recount the mistakes you've made in your life.

-Open the fridge and remove the salami, cheese, and Miracle Whip. Note the barren interior of your refrigerator and how it mirrors your own emptiness.

-Hold back the tears as you take a knife (a dull knife; don't want to get any ideas!) and slowly spread a thin layer of Miracle Whip on to each slice of bread. When finished, sigh heavily.

-Unwrap the cheese from it's plastic and lay it down on one of your slices of bread. You can smell the chemicals from the processing plant wafting off of it's wiggly, gummy exterior and you long for the day when your meager wages can allow some real, Kraft-brand cheese for your sandwiches. Laugh bitterly at the thought of a future that my never come.

-Remove the slice of turkey salami from it's package. Gag at it's sliminess. Place it on the other slice of bread and, with a heavy heart and a sluggish mind, move on to the final step.

-Bring the two halves together, marrying the hateful cheese and pathetic salami in a bond of mocking Miracle Whip and lifeless bread. Pick up the paper plate, feel the sandwich's weight in your hand, and walk slowly and determinedly to whatever room in your hovel most suits your eating activities (provided you have more than one room; you seem like the type to own an efficiency apartment).

-Enjoy! Or, rather, don't.

WARNING: Do not consume more than one Saddest Sandwich in a given week, particularly around the upcoming holidays. Doing so will lead to your presence high atop the tallest building or bridge within walking distance from the drafty, small room that you sneeringly refer to as "home." Only eat The Saddest Sandwich if things are really as bad as they seem; no sense in ruining a good life just because you feel the need to see what all the fuss is about. The Saddest Sandwich is stronger than you, and you should never forget that.

UPDATE: Traffic Bizarreness

UPDATE: I've had another ten or fifteen people get here by googling the below phrase since I posted this. Seriously, what gives... my mind is spinning all these crazy scenarios about classic rock-loving, date-specific serial killers and how I'm being drawn ever closer into their evil clutches.

P.S. Don't you love how I've turned something so innocuous into a scary plot against me? I'm either a paranoid psychotic or a guy with an ego larger than most people's apartments. Which is it??? Ooooh, we may never know, but it sure is fun to guess!!!

P.P.S. Me!!! ME!!! ME!!! ME!!!

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Okay, so I've had about twenty people today arrive at ZFS! by googling this exact phrase:

bob, segers, night, moves, was, released, what, year, numerical

Um... what gives? I know I spoke about this song recently, but I'm hardly the only person on the internet to ever mention "Night Moves." Also, why this phrase, specifically? I'm starting to think that a group of Bob Seger fact-fiends (who seem to be mostly Canadian) are plotting to have me killed, so please, somebody crack this case before I flip out and barricade myself in my office's bathroom. It's gross in there, guys, don't make me do it.

Movie Poster A Go-Go

Skid Marks: The Movie



As opposed to "Skid Marks: The Reason You Were Teased In Junior High," I guess? Anyway, this appears to be a movie about wacky paramedics and... hell, I don't know... a midget humping a lady's leg. Why not? Though, really, I have to question the wisdom in making Skid Marks: The Movie, as I'm fairly sure that everything that needed to be said on the subject of wacky medical professionals was adequately covered in the Fat Boys classic, Disorderlies. Oh, and notice how on the ambulance, it says "BALS." That's a joke about testicles. Just in case you missed it.

One Missed Call



Yikes. Somebody better go down to the basement and check on the One Missed Call graphic design team, because it appears that their collective bad trip is being reflected in their work. Bring some oranges with you, and some coffee, and see if you can get them to come down long enough to tell you if this image has anything to do with the actual film, or if this is just something that's been chasing them around the office for the last couple of days.

Iron Man



This posters okay, but really, they could have just had a white background with black text that said, "There's A Movie Of Iron Man Coming Out On May 2nd" and every guy who's ever picked up a comic book would have to think about their Dad taking a dump to get rid of the boner. Hell, I'm only barely acquainted with the world of comics and I'm sporting some serious nerd-wood over here. Did you see that part in the trailer when he's all crashing through walls and Black Sabbath is blasting on the sound track and there's explosions and... and... oh god, I've got to change my pants.

Funny Games



Now this, I like. It's creepy, for one thing, and it's got the text in an unusual place, which for some reason I always appreciate when I look at a movie poster. It's like they're trying to give we, the viewing public, something different to look at; something that isn't a freaky mouth-eyed face that's having a phone conversation with your subconscious, trying to set up a nightmare for later on. Are you listening, One Missed Call??? Anyway, Funny Games also has Naomi Watts in it, which is good news for people who like hot Australians.

The Mist

This poster is certainly misty, I'll give it that. Eh... you know, I'm pretty jazzed for this movie to come out (it was always one of Stephen King's most cinematic stories), but this poster doesn't really fill me with anticipation. If anything, it makes me want to see a Pink Floyd laser show, which I'm fairly certain isn't what the producers of The Mist were shooting for. Still... Frank Darabont rocks the King adaptations pretty well, so I remain cautiously optimistic.

Cancelled Plans (And How Does That Make You Feel?)

Last night, Girlfriend and I were supposed to go to a Halloween party. We were to be the guests of our friend Kate, who wanted us to come because she knew the party's host but didn't know him that well and she wanted some friendly faces to back her up as she was probably not going to know anyone else there. We were more than happy to fill this role because, hey, a party is a party, with all of the free booze and food that that implies.

So, our plans were to meet around 8:30 for a quick bite, and then head off to the event. Around five, we get... the call. Kate is sick; like, the kind of sick you can hear in a person's voice, where it sounds like they're struggling to talk through a throat that's been rubbed raw with sandpaper and then coated in a green phlegm. She can't make it to the party, no way, and that means we can't go either because most people that throw parties aren't wild about folks they've never met showing up and trying to fit as many of the hors 'douvres down their pants as they can before the cops are called. Kate gamely tries to "still be up" for dinner, but it's clear it's not going to happen, so I order her to power-chug some orange juice, we plan a rain-check dinner for next week, and we hang up. I look at Girlfriend, I tell her that the night is ours, now, and then the strangest thing happens: We realize that we're relived.

We don't have to go to the party! Sure, perhaps we're missing out on some free drinks, on some free people-in-costumes-watching, some free potentially-interesting-conversation, but... the reverse of that is that we can stay home! In our pajamas! And we can watch a gory, odd movie and eat sausage parm heros and drink our own liquor and then fall asleep watching the World Series!

The full weight of the meaning of the glee that Girlfriend and I felt when faced with this turn of events didn't really fall upon me until this morning. I lay in bed, Girlfriend and our cat both asleep beside me, and I thought about the previous night's events; was I, C-dog, Party Emperor of North and South Texas '99-'03, really so pleased with having missed out on what promised to be quite a memorable happening? Did this "ain't no thang" attitude really spring forth from my brain? And if the answer is yes to both of those questions, what does that mean??? Am I old, now? Is 27 where the party ends and the flannel sleep-pants and early bedtimes begin?

Hm... I don't know.

What, you expect answers from a blog post written at 9:30 on a Sunday morning? Hell, I haven't even had my coffee yet.

Okay, fine, when you look at me with those Bambi-eyes, I can't resist... I guess, if I have to come up with an answer to the above questions, I'd say that yes, my wild years are probably over. This isn't necessarily a bad thing; my liver, for one, is absolutely thrilled. What's cool, though, is that I'm actually okay with this new, unusually-shaped fact. We all know that "a night in" can be a blast when you've got right ingredients at home, so what's to fear? Besides... the best thing I've learned in the last couple of years is that there's always going to be another party. Being young (and by young, I mean "early-20's") means that every night is the last night on Earth and if you miss the "big thing," you're going to be caught at the world's end alone and bored, which simply will not do. Being old (and by old, I mean "late-20's") means that you recognize the above statement as patently false. Which is nice, because it means you can chill on the couch with your girlfriend and some food on a Saturday night in New York City.

And anything that lets you do that can't be bad. Not at all.

Fridays Are For Irrational Fears

I've learned a lot during my 27 years of wandering around this wide place in the universe. I'm not saying I'm "wise, " per se... I'm just saying that there's not really anything I don't know and everyone should come to me with their problems because I'm basically an incredibly macho Ann Landers. Also, I'm so handsome, I'm in constant danger of head injuries because I'm always having modeling contracts thrown at me from moving limousines. But that's really not the point I'm trying to make today.

My point is, I know just tons and tons of crap and, specifically, one of the things I know is this:

Every single person on the planet is absolutely terrified of something that anyone other than themselves would find absolutely retarded.

It's true. Often times, it's not just one thing. Some people are irrationally afraid of many things; sometimes people are afraid of so many things that they become creepy shut-ins who can never leave their house (which, incidentally, is how the internet was born). But here's the thing... people shouldn't be ashamed of their fears. It's not their fault, really; it's just their brain misfiring or it's how they relate to a traumatic experience that occured during their formative years. Being mad at someone for being scared of, say, cats, is like getting pissed at a guy because he's losing his eyesight.

So, in an effort to create a harmonious environment where people can discuss their irrational fears in a non-judgemental space that's the cyber-equivalent of a hug from your mom, I will now discuss with you my own bouts of craziness. Let's get them out there, kids, so the healing can begin...

C-dog's Irrational Fears, or, "Step Inside My Mind, Won't You?"

NOTE: These are real, unlike the usual lists of bullshit that appear on ZFS!.

-You know how when you take a hot glass out of the dishwasher and then fill it with something cold, it can explode? I'm afraid that this will happen with my teeth. Like, if I'm eating hot soup and then I take a bite of ice cream... yeah, I'm afraid this will cause my teeth to shatter. I have absolutely know idea why I feel this way.

-Ants. They freak me the fuck out. They're so swarmy and small and bite-y. Ick. This has something to do with a childhood hide n' seek game gone wrong; basically, I hid behind a bush that was on top of a large red ant colony. That wasn't a fun day.

-I live in constant fear that I've forgotten to lock my apartment door. This very well may be just a "New Yorker problem," but nonetheless.

-If I'm trying to go to sleep and I start thinking about ghosts, I have to get up and watch TV for half an hour until my mind gets distracted. Because if I think about ghosts while I'm trying to go to sleep, the ghosts will show up and eat me.

-Star Jones freaks me out. She looks like a zombie.

So that's me. What are your irrational fears, kiddos? Because I know I'm not the only one.

Adventures In Horribly Depressing Country And Western Music

I know I've been posting a shit-ton of videos lately but, man, I just couldn't let this one slide by without a mention. This song is so hysterically overwrought and forced-tragic, I'm even willing to admit that I found it while actively looking for Dolly Parton videos... that's how much I want you kids to see it. Here, grab a hankie and give it a watch:

"Jeannie's Afraid of the Dark" By Dolly Parton w/ Porter Wagoner

Can you fucking believe that??? How was this acceptable for-TV entertainment? Was there a child-death movement in the early-70's C&W scene that I never heard about? I mean, fuck... this makes "Tears In Heaven" look like the Sammy Davis Jr. version of "The Candy Man."

Also, Porter Wagoner's jacket is the most aggressively rhinestoned garment not owned by a drag queen.

Crazy (But That's How It Goes)

I really try to not use this blog as a forum to file my work-related grievances because, well, I'm fairly sure no one finds that sort of blog in any way interesting. As far as I'm concerned, you all would much rather read a bunch of poop jokes coupled with tales of drunkenness that are as pathetic as they are grossly exaggerated; that's been my formula for (meager) success for over a year and a half and I see no reason to change it now. Except... okay, there's this one thing going on here at the office that I can't keep inside my attractive, well-shaped head any longer. In the words of singer/songwriter/religious-fanatic Cat Stevens, I've gotta let it out, I've got to show the world, world's gotta see.

The issue? The guy who sits behind me is crazy. And not like, "Oh, he so crazy... he's always crackin' wise and busting out that hilarious Borat impression." No, he's crazy like, "Oh, he's been carrying on a conversation with himself for the last fifteen minutes and, what's more, he seems to think that no one can hear him. Shit, he's looking this way! Is that a knife?!?! AAAAIIIIEEEEE!!!"

Ahem...

Anyway, yeah, the guy behind me... we'll call him "Roy," since I don't know anyone by that name... is out of his mind in much the same way that Pluto is out of we Earthling's line of sight. Dig that cat, he's real gone.

It's mainly the "talks to himself" thing. I wasn't joking up there when I mentioned that Roy will carry on a conversation with himself for long stretches of time. It's true. In fact, he's doing it right now while I type this. It sounds like he's currently debating the merits of mailing a document versus faxing it and, I don't know, it doesn't seem like there's going to be any easy answers on this one. He's really concerned about it getting lost in the mail, but then again... dammit... he's worried that the image quality on the fax will be far inferior due to our office's sub par machine.

I'm not joking, he's still talking about this! WITH HIMSELF!!! Seriously, it's like someone set up my cubicle in the background of any scene in One Flew Over The Cuckoo's Nest.

So, naturally, and in an effort to maintain my own sanity, I've decided to retaliate. Roy's not the only one who can confound, irritate, and frighten people with his craziness; I took theater classes for like fifteen years and I can bust out some mad acting skills any time I want. What? Why are all of you laughing? It's because of the "I took theater classes for fifteen years" thing, isn't it? Yeah well, I got three words for you: Easy Theater Chicks.

*SNAP*

I also took tap lessons for eight years; you wanna fight about it? I will shuffle-ball-change all over your face!!! BRING IT OOOOOWWWWNNN!!!

Anyway, here's what I've come up with:

-I think it's about time me and my tape dispenser started a very public, very messy relationship. We're talkin' mucho PDA (with tongue), gross pet names, and at least one screaming, tear-soaked fight per week. Followed, of course, by some very public, very messy make-up sex.

-Mondays and Wednesdays, I'm workin' topless. Tuesdays and Thursdays, bottomless. Fridays? Nude as the day I was born, which was just unbelievably nude. Too nude, some would say.

-White Out shots.

-Over the span of a couple of weeks, I'm going to slowly turn my cubicle into a shrine devoted to his high holiness, Rev. Skippy McApplefriar. Who is Rev. Skippy McApplefriar? Why, he's the tiny man who lives in my back molar, of course. He tells me things about the government. Secret things.

-I'm going to start working more efficiently, thus improving my productivity and labeling me as a "go-getter." And I'm going to do it all while communicating entirely through hand-puppets.

Yep, Roy's never going to see me coming. Especially since he'll be too busy conversing with himself to notice.

NOT Worth Your Valuable Time

NOTE: This edition of "NOT Worth Your Valuable Time" contains no discussions of horse fucking. I'm sure most of you are relieved by that fact, and for the few that aren't... well... there are other sites on the internet that might serve your interests better than ZFS!.

Ugh, people. Seriously... ugh.

In the interest of full disclosure, let me come right out and say that Girlfriend and I didn't even finish watching this movie before we yanked it from our DVD player, stuffed it in it's Netflix envelope, and cast it back into the wretched hell from whence it came (the Netflix distribution depot in Flushing, NYC, as best we can tell). But trust me, gentle and impressive readers, the whole movie didn't need to be seen for us to make an accurate judgement call.

Because The Number 23 is bad. Baaaaad. Like, you know how when you're in a car or on a train and you suddenly really have to take a dump, but you're way far from home and you realize that you're going to have to do the iron-squeeze with your cheeks for at least twenty minutes and it feels like your entire body is trying to turn itself inside-out? The act of watching The Number 23 is just like that feeling, but without the resulting, satisfying end that feels like the bowel-related equivalent of jumping off a high rock into a cool, tropical lagoon.

The main problem, much as I like the guy, is Jim Carrey. He's so painfully miscast as this dark, troubled character, you could literally put any other actor in his place and the movie would instantly improve. We're talking anyone from Arnold Schwarzenegger to Jonathan Lipnicki to Don Knotts, here. And yes, I know Don Knotts is dead... that's my point! The corpse of Don Knotts would have been more suited to the role than Jim Carrey. All of his past dramatic roles have always been darker variation on his affable, good-guy persona; this role is something completely different, and not something that he's anywhere near capable of handling. He has to be a "bad ass" at one point; a tough-talking cop on-the-edge who's seen it all... not kidding, it's funnier than Ace Ventura: When Nature Calls.

Anyway, yeah... The Number 23 sucks out loud. Don't bother, unless you're really drunk or a really big fan of movies with numerical titles. May I also suggest Seven?

Here's A Picture Of A Computer Pen

Discussion Questions

-I'm not a technophobe by any stretch of the imagination; I fully recognize the benefits of technological advancement, particularly in the area of internet porn. However, I will fully admit that there are some pieces of hardware that... well... totally freak me out. This computer pen (or "Pentop Computer," whatever) is one such product. Why? Because it stores your handwriting!!! It copies your handwriting, it puts your handwriting in files, and pretty soon, it's going to be signing your name to bank loans, handing out bad checks like they were Altoids, and giving out autographs to your young fans in an elaborate scheme to corner the market on baseball memorabilia. Granted, that last one is only true if your Derek Jeter, but you see my point. This computer pen is thinking!!! C'mon, am I the only one who thinks this is the worst thing to happen to the Man Vs. Machine relationship since Deep Blue told Gary Kasparov to go fuck himself?

-Forgetting the whole "the computer pen is an evil machine" thing for a second, let's talk about practicality: How do they expect college students (or whoever this fucking abomination is geared towards) to write with it? It's as big around as an Olive Garden bread stick, and that's not exactly conducive to taking clear, concise notes. Congratulations, overzealous electronics company, you've just made the act of copying down an algebra problem as difficult as trying to carry a couch up a flight of stairs with your one friend who's not good at taking directions and who is holding it so most of the weight is on your end. Also the couch is one of the ones that's got a bed inside, so it's extra-heavy.

-I would be remiss in my duties if I didn't inquire as to whether or not everyone thinks the Pentop Computer looks like a robot's penis. Does everyone think it looks like a robot's penis? Because I totally do.

-Regarding the ad copy in the picture... um... my favorite retailer is the Day-Old Hostess Products Store that's in the bad part of town near the check-cashing place and the gyro stand that gives everybody the squirts. Who wants to bet that they don't carry the Pentop Computer at the Day-Old Hostess Products Store? Anyone? Anyone want to take that bet? Because I'm going there later for a box of discount Twinkies, so I can totally check.

NOTE: Answers must not be submitted by a weird, computer-pen hybrid that makes C-dog uncomfortable. Please just use your keyboard like everyone else, you big nerd. The person with the most correct answers will win a fresh box of Number 2 pencils (no you won't). The person with the most incorrect answers will have to touch the robot penis. And let me tell ya, the robot's not been touched there in a looooong time. He's robo-horny.

And Now, Some Happy(ish) Music

Okay, I think we really need a cheery tune around here, particularly since I did my best this morning to drag you all down with me into a deep, dark hole of music-induced depression, and now I kind of feel bad about it.

I know this isn't like technically the happiest song ever written; it's basically about a Southern loser crashing at woman's house because he knows she'll let him stay there for free while he drinks and gambles himself into oblivion. Still, for whatever reason (possibly because I strongly identify with the song's protagonist, being a drunken Southerner myself), it's always been a tune that has made me smile...

"Up On Cripple Creek" by The Band

Random Thoughts:

-If I could choose a singing voice to have, I think it would be the one currently owned by Levon Helm. The guy sounds like a backwoods moonshiner who showed up fifteen minutes after they invented the concept of "party time" and brought with him a truckload of steaks, drugs, and loose women who think you're really fascinating.

-Just in case anyone doesn't know, the above clip is from a documentary/concert film about The Band called The Last Waltz that was directed by Martin Scorsese back in the late 70's. It's totally awesome, features a ton of musicians who were friendly with The Band, and it'll make you want to start playing music with your friends out in a garage in the hopes that one day you'll be involved in something cool like this. Most of it is available on the YouTube, FYI.

-Despite all the good vibes and sonic pleasantness that's given off by the above clip (as well as by the movie itself) , there was apparently a ton of backstage drama. Mostly, it involved lead guitarist Robbie Robertson, who's pretty widely regarded as a credit-hogging ass, trying to, surprise!, take credit for The Band's popularity, sound, success, etc. Not helping matters: Martin Scorsese was Robertson's BFF.

-That's not quite the positive note I wanted to end this post on, but... oh well.

My iPod Wants Me To Feel Sorrow

I know that this is probably just the Sudafed talking, but I'm pretty sure my iPod wants me to have a terrible, horrible, no-good, very bad day. Why? Well let's go down the list of songs that it's shuffle feature spit out during my commute to work this morning for the answer...

NOTE: I am not kidding, I heard all of these songs back-to-back.

"Keep Me In Your Heart For Awhile" by Warren Zevon - This is one that Zevon wrote for his last album about his own impending death. It's a great song, but it's one that shouldn't be listened to near sharp knives or high-up, open windows, particularly if you've ever lost anyone close to you.

"(Don't Go Back To) Rockville" by R.E.M. - An 80's college radio staple about a girl going back home, leaving her boyfriend behind. It's fairly peppy, tune-wise, but the lyrics are pretty much a prescription for Zoloft and a dark room with a good corner for crying.

"Citrus" by The Hold Steady - Okay, I don't technically know what this song's about, but it's downbeat and contemplative (that's a word, right?) and it talks about liquor and barrooms and Judas and other things that are generally found within the same ballpark as depression.

"Martha" by Tom Waits - A classic, "sad old bastard" song from the master of "sad old bastard" music. Lost love, regret, etc. You know you're in trouble when you realize that the protagonist is an old man; never a good sign.

"Dirty Old Town" covered by The Mountain Goats - It's not a happy song to begin with but when The Mountain Goats get done with it, it's basically a bleak landscape populated by a people that have no word in their language for "joy."

"Evaporated" by Ben Folds Five - Oh for fucks sake. At this point, I was almost positive that my iPod had an agenda that ended with my suicide.

"For No One" by The Beatles - Really? Really???

"Whiskey Lullaby" by Brad Paisley - Fuck you, iPod. Seriously. When this song came on, I immediately flipped the off switch, removed my headphones, and placed the whole thing back in my bag. I then tried to focus on happy thoughts, like baseball games in April and unlimited draft beers all night and boobies that are naked just for me.

Thinking about these things helped a little bit (particularly the last one), but still... a barrage of sad music like this, coupled with the fact that I still sort of feel like hot death... I don't know man... I just don't know.

Maybe I'll just keep thinking about boobies until the dark clouds clear up. Seems like the best course of action, doesn't it?

Hey C-dog, How Are You Feeling?

A little better, Blog-Post Headline, thanks for asking. Not great, of course... still coughing, still phlegmy, but I don't feel as weak and miserable as I did earlier. So that's nice. And I know that things have taken a turn for the better because I've stopped dwelling on my health and have now begun dwelling on the enormous pile of work I'm going to have waiting for me tomorrow when I return to the office.

Seriously, taking a day off at my job is like turning your back on that candy machine from that one episode of I Love Lucy that everyone claims is a comedic classic, but really isn't all that funny when it gets down to brass tacks. And, yes, the same could be said for I Love Lucy as a whole, especially when you compare it to just about any of it's modern-day equivalents, but that's really not my point.

My point is this: Another way that you can tell I'm feeling better is by the increase in my unprovoked attacks on sitcoms from television's so-called "golden age." So-called by a bunch of old farts who hadn't seen Family Matters yet, is all I'm saying. I mean, yeah, whatever, I Love Lucy was the beginging of the sitcom as we know it... but... c'mon. Look into the face of Carl Winslow and try to tell me that your soul isn't lifted up into the stratosphere where the air is thick with laughter, warmth, and also some airplanes that you're probably going to want to dodge. Because those airplanes will kill your Family Matters buzz like *that,* Mr. Sitcom Enthusiast Who Doubted The Effects Of Carl Winslow's Love And Hope That He Wears Around Him Like A Cloak Made From Bible Wisdom.

Anyway, that's all for now. We'll get everything back on track in the sweet, sweet morning time.

Thanks for all your support.

Handsomely Yours...
C-DOG

NOTE: Make Room For Daddy can kiss my ass, too. Lousy Danny Thomas and his nightclub act that was just awful...

2ND NOTE: Remember that one episode of Family Matters where Carl had to run on a treadmill that had been rigged with a bomb? What the fuck was that??? That's like some shit from "24," but during ABC's TGIF line-up. Weird, man.

UPDATE: Hello, I Feel Like Death

UPDATE: I honestly wouldn't have thought it possible, but somehow... despite all logic and reason... I feel even worse this morning than I did when I originally authored this post. I think a big part of it is, due to the whole "can't breathe" thing, I had a really hard time sleeping/staying-asleep-once-I-got-there last night. A good, hard snooze is difficult when it feels like a fat man is sitting on your chest, as it turns out. Anyway, I bring this up only because... see, here's the thing... I'm not usually one of those, "Oh, poor me; I'm sick and everyone should pity me because pity is nature's DayQuil and you want me to feel better, right???" types of people. I find it crass, frankly, to force one's misery on another and to fish for sympathy like... a... uh... fisherman, I guess.

My point is this: Usually, I'm far above wanting your pity. Today, though... today, I think I'd like to give your pity a try. So, please, shower me in it... your pity, your sympathy, your wishes for me to get well and return to my former glory as a guy who writes things on the internet, much like I'm doing now, but funnier and not so needy. You doing this for me is the only thing that's going to make me get better, kind of like how we all had to clap for Tinkerbell at the end of Peter Pan. The sound of your guilt-induced love is the one thing that can bring me back from the brink.... of DEATH!!!

Okay, so technically not death. "Feeling lousy" would be more accurate. Still, c'mon... have a heart, I've got a skull full of snot over here!!!

Anyway, let the great C-dog Pity Party of '07 commence!!!

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I've got some sort of sinus infection, or at least I've got all the classic signs of one; there's a lot of snot, let's just say. Also, my throat's sore, my head hurts, and it feels like I'm trying to breath through a wool sock.

All in all, it's not fun (and, good news for my peeps who hung out with me this weekend, it's not contagious; I really hate being the plague carrier who's responsible for laying out a whole circle of friends, so... you know... at least I don't have to worry about that).

So, even though it's currently only about midnight on Monday, I already know I won't be going to work in the morning; instead, I'll be hitting up the doctor's office. Demanding drugs and maybe a few of those lollipops they give out to kids.

Anyway... just wanted to let you kids now where I'm at, should there be a distinct lack of postings today. I know how you all worry so about my general state of well-being.

Maybe more later, if I'm suddenly feeling feisty.

NOTE: You can tell I'm sick because I used the word "peeps" in a sentence and sorta meant it. What am I, a thirteen-year-old who thinks MTV is where all the cool in the universe comes from? Gah. NyQuil, take me away.

Arbitrary Rulings 5 (Fictional Edition)

Dracula - Gary Oldman did alright by him, but otherwise he's just a poofy, Eurotrashed pale guy in a bunch of pretty clothes and if I suddenly want to see that, I can just go cruise the West Village on a Saturday night. I think the thing that bugs me about the whole Dracula/Vampire mythology is not so much the characters themselves, but the people who claim to identify with them. Just because you favor dark clothes and get a kick out of Gothic romance novels, doesn't make you a walking servant of an undead master. It just makes you sad and lonely. I mean, seriously... I love The X-Files, but you don't see me applying for the FBI. Oh, and this is not to say that I look down on people who read a lot of Anne Rice or watch a lot of Dark Shadows; what you do on your own time is totally up to you as long as it's not going to eventually cause the police to kick down your door while they toss around warrants like beads at the Mardi Gras parade. Do you, dude. Just know where the line is.

Jim and Pam - I came to The Office pretty late, which is not unusual for me. I tend to rarely get in on the ground floor when it comes to popular TV shows, preferring to wait a season or two to see if they actually manage to stick around. I really don't like getting involved in something and then have it get taken away because our nation's a bunch of retards who can't appreciate quality TV (there are exceptions of course, but you know what I mean). So with The Office, like many shows past, I watched the first three seasons in short, week-long marathons in an effort to get me primed and pumped for season 4. It was during this time of entertainment power-chugging that I was introduced to America's current favorite couple, Jim and Pam. I won't go over their history here (you know it anyways), but suffice to say it's been a rocky ride and now I'm pretty much in love with both of them. That's right... both of them. Pam, of course, because she's cute and funny, and Jim... well, let's just say I wouldn't kick him out of bed either. I don't usually swing that way, but there's an old saying that's applicable in this situation and it goes like this: There's an exception to every rule, particularly when said exception is a slacker dreamboat who looks like he'd take the gold in the Cuddling Olympics.

Funkytown - Turns out, not a real place, and thus it's inclusion on this fictional edition of Arbitrary Rulings. Lipps Inc. totally lied to us, which is the first time in my entire life that I've been deceived by a late-era disco group. I don't even know what to say... all I wanted was to go to a place that kept me movin', kept me groovin' with some energy but... no, it was not to be. Lipps Inc. had to fucking tease me with their pretty words and false promises. Well, fine... fuck you, Lipps Inc. You won't be invited to the fabulous parties at my swinging condo on Atlantis. Oh yes, Atlantis is real... Plato told me so and Donovan backed him up.

Chris Gaines - Omigod, why did this unholy joke from the unquiet mind of Garth Brooks suddenly fart it's way into my head? Sure, I've been sitting here at my desk trying to think of fictional characters for the last half hour but... fucking Chris Gaines, the most-failed of all the failed fictional musical constructs? I don't know, man... the best thing I can come up with is that I have a tumor the size of a racquetball lodged firmly in the pop culture center of my brain and my body is trying to let me know about it by randomly firing off images of terrifying celebrity vanity projects in the hopes that they will frighten me into getting an MRI. Otherwise... nope, there's no other reason to think of Chris Gaines, ever.

George W. Bush’s Presidential Legacy - Topical humor! Ha!!! I'm like a fat version of The Daily Show that doesn't know what it's talking about! Also, I didn't vote! Screw you, fellow countrymen! I should also point out that I originally had "The Bible" as the last spot on this list, but then I decided that I didn't feel like being a dick to 95% of the Earth's population this morning. Maybe tomorrow, unless I'm too hungover; then I'll be a dick on Monday.

The New Poster For Rambo Inspires Within Me Mixed Feelings Of Excitement And Dismay

I mean, on one hand, it's Rambo... he's back to hurt people in vague geo-political situations with a flair that can only be mustered by an 80's icon. But then again, on the other hand, it's Rambo... he's like sixty years old now, which isn't usually conducive to butt-kicking in the name of the truth, justice, and the American way. Or whatever cause Rambo happens to be rolling out of his Craftmatic adjustable bed to fight for these days.

So I don't know. I liked Rocky Balboa a lot more than I thought I would, so there's definitely some hope there that this won't suck balls. But I have been hurt before.

Oh, also, I'll eat my keyboard if that's actually Sly Stallone in the picture up there. Dude looks good for an old man, but he doesn't look that good. Anyway... related... here's this. I totally had this action figure when I was kid. Love the "Rah-rah, America" sweatshirt, sans sleeves. So manly. Just like me. Also, I always carry a giant bazooka with me wherever I go.

Me, This Morning

NOTE: This is not an actual photograph, though I totally understand how you'd think it was. No, this is an artist's rendition of me, C-dog, and I think you'll agree that it has truly captured not just my essence, but the essence of my busy morning as well. It should be noted, though, that I am most definitely not wearing a tie, red or otherwise. I had the artist add that to the picture to make me seem classy. I am not classy, of course, but hey... this is art we're talkin' about here. Got to make the effort. Anyway, the artist did an awesome job and I think we should all take the time to praise him highly and perhaps even offer him gifts of cash and booze.

Hopefully more postings later, kiddos!

2ND NOTE: The artist is me.

Ladies And Gentlemen, Ms. Tandi Dupree...

NOTE: They don't make drag queens like this anymore. That entrance is so off the chain, my eyes actually popped out of my head and I had to stick them back in with tape just so I could share this with all of you. Enjoy, seriously, because this kicks an unholy amount of ass:

(oh and it's totally safe for work, too)

Cheap Booze Is Hilarious: A Pictorial

NOTE: These are all real. Real sad, I mean.

Black Cock Scotch



Let's get things started on the right note, shall we? So the first question raised (har!) by Black Cock Scotch is, of course, what sort of marketing genius would saddle a product that you put in your mouth with the most blatant sexual innuendo since that one time I told a cop my name was Peter Gozinya? The second question: How is this not the most popular cheap beverage of all time? Think about it... every hipster bar, frat house, and gay club in the world should be fully stocked with Black Cock Scotch just for the irony factor alone. I suppose that there's a very strong chance that the stuff tastes like cat pee, but that shouldn't matter. It's Black Cock Scotch!!!

Steel Reserve Malt Liquor



Here's a story that will make my mother proud: A few years ago, I was living in a part of Brooklyn known to a few as Bedford-Stuyvesant, known to some as Bed-Stuy, and known to just about everyone else as one of the most likely places in NYC to get hit by a stray bullet during a drug deal gone wrong. It was a rough neighborhood, unquestionably, but one of it's benefits was this: Bodegas that stocked unending supplies of cheap, horrible alcohol for to be consumed by the not-picky drinker on a budget. My poison of choice? The sleek, silver bastard you see pictured above. You could get two, 24oz cans of Steel Reserve for three dollars and... trust me... two cans were all you needed; I'm pretty sure you could use this stuff to fuel up a car in a pinch. Anyway, there was a good six-month stretch of my life where I was drinking two cans of Steel Reserve just about every night, though I eventually had to stop because the State threatened to take my liver away. I guess what I'm trying to say is that I'm so fucking classy, you can hardly stand it.

Aristocrat Gin



We have to assume that this isn't in any way connected with the filthy joke of the same name. No, Aristocrat Gin has got to be aimed at the Zeldas and F. Scotts of the world; ballgown and tuxedoed women and men who spend their nights getting plowed in high society while exchanging witty repartee and being careful to discreetly vomit into a potted plant that's not too near the buffet. Ah, the life of the rich. Oh, and the best thing about Aristocrat Gin is that it tastes like juniper berries and smells like a trust fund being set on fire while your elderly relatives weep.

Pancho Villa Tequila



If it comes with a racist caricature on it's label, then you know it's cheap! I think that was supposed to be a sombrero on his head but, due to the shoddy graphic design, our boy Pancho ended up looking like a Hispanic version of Carnac the Magnificent. My opinion, there's few substances on the planet worse than cheap Tequila, unfortunate packaging notwithstanding. Drinking stuff like Pancho Villa Tequila is practically a gift certificate for spend the night hugging a toilet and/or landing in the hospital for taking a swing at a bouncer.

Mellow Gold Vodka

Holy shit! It's vodka served in a cardboard milk-container!!! Apparently this is a real thing (from Russia, naturally), though I've had some trouble finding much about it on the the internet. One can only guess at it's taste, it's strength, and it's involvement in the deaths of numerous hobos throughout the greater-Moscow area. Seriously... I can't even wrap my head around the concept of Mellow Gold Vodka and the inherent evils therein. Though it is nice to know that there's at least one type of booze out there that's too low-class even by my practically nonexistent standards. Rock bottom, I haven't hit you yet!

The Latest Definition Of "Balls"

Like, okay, I've seen people try to pull some wacky shit in court before... OJ and his glove, that subway-shooter guy trying to be his own attorney, anything involving Phil Spector... but, damn, there's legal balls and then there's LEGAL BALLS...

Check this shit out!!!

Omigod, can you believe the huevos on this guy? C'mon... "I massaged their breasts to treat their jaw problems?" There are people that were just thawed out from blocks of ice that think that's the biggest load they've ever heard. I mean fuck, if I'd thought that would have worked, I'd have been all over the girls with headgear in my High School.

Anyway, I'm just glad all this didn't go down in Texas, which is usually the site that bizarre sexual deviants choose when they need a place to get their respective freaks on. Everybody already thinks we're weird; let Cali rough this one out for a fucking change.

So... yeah... dentists are pervs, huh? They do have "the gas," though, so we can't harsh on them to badly. That stuff's like a breathable dance party with all your friends on the Saturday night of a three-day weekend.

The Colorado Rockies: Success Secrets

NOTE: Last night, the Colorado Rockies achieved the improbable, capping off a 21-out-of-22 winning streak with a sweep of the Arizona Diamondbacks to earn themselves a trip to the franchises first ever World Series. Because we here at ZFS! are committed to always "getting the scoop," we sent an intrepid reporter to Denver to uncover just what it is that has turned this ball club from a six-losing-season bunch of losers who suck and are stupid into the handsome champions of the National League that are awesome and also hung like mules (so I hear). After hiding for several hours in an equipment case in the Rockies' locker room, then following team Manager Clint Hurdle to his home and begging him for information until the police showed up, our reporter submitted these fascinating, completely-true facts about how, precisely, this team did this thing that now everyone's going all apeshit about...

The Success Secrets Of The Colorado Rockies, or, "Oooh, Look At Us, We Won, We're Sooooo Cool!!!"

-They use a combination of seasoned veterans, talented youngsters, and one man who fell to Earth many years ago from parts unknown that can play either centerfield or left field and can change the trajectory of the baseball with his mind. Also, he eats pine tar and is in a committed relationship with the pitching mound at Coors Field.

-Every member of the Colorado Rockies carries a gun with them on the field, just to increase the... you know... "intimidation factor."

-Uniform pants that really let their junk "breathe."

-Fight club.

-The team really bonded over Clint Hurdle's mandatory group readings of Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows, especially when rookie Troy Tulowitzki would do his hilarious impression of Professor Snape! Oh, how they would laugh together, not realizing that they were also learning the true meaning of friendship.

-The Rockies maintained a "Christian" clubhouse, meaning that no copies of Playboy or Penthouse were allowed in the lockers, obscenity-filled music was banned, and scripture quotes were prominently displayed, upon which the players were encouraged to reflect. Doing this earned the team the official approval of Jesus, which is incredible considering that Jesus is usually much more of a hockey kind of guy, at least according to The Bible.

-Strict "No Girls Allowed" policy, because girls have cooties and cooties will make you go blind and you'll drop balls in the outfield and stuff. It's true, Brad Hawpe's older brother said so and he has a Camero, so, like, he knows stuff. Once he bought the whole team wine coolers!

-Pure, goddamned manliness, combined with sound fundamentals of course. But mostly it's the goddamned manliness.

Bad Omens: Monday Edition

NOTE: Herewith, a list of all the bad omens that I encountered this morning, thanks entirely to my mythic powers of perception. The day hasn't fallen apart in an orgy of chaos and destruction just yet but, given the signs I've already witnessed, I can see no other way for this Monday to end...

-On the train this morning, an old man pointed at me with a gnarled hand and whispered, "hell is for sinners like you." True, I'd just stolen his newspaper, his seat, and his old-man hat, but still. Not the best way to start the day.

-The first song I heard on the radio this morning was Gordon Lightfoot's immortal classic, "The Wreck of the Edmund Fitzgerald." Immediately following the song's conclusion, the Edmund Fitzgerald crashed on 34th St. There were no survivors, or at least not any that will ever again be able to appear in public without the aide of facial prosthetics and a sturdy cane.

-I saw a man dressed in the robes of a monk release a dozen white doves into the air. The doves exploded, raining down gore upon the monk's bald head. And then he cried. And then he exploded. And then I stubbed my toe on a piece of an uneven sidewalk. Which then exploded.

-I bought a package of gum from a newsstand and, upon inspection, found that in my haste to get to work, I'd failed to grab the spearmint flavored variety that I desired. Instead, it seems I'd grabbed the owner of the newsstand's mustache and then subsequently dragged him the five blocks to my office. This would have been a fine, easily laughed-off misunderstanding except that the newsstand owner, at some point during the dragging, developed a powerful case of Stockholm Syndrome. Now he won't leave my cubicle and I've got work to do, dammit!

-I saw the Devil on 7th Avenue, arguing over the price of some cheap sunglasses at a souvenir shop. That's all that happened, but really... that can't be good.

Fashion Designers Are Batshit Crazy

NOTE: Please keep in mind that I have absolutely zero concept of how, exactly, fashion works. Remember, I'm the guy who thinks he's looking sharp if the holes in his shirt aren't showing "too much nipple." That being said, people, we've got to check the meds of our nation's fashion designers because, seems to me, there's some seriously sick minds with access to needles, fabric, and very thin, very sad-looking women. To wit...

Example #1



I get, I guess, how a nice ruffle or two can accent a well-made dress. Hell, look what they did for potato chips. But, as with most things, there's a point of diminishing returns; the more ruffles you add, the less like an attractive outfit your garment begins to look. In fact, it begins to look very much like a giant wad of whipped cream that has gained sentience and decided to attack a wan, German woman. Also, the wan, German woman appears to have been pummeled in the face by Sugar Shane Mosley, or some other boxer who is also nicknamed "Sugar," though that's hardly the designer's fault. Really more of a security issue.

Example #2



Eh... huh... swarms of things are hot right now, I guess? Unless I've totally missed my mark and this is actually the last known photograph of a careless entomologist who dared to disturb a nest of the fearsome, flesh-eating Butterflies Of Bloody Doom That Are, Now That I've Gotten A Good Look At Them, Quite A Lovely Shade Of Red. What, I didn't name them. Talk to Ms. Entomologist up there. Oh wait, you can't, the butterflies ate her head.

Example #3



Running out of ideas for accessories, eh, fashion industry? Or did this whatever-it-is just kick it's way out of Elton John's brain? Either way, I think it's safe to say that should Pepto-Bismal ever find it's self in the market for a freaky, disembodied head-thing with a penchant for violas to be their company's spokesperson... well, we know just the lady-ish, thing-creature they can call.

Example #4



Ma'am... MA'AM... Excuse me, but you stepped in the 60's!!! Would you like a tissue to get all the free love and drugs off of your foot? No? You're fine looking like the Haight-Ashbury district from the ankle down? Okay, well... carry on, then. Uh, peace?

Example #5



ACK!!! What... wh... okay, since when have the Cenobites been allowed to travel through the ruptures of time and space so they can model in London? And exactly which designer has access to the Lament Configuration? And who, I ask you, is going to get these Hellraiser references??? WHO???

Look... I can't go on...

I'm sorry, but all of these Clive Barker beings and killer butterflies and sentient whipped cream blobs are seriously freaking me out. ZFS!-kateers, please feel free to research this "batshit crazy fashion designers" case further and at your own leisure. I'll be hiding under the covers with a flashlight, a copy of Vogue magazine, and a gun.

There Are No Words...

Via Geekologie

My favorite part? Hard to say, but I believe the line, "Many customers are buying one for each side of the bed" really takes the I'm-sad-for-my-country cake. Yeesh, people... yeesh.

Quality Penis Humor

As those of you who've already met us might know, the relationship between Girlfriend and myself is one of love, trust and caring that has been painstakingly built upon a solid foundation of insults and verbal abuse. It's all in good fun, of course, but still... our house is one filled to the brim with sass. I've always likened this to a form of couples therapy, much like how we enjoy hunting and killing each other in the virtual realm of Halo 2; it keeps us, in all honesty, from hunting and killing each other in the actual realm. The same theory applies to the constant barrage of trash-talk; saying these things in jest keeps them from being said in anger when and if a real fight happens.

Anyway, I bring this up because last night, Girlfriend hit me upside the head with what I'm now considering to be one of the finest "small penis" jokes that I've personally heard in a long while. It's this:

"If your dick was soup, I'd have to add a can of water."

Roll that one around in your mind for awhile and I think you'll agree with me... that right there is some quality penis humor. Gotta love her, dontcha?

NOTE: She was just kidding, of course. Downtown, I'm like a submarine sandwich, particularly when you consider that my goods are available with a large drink and a bag of chips for a very reasonable price. Value meal!!!

Today In Horrifying Products

2ND UPDATE: Site's back up, motives still unclear.

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UPDATE: The website linked below seems to have stopped working. Interesting, and possibly a sign that this is all just a goof.

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Okay, sure, that looks kind of weird, but what is it? Well why don't we read the official ad copy:

Office Collar has been designed in response to the open plan, working environment. The collars act as spatial isolators, narrowing the field of vision, therefore enabling their wearer to focus on the tasks in front of them.

That's right... They're office drone horse-blinders designed by someone who is apparently a huge fan of Orwellian nightmares. Speaking as a person who works in an office building, let me be the first to say, "Oh, hell no!" Because I'm lazy and resistant to change in much the same way that gravity is an immutable characteristic of the planet Earth, I tend to put up with a lot of shit from my employers, if for no other reason than complaining is a total hassle. However, there are some things... oh, I don't know, things like this abomination... that I think even I, Captain Whatever, could not abide.

Of course, there's absolutely zero chance that any business would actually attempt to force these on their employees, or at least not a business in America, anyways. We're way to litigious and self-righteous a people to ever, ever put with bullshit like this; your average US office staff would turn mutinous so fast, it'd make the crew of the HMAV Bounty look like a bunch of pussies. Still, though, that someone would even take the time to design this... that's fucking black-hearted. Their parents must have been responsible for handling the Brownshirt's paperwork.

NOTE: I'm not entirely convinced that this isn't a joke, yet I can find no evidence to support that the people behind the above-linked site are "just kidding." Thoughts? This can't be real... can it?

Fun With Pudding

Well, kids, I've got nothing.

Drawin' a blank at the funny bank, as it were, and if that unforgivable rhyme doesn't tell you how things are going for me this morning, well... I'm sorry, but you'll never fully understand the concept of "writers block" without the aide of diagrams and an extremely patient tutor. Fear not, though, poopsies... I don't believe this blockage is a permanent thing. In fact, I'm fairly certain that it's cause has something to do with me being exhausted thanks to an unscheduled wake-up call by a certain cat (who shall remain nameless) that decided to bring a dead mouse into our bed at 3am. Maybe it's just me, but I find it very hard to sleep after handling recently-killed animals in the middle of the night. I guess that means I'm not a potential serial killer, so that's nice. But it also means that I'm one sleepy-ass blogger at the moment, and in no mood for shenanigans, tomfoolery, or any sort of backsass whatsoever.

So, if I can't be entertaining (and it seems that I most certainly cannot), I will at least make an effort to be informative. Here now, courtesy of the handsome gents at Liquor Snob, is a recipe for...

Pudding Shots

1 small pkg. INSTANT choc. pudding
3/4 C. milk
1/4 C. Vodka
1/2 C. Irish Cream
8 oz. Extra Creamy Cool Whip

Mix pudding and milk for a couple of minutes with an electric mixer, then add alcohol, mix well.

Mix in Cool Whip.

Put into individual serving cups with lids and I furnish plastic spoons. Keep in the freezer.

Your welcome. If you actually make some of these delicious-sounding treats, be sure to take pictures and send them to ZFS!. I won't post them on the site or anything; I just want to start a scrapbook that's filled with photographs of drunk ZSF!-kateers.

The Clooney Records

NOTE: Twenty-seven staff members at a New Jersey hospital have been suspended for a month sans pay for snooping into actor George Clooney's medical records while he was in their care following a recent motorcycle accident. While the team investigating the incident tried it's best to keep the pertinent info private, a few pieces of Clooney's information were, unfortunately, leaked to the press. Because we here at ZFS! are committed to journalistic excellence and, also, because we have no morals to speak of, we now present you with...

George Clooney's Medical Info, Leaked For Your Pleasure

-It appears that, at some point in the last five years, Clooney had an extra heart installed. It doesn't appear to be connected to anything, though it does seem to be beating. According to notes, Clooney refuses to talk about his extra heart and will only stare at you with cold, dead eyes when it is mentioned.

-From the waist down, he's mostly gangrene.

-George Clooney is double-jointed... ladies...

-For a man who has frequently claimed to be embarrassed by his participation in the Batman franchise, he certainly has a lot of Batman tattoos. His chest looks like a Bob Kane retrospective.

-Clooney's body contains twice the amount of "dreamy" than what is found in your average man.

-The person whom doctors are supposed to contact in case of an emergency is listed only as, "My Oscar, bitches." Then there's a crude drawing of Clooney flipping us off, which seems unnecessary.

-The hickeys, people... oh god, the hickeys. Big as hubcaps and purple like Smuckers.

-George Clooney can fly under his own power.

-He has a rare medical condition which causes him to emit a pheromone that, to women everywhere, smells like expensive cologne and hot sex on a summer day. Which I guess explains the aforementioned hickeys.

-He's huge, ifyaknowwhatImean (wink)!!!

Night Of The Living Dead

I know it doesn't feel like it right now, what with the temperatures still being a bajillion degrees and everyone walking around in next-to-nothing like it was late July, but Halloween is just around the corner. Being a horror fan and all, I tend to be quite big on Halloween; there's usually a ton of good, scary movies on TV, there's the whole candy aspect, and it gives everyone an excuse to get drunk while dressed up like, say, Leatherface or maybe a sexy nurse. Whatever the case, Halloween is usually a blast and the fact that this October is not really cooperating in the weather department has me a little bummed.

So, in an effort to correct this and get everyone, myself included, in the spooky mood, I've got a little treat for all of us. It's this:

The Entire Movie of Night of the Living Dead

That's right. Night of the Living Dead, from start to finish, right here on this very blog through the magic of YouTube and public domain laws. Now, I know that you all probably won't sit at your computer and watch the whole thing... still, I hope you recognize that by me putting this entire movie on ZFS!, I'm trying to tell you, my readers, that I care deeply about your enjoyment of the Halloween festivities. I love you all, true dat.

Also, in the interest of being up front, I really should mention that the audio is great on this, but the picture quality is... well, about what you'd expect from a YouTube video. It ain't DVD, but hey, it's free. And it's brought to you with love, as I said earlier. Remember? The love? Totally makes up for the shoddy picture quality.

So if you want to, watch it and enjoy. And if not, well that's okay too. Let's get our scares on, yo!!!

Retirement Party: Songs We're All Done With

NOTE: Let's be clear about one thing, none of these are bad songs (save for one). It's just time for them to go due to their near-constant presence on the radio, as well as their overuse in movies and television. It's been a great ride, but that ride has to end.

"Pretty Woman" by Roy Orbison - So overplayed, it's lost all meaning; unfortunate Julia Roberts connotations; Orbison has many other songs that don't get heard because this one's in the way, blocking their exit like a fat man on a rush hour train.

"Night Moves" by Bob Seger - Overwrought song about getting laid as a teenager; Bob Seger has a gross "Dad beard;" contains lyrical references to a "60 Chevy" and a "Drive-in," both unironically.

"Imagine" by John Lennon - Used too often as a shorthand for peace by uncreative protesters; it's lyrics are often found on t-shirts sold at Spencer's Gifts; it's sentiments aren't going to happen, at least not in our lifetime.

"Born To Be Wild" by Steppenwolf - Movie trailers use this song to indicate that a character is a "wild n' crazy" guy; Radio DJ's use this song to indicate that the weekend will be "wild n' crazy;" the general "wild n' craziness" it represents, particularly when it is played at weddings where your drunk relatives aren't stopped from dancing.

"Jumpin' Jack Flash" by The Rolling Stones - Quite possibly the worst Rolling Stones song of all time; Reminds us of our Dad drumming along on the steering wheel, with all the inherent shame that goes with said image; mid-80's Whoopi Goldberg comedy connotations.

"Unchained Melody" by The Righteous Brothers - Simon Cowell's favorite song (true); when it plays, all we can think of is Patrick Swayze, Demi Moore, and Demi Moore's weird haircut in Ghost; also, it makes us think of erotic pottery-making, which is unpleasant.

"Sweet Home Alabama" by Lynyrd Skynyrd - Adopted as an anthem by racists; Has been adapted for use as a novelty car horn; was the title of an unfortunate Reese Witherspoon romantic comedy, for which we blame Lynyrd Skynyrd and not Reese, because we love her.

"Happy Together" by The Turtles - I can only remember this as a song used to hawk some sort of cereal in the late 80's; The Turtles have much better songs elsewhere in their catalogue; "Eleanor," for example, as well as, "You Baby."

"Time Of Your Life (Good Riddance)" by Green Day - Reminds us too much of High School, even if you weren't in High School when the song was released; Reminds us of the Seinfeld finale, which everyone hated but me and I don't need to have that debate again; Reminds us how much "Dookie" rocked, which makes us sad that Green Day doesn't make albums like "Dookie" anymore.

"Hey Jude" by The Beatles - Paul playing this at the Super Bowl a few years ago was the last straw for this one; that "na na NA nanana..." part has lost it's magic for group sing-a-long purposes; has been replaced by the "ba ba DAAAA" part in "Sweet Caroline."