Tuesday, July 31, 2007

Our Newest Mascot

Quite frankly, Zombie Cat hasn't done shit in his role as the official ZFS! mascot. Maybe it was my fault for picking A) a cat, and B) a cat that was an admitted zombie, but... still... I really think he could have done more blog-promoting and less trying-to-eat-my-brain-all-the-time. Even a twenty percent reduction in the trying-to-eat-my-brain-all-the-time would have freed up some of his schedule for promotional appearances at bars, liquor stores, and moonshine distilleries out in the swamplands (I know my audience).

Anyway, my point is, Zombie Cat's out. Fortunately, I've managed to find a new mascot that I think really exemplifies what we (and by "we," I of course mean "me") are all about here at ZFS!. Namely, weeping WB teen idols. So, without further adieu, I give you:

On behalf of ZFS!, and in an effort to promote the blog, The Crying Dawson is available for...

-Weddings That Turn Into Parties That Result In Funerals
-Bar Mitzvahs
-Bat Mitzvahs
-Bob Mitzvahs
-Casino Nights
-Lingerie Fashion Shows
-Chili Cook-Offs
-Arm-Wrestling Semi-Finals
-Back Alley Brawls
-Tawdry Sexual Encounters At Cheap Motels Under The Alias "The Crying Pacey"
-And Any Other Events, Legal Or Otherwise, That You Can Think Of! Ask About Our Low Rates And Lower Standards!!!

Offer not valid in Mississippi, because fuck those guys. No coupons. May God help you if you bring a coupon in the ZFS! offices. The Crying Dawson is a recovering heroin addict and WILL attempt to steal from you; please lock up all valuables before The Crying Dawson arrives. Also, it's best if The Crying Dawson is not around children, pets, or anything else he can pin down and... um... "have his way with." The Crying Dawson will most likely reek of cheap booze and sin upon arrival at any scheduled appearances; we will provide the equipment to hose him off beforehand. The Crying Dawson is a registered trademark and a practicing hedonist. The Crying Dawson will love you tenderly, but break your heart in the morning. The Crying Dawson is the way and the light. Forever and ever, amen.

Things I Wanted To Stick Down My Pants While Walking To Work In The Heat

-A large, intricately-carved ice sculpture of a swan

-50 cherry-flavored Popsicles

-That expensive, "date night" bottle of vodka that's been in your freezer, unopened, for three years now because you can never get a woman to come back with you to your apartment

-Fudgy The Whale

-A trunkful of frozen salmon that "fell of the back of a truck" somewhere outside of Newark

-Linda Evans' frosty performance as Krystal Carrington in Dynasty

-Antarctica, which seems like it would be too big, but keep in mind that you've never seen the infinite expanse of my pants

-My father's idea of affection (Daddy... why won't you love me???)

-A copy of Hans Christian Anderson's immortal classic, "The Snow Queen"

-Um... something else that's cold, I guess. Look, it's hot outside; cut me some slack. Some icy, icy slack.

Monday, July 30, 2007

Today In Useful Crap

Heh... now we're talkin'.

Okay, yes, a flask that large does kinda, sorta defeat the purpose of the whole flask concept; having that in your back pocket would be a lot like announcing your alcoholism to the whole world on national TV during the World Series while naked and on fire. Not to mention the strain it'd put on your spine. Still... a giant flask filled with the liquor of your choice would look pretty sharp next to the couch. Just need to find a very long, very bendy straw... then we're in business.

Want to buy one for yourself or, perhaps, for your favorite blogger (my birthday is coming up, ya know)? All the info is here.

Ingmar Bergman: Dead

Legendary Swedish filmmaker Ingmar Bergman passed away at his home earlier today; no specific cause of death was given, though it can be assumed that it had a lot to do with him being alive for 89 years, at which point his body finally said, "Yeah, I'm done." His body said this in Swedish, of course, but still.

If you're any sort of film nerd, or if you're just a big fan of extremely bleak movies that contain a lot of religious iconography, then this is indeed a sad day. In his honor, let's all make time today to play a game of chess with Death. Or, if that can't be arranged, let's instead raise a glass and drink heartily to one of the great, old-school master of cinema.

He will be missed.

Today In Useless Crap

Yes, that's a Swarovski Crystal-covered Hello Kitty. No, I don't know why. I do know, however, that the person who buys it deserves at minimum a swift kick to the neck, followed by a wedgie so intense, it causes them to vomit up a nard. Even the little girl standing behind it, who's the target audience for shiny cats if ever there was one, thinks the whole thing is bullshit. You can tell by the look on her face that she's seriously considering taking that sparkly piece of crap down with a flying, full-body tackle and for that, I commend her.

Now, the question I pose to you, my impeccable-taste-in-fashion-and-music-having readers, is this: What the fuck is up with the Swarovski company and their need to slap crystals all over everything? Cellphones, iPods, skulls, anything worn by a rapper... it's like they're slowly trying to take over the world, one rich asshole at a time. Which I guess, as far as global domination efforts go, is pretty smart. Rich assholes are the ones that know where all the bodies are buried, as it were.

Friday, July 27, 2007

NASA: An Agency In Crisis

Seems NASA has found itself in a bit of a pickle. Two separate reports were uncovered yesterday: One containing allegations of Astronauts being drunk before flying the space shuttle, and another claiming that a NASA employee had sabotaged a computer destined for the International Space Station. Unfortunately, the troubles for NASA don't end there. For years now, ZFS! has had undercover reporters working deep inside the NASA organization (they've been disguised as moon rocks); with these recent issues coming to light, we feel it's our journalistic duty to report to you, the people of America, our findings:

Thing's Uncovered In ZFS!'s Investigation of NASA

-Every package of Tang that the consumer buys has, at one time or another, had an Astronaut's balls in it. It started out as a practical joke, but somehow it has evolved into a matter of company policy.

-We did, in fact, land on the Moon. However, every press conference ever given by NASA has been faked in a warehouse out in the Nevada desert.

-Mars needs women.

-The US Government knows about alien lifeforms on other planets. We're just not talking to them right now. Because they know what they did, that's why, and until we get an apology, they can go fuck right off.

-You know Saturn? Yeah... Saturn is awesome. It's got, like... rings and shit. Rings!

-Neil Armstrong isn't just the first man to walk on the moon. He's also the first man to shit his pants and break down sobbing because he's "so fucking scared that the space ooglie-booglies will get [him]" on the moon.

-Never, ever accept an Astronaut's offer of a drink they call "The Stinky Sputnik."

-When you see a wide shot of Mission Control and it looks like everyone is hard at work doing important, space-related computer stuff... yeah, odds are, all the employees are just checking their MySpace pages. (Most Common Profiles In NASA Employee's Top 8: All the planets)

-A special, multi-billion dollar anti-gravity chamber was built in a secret bunker far below the Earth's surface for one reason: So that Astronauts can practice taking a zero-G dump. It's very tricky, especially after the NASA Commissary's taco night.

-Yeah, NASA's full of geeks. But those geeks are constantly fucking. Constantly. We're still not sure how anything gets done.

Thursday, July 26, 2007

Ewok Celebration Song... Barbershop Style!

NOTE: Pretty much just that. It's the Ewok celebration song from Return of the Jedi, sung by a barbershop quartet that may or may not be escapees from a Rob Zombie flick. Either way, I'm pretty sure these guys killed and ate a group of lost college students immediately after the camera was turned off. Prove it didn't happen! Anyway, enjoy...

How I Waste My Talents

I don't mean to brag, but I'm ridiculously talented. In many areas, understand... I'm not just, say, a master of the art of ice sculpting (though make no mistake, I could carve from a single block of ice a sculpture of the monster from Alien that is so life-like, you'd shit yourself twice and then die from a blown brain). No, my talents range across a broad spectrum of skills and in each individual area, there is no better than I. Sadly, though, and as you may have gathered from the title of this post, I've let all of these talents (these many talents) go to waste. Let's go through them one by one; let me show you how I'm depriving the world of it's greatest natural resource: Me.

How I Waste My Talents: A Tragic List

My Ability To Dance - Though you wouldn't think it by looking at me, I move with the grace of a lithe, 20-year-old girl made entirely of liquid mercury that's had a lifetime of training at the hands of a Nureyev, or a Nijinsky, or a Hammer. It's true; you know that Savion Glover guy who does all the tap dancing? Yeah, he got all his moves from me. In fact, it was me who said, "Hey Savion, with all those moves I taught you, you're certainly bringin' in the funk, as well as bringin' in the noise." The rest is Broadway history. And while he's gone on to fame and fortune (or as much fame and fortune as one can get by tap-dancing, which, granted, isn't just a whole lot), I've let my talents lie fallow, content to only use my shocking flexibility and sure sense of footwork to carry me back and forth between the couch and the fridge. No one's ever looked smoother while getting a beer, but that's cold comfort when you consider that I should be performing modern jazz routines for royalty.

My Ability To Draw - I used to date an artist and, as I think we all know, artists only date other people who have comparable or (in my case) amazingly superior talent artistic abilities. Need further proof? Well, then... here's the best picture you've ever seen of a fat assed skeleton wearing a top hat and holding aloft a bowl of guacamole:
I know, right? Simply amazing. And yet, I've never even attempted to get my work displayed in an ultra-hip SoHo gallery, or even in the Louvre. It's a shame, really, because my artwork has the power to cure cancer and, on two separate occasions, entirely heal bullet wounds.
My Ability To Write - Currently on my laptop, I've got a play that's about 3/4ths of the way done. To put it mildly, it's the best play ever written and, were it actually to be produced, it would make Shakespeare's immortal classic, Hamlet, look like a bucket of diarrhea. But I avoid working on it. I read it and re-read it, basking in it's glory, but I stubbornly refuse to tack on the ending that would make it whole and solidify it's place in history as not only the greatest achievement in ever in the realm of theater, but as the greatest thing ever. Why do I do this? Hm... dunno... probably because The Discovery Channel show's a lot of Mythbusters and those guys blow shit up amazingly well. (I'll give you a taste, though: The play's about me and how I'm awesome; it's four hours long, has twenty musical numbers, and more explicit nudity than your average Shannon Tweed film)
My Ability To Sing - If you're ever in a karaoke bar in the East Village and you hear a clear, strong voice penetrating the night with one of Journey's greatest hits, yeah, that would be me. You'll think to yourself, "Why, that man should be selling out large, domed amphitheaters and headlining tours for popular charities. He should have Grammy's raining down upon him, that handsome, pleasant-smelling man over there." Sadly, I'll never get farther than said karaoke bar. Because I'm just too lazy to play the record company's game, not to mention the fact that they won't let you record albums while lying in bed eating Cheez-Its. Because they're bastards.
My Ability To Compose Long-Winded Blog Posts That You've Already Stopped Reading - Well obviously I don't waste all my talents.

Wednesday, July 25, 2007

The Keg Update

Holy shit, I totally forgot to give you kids an update on the current contents of the anniversary keg that Girlfriend bought for me.

Yeah, it's empty.


Spittin' nothing but air and a little foam that only serves as a reminder of what once was. I'm proud (or, rather, "worried about my alcoholism") to say that I was able to drain that sucker dry in just a little over twelve hours. Not straight through, of course... had to take time out for a nap, and for us to go have our tasty, anniversary dinner at Melt.

But still, the fact remains: I took care of 5-liters of beer in less than 24 hours.

A proud day for me and my family? Unquestionably.

Are you all jealous of my drinking prowess? Of course you are.

Does anyone know the number of the nearest Betty Ford Clinic? Anyone...?

Here's A Picture Of Multiple Hemingways

NOTE: This is from a Hemingway look-a-like contest in Key West, FL. The fact that it was held at a place called Sloppy Joe's Bar should in no way diminish the sanctity of an event such as this, which features many, many bearded men getting drunk on rum. Thanks to Braden, as usual, for doing the research that I'm unwilling to do.

Discussion Questions

-Can we assume that the guy with the large, dinner plate-ish thing around his neck has been declared the winner? And if so, can it also be assumed that he's the saddest man alive, ever, even when you take into consideration the homeless and the various men in the world who have no legs?

-Anyone else get the impression that any one of these guys could, without hesitation, give you directions to the best weed in South Florida. And the final destination would almost always be, "the greenhouse in my back yard."

-Can you imagine the thick cloud of "beard funk" that's hanging around that bar? even today, the place still smells like Old Spice and last night's vomit.

-Why don't they have Tom Wolfe look-a-like contests? All those men in their snappy white suits... that's a photo opportunity just waiting to happen. Come to think of it, why hasn't their been a C-dog look-a-like contest? Bunch of fat guys standing around, being sweaty and drunk... granted, I'm not a famous author and, yes, anyone who looks like me would more than likely step in front of a bus than actually own up to it, but still. Let's make this dream a reality, people!

NOTE: The person with the most correct answers will receive a signed copy of "The Sun Also Rises." It will be signed by me, but that shouldn't matter. Also, I'm not really giving away a copy of "The Sun Also Rises." But hey, if you win, I'll... eh... I dunno... you can have the privilege of buying me rum or something. Oh, and if you lose, you're going to be on the bad end of a few burly bear hugs from the above pictured gentlemen.

"Tears Dry On Their Own" By Amy Winehouse

Hey kids... I'm once a-fucking-gain stuck working the late shift at my office tonight. Yes, getting to sleep late is nice; no complaints there. However, having to be at work until 8pm AND getting the unique opportunity to do all the crap that my co-workers didn't "have time" to get to... well, that's less nice.

Eh, enough of my bitchin'. I'll have some real content up a little bit later, but until then, here's a skanky lady to sing a song just for you:

I love Amy Winehouse's music, but... damn... am I the only that feels like they're going to catch an STD when one of her videos is on? She makes the "Erotica"-era Madonna look like Olivia Newton-John.

Anyway, when you're done watching this you really should consider checking yourself for crabs.

Tuesday, July 24, 2007

Five Liters Of Love

Today is Girlfriend and I's two-year anniversary.

Now, on ZFS!, I've gone to great pains to avoid the gloopy, sappy, frankly uninteresting posts about how much Girlfriend and I are in love, how sweet and wonderful she is to me, how she's my only only, etc. No one, I'm fairly certain, wants to hear about another person's relationship and how good or bad it might be. When I do mention Girlfriend, it tends to be in reference to something she and I did together or, more often, how I've treated her horribly and, thus, how I remain baffled at why she continues to put up with my bullshit. In our private, non-blogged life, Girlfriend and I are just as romantically gross as anyone else, but when we're in the public eye we like to keep the slobbering all over each other, verbally or otherwise, to a minimum... we don't like being that couple.

I say all of this because I don't want you to think you're about to read an embarrassingly overwrought post about hearts and flowers and souls mingling until they become one and whatnot. You're not, because that's not the kind of thing I write, nor is it the kind of thing that Girlfriend would want me to write. As I said, that's not our particular bag of donuts.

However, as it is our anniversary, I feel that I'd be remiss if I didn't mention at least in some way how cool it is to have dated Girlfriend for these last two years. So here's what I'm going to do... I'm going to show you, my wonderful and sharply-dressed readers, just how much Girlfriend "gets" me. From that, you can extrapolate my feelings for her, her feelings for me, and where we fit into the grand scheme of each other's lives.

So, enough preamble... here's what Girlfriend got me for our anniversary:

Your eyes do not deceive. That's a five-liter keg of Heineken beer, which was waiting for me in the fridge (accompanied by a lovely note) when I got home from work.
Do you see what I mean? She "gets" me, more than any other girl I've ever been with. Because there is no better way to mark a relationship milestone, no greater gift from a woman to a man, than the gift of a large, frosty quantity of beer. You know that part at the end of How The Grinch Stole Christmas, when his heart grew so much that it burst the little cartoon X-ray thingy? Yeah, when I opened the refrigerator door last night, my heart did the same thing.
Anyway, I just wanted to share that with you guys and, to a lesser extent, brag that I've got a lot of beer right now and I'm going to drink it all while laughing like a billionaire shutting down a factory in the Midwest. In fact, I'm sipping a glass of said malty goodness as we speak!
And it tastes like love.
Also beer.
NOTE: I took the day off of work so Girlfriend and I could hang out; I'll be around, but not a whole lot, so feel free to talk amongst yourselves.

Monday, July 23, 2007

Worth Your Valuable Time

Because there's nothing hotter than a blood-soaked prom dress.


You want more reasons???

Dude, it's a gross, rainy Monday and I haven't eaten lunch yet; my brain is just barely functioning at a level that's keeping my respiratory system up and running. Just trust me, Carrie is way better than you remember, Sissy Spacek is uh-mazing, and you'll walk away feeling really shitty about ever being mean to someone back in high school. Because that's what the movie is about... not telekinetic powers, not crazy religious moms, not even the aforementioned hotness of a blood-soaked prom dress (though it is awesome). Carrie is about the cruelty of teenagers, and what happens when that cruelty is directed at the wrong person. Heavy stuff, a cinematic punch in the gut, and so worth your valuable time, you should already be Netflixing it.

The Man-Crush Report

NOTE: Despite the fact that I'm heterosexual and have a girlfriend whom I've been dating for two years this coming Tuesday, I will from time-to-time develop what's known as a"man-crush" on certain celebrities who are... how shall I put this...? Ah, I know, "who are ridiculous studs." Rarely is it someone typical... a George Clooney or a Peyton Manning or whomever is comparably at the top of their game. Nope, C-dog's taste in men tends to be a little left of center (or, in one of the below cases, right of center). So without further explanation, here's the current crop of...

C-Dog's Man-Crushes: July Edition

Gordon Ramsay

Occupation: Chef, Reality Show Host/Judge, Sexy Bully
Why I'd Go Gay For Him: The man just oozes masculinity, which is a quality that I find attractive seeing as how my lifelong love of musicals and the various theatrical arts has left me with an inability to ooze much of anything other than a faint whiff of, "are you sure you wouldn't be more comfortable in a pretty, pretty dress?" Ramsay also swears a lot, cooks amazing food (or so I hear; I certainly can't afford to eat in his restaurants), and has absolutely no compunction with regards to telling people exactly what's on his mind. Some, I think, see him as a mean, awful person who lives only to tear down the psyches of others. That's not quite it. While he does yell and scream and have, at times, unreasonably harsh standards, it's all because he never stops striving for the best in everything and anything on which he stamps his name. He bullies because he cares, and that's what makes him my kind of guy. Also, I get the impression that he's got just an enormous wang. Call it a hunch.

Shawn Green

Occupation: Right-Fielder (NY Mets)
Why I'd Go Gay For Him: Besides the fact that he's easy on the eyes, I'm not 100% sure why I dig the man so. He's a good ballplayer, for sure, but he's not, nor ever will be, a superstar. Though maybe that's it... maybe it's the consistency that I like; his good fielding, his generally above average BA (currently .271, but it's been higher this season), his occasional moments of glory, such as the walk-off home run in the bottom of the 11th against the St. Louis Cardinals. I tend to always root for the team or the player that isn't constantly in the spotlight, if only because it's that much sweeter when they manage to shoulder their way into the public's consciousness every now and again, and I'm sure that that's why he's on my list. It should also be noted that Shawn Green is one of the very few Major League baseball players that is of the Jewish faith. I don't think this particularly has anything to do with my man-crushiness, but it's still worth mentioning all the same.

Chris Hansen

Occupation: Television Host, Perv-Buster
Why I'd Go Gay For Him: He's handsome in a Troy McClure sort of way, but that's not the reason why he makes me totally want to consider a lifestyle change. No, it's because the man has absolutely got the biggest set of clanking, swinging, brass balls I've ever seen. Metaphorically, of course. Chris Hansen's job is to walk up to people and call them out, on camera, for wanting to molest children. Sound easy? I'm positive that it's not. I know that, personally, I have a hard enough time confronting a co-worker when they've stolen my soda out of the communal fridge; I can only extrapolate that my queasy uncomfortableness in that situation would reach epic heights of spazzing out were I also to inform my co-worker that I knew he was intending to drink that soda, then go attempt to have sex with a thirteen year old girl. I don't know how he does it, but I do know that I want him to always handle any sort of confrontation for me, forever.

Sunday, July 22, 2007

Tammy Faye Messner: Dead

After a long bout with colon cancer, Tammy Faye Messner (formerly Tammy Faye Baker, of "Jim and Tammy Faye" religious craziness fame), has died at age 65. It's always sad when a gay camp icon passes; drag queens from San Fransisco to the West Village are in mourning today, their darkest frocks donned, their rouge applied thickly(-er) in tribute, their mascara at half-mast.

Seriously, though, despite all the wacky, weepy, Jesus-y stuff from her early days, she seemed like a pretty cool, tough lady towards the end. If you haven't seen The Eyes Of Tammy Faye, I highly recommend it. It irrefutably proves that, with regards to her own existence, persona, etc., she really "got the joke."

More details here, though what else could you possibly need to know after the above example of Pulitzer Prize-worthy journalism.

Friday, July 20, 2007

Oooh, Pretty...

NOTE: Could also be categorized as "Oooh, Freaky..."

A sand sculpture that depicts a bunch of creepy, drone-things standing on a hill. Though it doesn't explicitly say so, I think it's safe to assume that they are the minions of The Yellow Man. Oooh, Pretty!!!

Murder Was The Case That They Gave Me

What with the presence of the SWAT Team in my neighborhood and all, my mind has naturally turned to thoughts of crime.

Specifically... MURDER!!!

NOTE: Bold and italicized text, in the realm of blogging, is equal to a crescendo of organ music and crashing thunder and lightening. Just so we're clear on the mood I'm trying to set.

We've all, at one time or another, taken a long, hard look at the kitchen knives and thought, "Man, I'd really like to plunge that deep into the chest of [whomever]." Maybe your intended victim was a roommate who insisted on leaving wet towels all over the floor, which made the bathroom smell like moldy butt crack. Or maybe your killing thoughts were reserved for a co-worker (the one who uses her speaker-phone for every single call), or a friend (because he's always playing that fucking John Mayer album in the car) or perhaps even a political figure of note (because you've always admired Oswald's style). My point is, at one time or another, we've all thought about crossing that moral line and snuffing out some poor bastard's candle in as bloody and ornate a fashion as our sick minds can produce. It's the dark side of human nature.

The question, though, is how would you do it? Is a simple stabbing your cup of gory tea? Or perhaps you lean more towards the theatrical side of murder, preferring something more elaborate and Saw-ish to end your quarry's life. Whatever the case, there's a few basic forms of forced death from which all variations stem; let's take a look, shall we?

Ways To Kill: An Overview

NOTE: ZFS! does not in any way condone the act of murder. This list is written mostly in jest, and because the author caught a few minutes of a CSI episode last night and it got him to thinking. If you kill someone and try to blame it on C-dog, C-dog will kill you. Dead.

Shooting - A very popular murder method, especially if you're a rapper, but one that's fraught with problems. There's the noise issue, for one thing, and then there's the splatteriness that comes part and parcel with sending a 9mm slug through somebody's eye. Plus, what with modern forensics being what they are, there's at least a million and a half different ways to trace the bullet back to the gun and then the gun back to you. Give it a few years and they'll create a bullet that will have the ability to say, "Yeah, it was that guy over there who loaded me into a gun. It was dark, then it was loud, then it was very wet and squishy." All in all, not an advisable way to get things done, unless you're out in an area secluded enough to where no one's going see you, hear you, or notice the Jackson Pollock painting composed entirely of brain matter that you've left on that mighty Oak.

Stabbing - Messy, messy, messy. Sure, it might feel good to drag the blade of that serrated hunting knife across your victim's windpipe, but do you really want to spend the next twelve hours cleaning up all that blood? Now, yes, there's a place on a person's back where, if you stab them there juuuust right, it'll puncture a lung, killing them, and the blood loss is minimal, but... c'mon... unless you've got a lot of Black Ops training in your background, you're probably not skilled enough to pull off such a maneuver.

Poisoning - Not a bad method, but very traceable. Plus, it's kind of an "out of the frying pan, into the fire" situation as far as cleaning up gross stuff is concerned; there may not be much (if any) blood, but there's probably going to be enough vomit to float a good-sized skiff.

Drowning - If you can make it look like an accident, then you're in business. That means you really should stay away from giving your victim a pair of "cement shoes;" sure it was cool when 1920's mobsters did it, but it really makes your "he wasn't a good swimmer and I begged him not to go for a dip" alibi a lot less than airtight.

Burying Alive - You sick fuck. The concept of being buried alive totally freaks me out, like to the point where if it happens in a movie, I have to avert my eyes and mentally go to a calming place of serenity (a bar) so I don't totally lose my shit and start hyperventilating. I probably shouldn't be telling you people this because, should one of you decide to knock me off, now you know the way to do it that would be the most painful. Tell you what, if any of you end up burying me alive, you can fucking bank on getting your murderous butt haunted, hardcore. You know Poltergeist? Worse than that.

Strangulation - Doesn't require any special equipment, like a gun or shovel; isn't particularly messy (unless the guy who's neck you've got your fingers wrapped around suddenly releases his bowels); has the cathartic rush of physically, actively ending someone's life with your bare hands... I think we have a winner, here, folks. It may not be elegant and it may be unbelievably cruel, but as far as work-versus-reward is concerned, it comes out way on top.

NEXT WEEK: Disposing the body!!!

NOTE: A reminder: don't kill people. Unless they're constantly playing a John Mayer album. Then they're just asking for it.

Thursday, July 19, 2007

Extreme Candy... To The Extreme!!!

Apparently, the Snickers Corporation (or whomever it is that puts out Snickers bars; I don't feel like looking it up) has released a new, limited edition hunk of sugar that they've dubbed the:

Because if there's one thought I've always had about the Snickers bar, it's that the damn thing just didn't make me want to jump out of a helicopter while strapped to a snowboard that's on fire and also the snowboard is really a live alligator. It had nougat, it had peanuts, it had caramel... but it didn't have anything that stimulated my adrenal glands until they exploded out of my neck, and I've really felt that that's a shame.

Finally, though, they've come out with the Snickers Xtreme (no need for three "E's" in this candy bar) and we as a nation can finally go about our BASE jumping secure in the knowledge that we'll have something lifestyle-appropriate to snack on while we wait for the paramedics.

Anyway, I don't really care or anything but... I don't know... I kinda thought we were past the whole "label everything as Extreme, or Xtreme, or XXXtremeeeee in an attempt to reel in the youth market" phase of our culture's advertising agendas. I mean, did it ever really work? You can pretend that, say, Dannon Fruit-On-The-Bottom yogurt is "crazy" and "hip" all you want, but that doesn't make it so, no matter how brightly colored the lightning-font graphics.

Also, and not to be over-analytical about something that's so unimportant, all of you have already forgotten what I was talking about, but how, specifically, is this Snickers bar extreme? Well, I did some research (ha, not really; someone told me), and it seems that, in this case, "Xtreme" equals "more peanuts, no nougat."

That's it.

I hadn't realized that nougat was the thing holding Snickers back from reaching it's true, extreme potential, but, turns out, totally the case. And, not to be picky or nothin', but eating a hard brick of caramel and peanuts that's been slathered in low-grade factory chocolate doesn't particularly strike me as an activity conducive to anything more extreme than changing the channel from VH1 to MTV.

But what do I know? I'm basically the human equivalent of nougat, at least as far as being un-extreme is concerned. And really, my point in all of this is that, no joke, I could go for a Snickers right now.

Never A Dull Moment: Bay Ridge Edition

So, Girlfriend and I had finally settled down for the night... the drama from Midtown blowing up had subsided, I'd opened a bottle of wine, and Top Chef was on, soothing us with it's food-based competitions and the refreshing model-sass of Padma Lakshmi. At that moment, all was well.

Then the SWAT Team showed up:

That's the scene outside our building at about 10:30 last night. Apparently, and the details are still sketchy at this point, some kid barricaded himself into his apartment (which was around the corner from us), instigated a stand-off by shooting at the police, and then committed suicide. It was, and I don't mean this to sound like I'm taking the situation lightly, bananas.

More pics:

General Chaos

NOTE: Sadly, we couldn't get a good shot of all the SWAT Trucks. Black vehicles don't show up well when you're not using a flash (didn't want to draw attention to ourselves, lest it inspire the rooftop snipers to decide that we'd make for some good target practice before "the show").

The "Hostage Negotiation Team" Truck

NOTE: It's kind of hard to read, but that's what it says on the side of the truck there.

Ambulance, With Surrounding Crowd

NOTE: This was particularly freaky. Some woman, whom I can only assume knew one of the parties involved, completely lost her shit after it was all over. She was crying, wailing actually, and then she collapsed on the ground and started shaking like a Baptist preacher at a Revival. They had to strap her down to a gurney and take her away.

Anyway, that was our night. An interesting one, to be sure. If nothing else, it brought Girlfriend and I even closer together; you never know how much you really love someone until you, as a couple, witness your first large-scale police action. Incidentally, the whole day really made me feel like a bonafide New Yorker. Exploding streets, hostage situations, chaos and confusion right outside my door... just another day in Paradise.

Good times... good, terrifying, holy-shit-the-world's-ending, times...

Wednesday, July 18, 2007

Never A Dull Moment In New York City

This is a picture (taken off the AP wire) of the steam-pipe explosion that's currently making everyone in Midtown Manhattan's life so full, rich, and interesting. This is happening about three blocks from my office and, believe me, I'm super-jazzed that I chose not to work late tonight. Anyway, Girlfriend and I have decided that this is all probably Phase 1 of the alien invasion that will eventually enslave all of humanity, so... you know... we might all want to stock up on guns and liquor before the pods starting spilling out of the ground.

Just sayin'.

Movie Poster A Go-Go: The Ninth

I Now Pronounce You Chuck & Larry (En Espanol)

"Ha ha, it's funny when two straight guys pretend to be queers. Ha!!! LAUGH!!!" Please. The only way this movie will earn my dollars is if, in the end, they realize they really are gay for each other and then have a long, hard-R sex scene in a tent like in Brokeback Mountain. Not that I have any desire to see Kevin James' lumpy butt glistening with sweat as it rises in mid-thrust; I just think that that would be a particularly progressive and positive way to end a movie that appears to basically be the homosexual version of Soul Man. Anyway, I love how they've got Kevin James making that weird, scream-y face in all the posters for this. I think we're supposed to infer from his expression that this movie is "wacky."

The Comebacks

And so we move on from gay-baiting and into the realm of objectifying women. For shame, Hollywood! That being said, I'd like to hang this poster over my bed and pretend I'm thirteen again. There's just something about a girl-butt in tight athletic pants that make me so happy to be alive and in possession of a penis. Too bad this movie will probably suck, whatever it's about (football, I guess). But really, who cares? Girl-butt!!!!

Across The Universe

Making a movie-musical where all the songs are from The Beatles catalogue is, in theory, a brilliant idea on par with the combining of tequila and Sunny D. But, much like the actual application of combining tequila and Sunny D, it ends up being something that tastes good at first, but then leaves you curled up in a ball on your bathroom floor covered in bright yellow vomit. Mostly though, I think I'm just bothered by the fact that they named the lead character Jude, just so they can have someone sing "Hey Jude" to him at a really poignant moment. For some reason that makes me want to smash my copy of Abbey Road and use the resulting shards to slash my wrists. Oh, and the poster is just kind of... there. Not bad, not good, not anything.



Look, Rob Zombie, just because you can remake something, it doesn't mean you should. The thing that bothers me most about this whole thing? He's got Michael Myers sporting long hair. Because, apparently in Mr. Zombie's "re-imagining" of the Halloween mythos, Michael Myers is a roadie for Metallica. That is a lovely collage, though; I'll give the poster that. It's nice to see that they've got a really talented sixteen year-old girl on their art department staff.


Second in a series entitled, "Normal Things That Form A Spooky Face."

Mr. Magorium's Wonder Emporium

I don't like to casually throw around the phrase, "like rape, but for your eyes," but when it fits, it fits. I mean... Jesus... I've accidentally scratched my cornea with a car key and that was less painful than looking at this poster for more than a few seconds. I mean, they've made Natalie Portman, one of the most beautiful women in the world, look like a Down's Syndrome version of Audrey Hepburn. Inexcusable, and I hope the people who created this poster will one day be captured and put on trial at The Hauge for their crimes against humanity.

Tuesday, July 17, 2007

What Kind Of Day It Has Been

In a word, long.

In a couple of words, fucking long.

In three words, one of them comically elongated, unbelievably fucking loooooooooong.

I know that nobody who reads ZFS! really cares about my job (hell, I barely care about my job), so I'll spare you all the gory details of what, specifically, I had to put up with today. Let's just say it involved...

-a mountain of invoices roughly the same size and shape of the mountain sculpture that Richard Dreyfuss builds in his living room in Close Encounters of the Third Kind.

-Numerous phone calls from people all over the world who really could benefit from a few classes at the Sylvan Learning Center and/or a fistful of prescription drugs.

-a headache that started at the base of my neck, worked it's way up the back of my head to my temples, and then proceeded to perform an extended routine inspired by, but not strictly taken from, the Off Broadway sensation Stomp.

-the aftermath of my own lazy incompetence, which always adds that particular spice known as "God, I Hate Myself" to any given Tuesday.

-Hitler. Yep. Hitler. He's back and he's got an army of blond, Teutonic zombies with him. S'cool, though... between the invoices and the phone calls and the headache and my own incompetence, I managed to squeeze in some time to beat back his forces of darkness and banish him to the Phantom Zone, just like I did with General Zod. Don't thank me now, though; Hitler will be back, I'm sure, for a series of exciting sequels and Burger King tie-ins.

Anyway, regular shenanigans should resume tomorrow. Unless everything goes all bughouse again. Then who knows. But that's okay... this blog could use a healthy shot of unpredictability, no?

Flavors Of Love

Sour Cream and Onion - A mellow, flavorful kind of love. Smooth and creamy, with just a hint of wow; you'll have very few arguments, but in the bedroom, things will be just kinky enough to keep it interesting. Be warned though: This kind of love will give you absolutely rank breath. Keep handy the Tic-Tacs, for reals.

Original - Yawn. If you like being in love with IRS employees or people who work at the pork fat rendering plant, then by all means, sample the Original-style love. You've got a lifetime of Law and Order reruns and tuna-noodle bake in your future. Hope you brought a book.

BBQ - Oh yeah! A greasy, orange residue-y kind of love. You'll constantly find yourself wiping your hands on your shorts and you absolutely will not care. If you're going to undertake a BBQ love, though, be prepared to wear a cowboy hat; the dress code is strictly enforced and also delicious.

Salt & Vinegar - Do you like sass? Do you like sass in abundance? Because a Salt & Vinegar love is a love filled with zingers, barbs, and tiny cuts on the inside of your mouth that burn like a motherfucker... and yet you'll continue to cram fistful after fistful of this love into your gaping, puckered maw. Because you won't be able to absorb and process in your soul the love of just one.

Prawn - Hey man, if that's the way you bend, then knock yourself out. Just make sure you check her "expiration date," if you known what I mean. Some of these chips are sold a little too fresh for legal comfort.

Cool Ranch - Oh, so you're like that, are you? Well, good for you. Hey, it's not my thing, but who am I to tell another person how they should love. I just hope you're aware of the consequences... What's that? You mean you, a Cool Ranch lover of such cavalier standards aren't aware of the consequences of your forbidden, stinky love? Look my friend... it's for you to figure out. I will say these three words to you, though; a warning if you will: Cool Ranch farts. Now extrapolate that concept into a relationship setting and get yourself comfortable with many, many nights sleeping in the bathtub under a hot blanket of seething, intestinal discomfort-fueled rage.

Flamin' Hot - Not so much a state of love as it is an act of mutual combustion. Sexy, sexy, mutual combustion. Of all the Flavors Of Love, this one most involves "the nads."

Ketchup - Gross, dude.

Nacho Cheese - This is the kind of love that's always going to be there. It's a "curl up and watch a movie, comfortably snacking and just enjoying the pleasure of each other's company" kind of love. There is, however, a tendency to consume so much Nacho Cheese love that you get sick of it; that you even consider switching to another flavor for a little while. Perhaps something with a little spice and heat, like a Salsa or a Jalapeno. Do it if you must, but know that your Nacho Cheese love will be there when you get home, it's bag wide open, ready to take you back as if nothing ever happened. Because that's, in a nutshell, the essence of Nacho Cheese love; accepting, full of understanding, and crispy, crunchy with the ability to really "get" you.

Monday, July 16, 2007

Dans La Merde

Suddenly in crisis mode here at the ol' job. Crazy invoice shit blowing up everywhere; it's madness, I tell you. I'll hopefully be able to check back in later, but until then, here's some videos for to entertain your brains:

NOTE: I know The Shins are kind of "over" at this point, but I don't care. I still like them. These are videos (Part 1 & 2) of them performing a variety of their songs out and about in Paris. They're fun.

A Moment Of Pure Awesome

I talk a lot on ZFS! about how I'm awesome, and how I'm just so great, and how I'm, out of everyone on the planet, easily in the top five for being too cool for school. At this point, the fantastic-y goodness that is me has become common knowledge amongst... well... everyone, I guess. Maybe the population at large isn't specifically aware of my glory, but I think that they've at the very least got a vague notion that, somewhere out there, there's a chubby dude who has a blog that possesses the power to change the world.

So yes, I rule; that's a given. But I've got to be honest with you... Sometimes, the C-dog has moments of self-doubt. I know, I know... how is that possible? For someone like me, who's got the world on a string and a song in his heart (and it's the best song you've ever heard, dontchaknow), how can there ever be a time when the sun isn't shining? It's hard to fathom, but it's true.

Sometimes, I just don't feel that awesome. Maybe I'm feeling a bit too chubby. Maybe I'm bummed because I'm still in a deep, dark financial hole. Maybe I've had a lot to drink for a few days in a row and I've got that rotten, sick feeling in my guts that's germane to extended periods of alcohol abuse. This feeling doesn't happen often, but when it does, it totally sucks; not just for me, but for the entire world. As my emotional state goes, so goes the nation. As it were. A blue C-dog equals a blue world and, when that happens, we run the very real risk of war, mass suicides, a collective loss of appetite and, most horrifying, the release of a new album from Nickelback.

Fortunately for everyone, there are cosmic forces at work. In an effort to keep the world on an even keel, the Powers That Be are always there to catch me when I fall. How do they do this, you might ask? Well I'll tell you... they provide me with a moment of such pure, white-hot awesomeness that I can't help but realize that I'm the axis around which the Earth spins. It's really quite thoughtful of them.

Let me give you an example of what I'm talking about, so you can better understand the way that the universe is connected. To me.

A Moment Of Pure Awesome

So, last night, Girlfriend and I were taking a walk in our neighborhood, en route to our favorite cupcake shop to purchase some treats to eat during the series premiere of the greatest television show of all time, Rock Of Love with Bret Michaels. As we're walking, we pass a grocery store, outside of which is one of those claw games full of prizes, much like the one in the picture up top (you were wondering what the hell that had to do with anything, weren't you). There was only one kind of prize inside the machine; instead of the usual variety of junky stuffed animals and shoddy toys, there were only a large selection of neon-hued, squishy rubber balls, each about the size of a grapefruit and covered in longish tendrils. They looked sort of like the larger, thicker cousins of the Koosh.

Girlfriend spots them as we walk by and she says, half-kidding, "Hey, win me one of those."

A calm washes over me. All the sounds of the street tune out as I lock eyes on the machine. It glows brightly, taunting me. I place my hand in my pocket and find that, yes, I've got the required change to take a go at this game of skill... but only enough for one shot. One chance to win my girl a prize and, thus, prove my worthiness as a mate, as a man, as a provider of all things plastic-y and cheap. I remove the quarters from my pocket and I stride up to the game, my arms bulging with muscles and my brow beaded with sweat. I drop in the coins and suddenly, like a gladiator facing down a tiger, the battle is on.

With deft hands, I maneuver the claw this way and that, lining it up over the top of a yellow ball. Time is ticking down. My aim is not quite right, so I adjust again. A crowd of people have gathered around us, many of them chanting, "C-dog, Bomaye! C-dog, Bomaye!!!" The city of Brooklyn, the state of New York, the entire East Coast, and most of the United States (the good parts) hold their collective breath.

I drop the claw.

It lands squarely on the yellow ball, it's fingers closing, gripping it tight. It lifts the ball up as the crowd hoists me in the air. It moves the ball over and drops it down the chute. Everyone is cheering and fireworks are exploding and Girlfriend looks at me with an expression that says, "You are the greatest man I have ever known. Thank you, C-dog, for being you."

I defeated the claw game. In one try. Do you believe in miracles?

I hand her the prize and we link arms. Off we head, to cupcakes, to our apartment, to trashy reality TV, secure in the knowledge that I am... yes... truly, truly awesome.

As if there was really ever any doubt.

Saturday, July 14, 2007

Oooh, Pretty... (Video Edition)

A lake full of jellyfish in Palau (which is sort of near the Phillipines; I'd never heard of it either)! Crazy! Watching this is like taking a peek into an alien dimension. Or, okay, I guess it's like taking a peek into a lake full of jellyfish. Whatever. It's totally cool, either way. Oooh, pretty!!!

NOTE: Sorry for the belatedness. I was too wrapped up in being smug about the Whole Foods CEO being exposed as an unethical bastard.

Friday, July 13, 2007

My Ex-Girlfriends

Peggy Sue - Loved her with a love so rare and true. Sadly, she died in a plane crash with the Big Bopper and Ritchie Valens.

Allison - It was all over when she let that little friend of mine take off her party dress.

Mandy - She came and she gave with out taking, I'll give her that.

Beth - Always with the calling me. It's like, I hear you calling but I can't come home right now. Jeez... take the hint.

Darling Nikki - Total whore.

Roxanne - An actual whore.

Runaround Sue - Whorish, but in a wholesome, 50's-ish sort of way.

Sloopy - It was good for a while, but she just couldn't hang on.

Billie Jean - She's not, nor has she ever been, my lover. Don't know why she's on this list.

Rio - Last I saw her, she was dancing on the sand. She really showed me all she could, if you know what I mean?

Maggie May - Horrible. She wrecked my bed, kicked me, and that was all after she'd lured me away from home. Never get involved with an older woman.

Jenny - Phone number was always busy.

Wine Makes Me A Shitty Person

I don't drink a lot of wine.

No particular reason... it tastes fine, I don't find it "fruity" like some men do, and I generally think you could do a lot a worse for yourself if you're looking for a beverage to alter your consciousness (Smirnoff Ices come immediately to mind; those things taste like candied cat pee). Still, the fact remains: Wine and I tend to not enjoy the pleasure of each other's company. Unless I suddenly come into a bunch of free bottles of wine, as I did yesterday... then wine and I are like those two girls in High School who always hung out together, invented their own language during their every-weekend slumber parties, and who are currently planning together a commitment ceremony to be held out in the New Mexico desert during a full moon. Free wine and I are 24/7, BFF, like for real, OMG.

Anyway, my point is, last night I drank two bottles of red wine. And it turned me into a shitty person.

Here's what happened... Girlfriend and I got sucked into that World Series of Pop Culture show they've got going on over at VH1.

Side Note: I'm just so insanely good at that show, it's a crime on par with a presidential assassination that I'm not on it right now, dropping mad knowledge on the bunch of wiseasses they call contestants who think they're all clever because they know how to do "The Carlton." Next year, if they have the WSoPC again, I will be there... winning fat bags of cash and giving a clinic on how best to employ a vast array of useless trivia (and my clinics are free).

So, we're watching the WSoPC and I'm getting well into my wine and it comes up that, nightly, there's an online trivia competition after the show; first prize is 2500$. Girlfriend gets excited, says we should do it, and I grumble a response that's unintelligible because it's said down the neck of a bottle. Cut to: The show ends and the online competition is about to start. I've since turned my attention to Ace Of Cakes on the Food Network (I've got a pretty healthy crush on Mary Alice; on Chef Duff, too, actually) and have become uninterested in all things trivia-related, which only goes to show you how far astray the wine had led me.

Girlfriend, very sweetly, asks me to come play the trivia game with her. I balk. Again, she asks, reminding me that I'd already said I'd play and that it is for actual money. I point to the TV and say things that are rude. She asks again and, finally, I do that thing that 8-year-olds do when they're being forced to go to Church; I sigh exasperatedly, and I stomp over to the computer, shoulders-slumped, my shitty attitude stinking up the room like a garlic fart.

The first question is something easy (I don't remember what, exactly, but the answer was Pamela Anderson). And then we get the second question...

What was the artifact they were looking for in the the first Indiana Jones movie?

Well, obviously, it's the Ark of the Covenant. But Girlfriend doesn't know this off the top of her head because she hasn't seen that movie in a million years and, quite frankly, has other shit to worry about that's not pop culture facts (unlike myself, who has that kind of time). She turns to me for the answer and I, without hesitating say...

"The Holy Grail."

She clicks the corresponding button and we're immediately kicked out of the game. She looks at me, sad-faced, and I mutter guiltily, "Oh yeah, I was thinking of the third one sorry or whatever."

And then I realized that I'm the worst fucking person on the planet. There's low and then there's intentionally throwing an online trivia game because you're being a petulant child. Who's drunk on wine. Which is the real culprit here, ya know... were I drinking whiskey or beer or anything else, I'd have said, "Woooooo!!! Trivia!!!" and we'd now be 2500$ richer and I'd be Girlfriends hero. But no, I was drinking wine, which makes me moody and surly and basically a supporting character on My So-Called Life.

As penance, Girlfriend demanded that we play a couple of rounds of Halo (in which she beat me handily; it's our version of couples therapy) and give her a back rub, which frankly I think is letting me off a little light. I think I deserve, for the crime of Drunken Douchery, at least a good hard slap across the chops.

Although I do have a nasty, red-wine hangover at the moment, so I guess there is some form of justice in the world.

Thursday, July 12, 2007

Since We're Being Mature Today...

I've seen this already and I can attest that it is indeed a stirring, frank look at a small town's struggle to give name to a popular biological function. Though they come up with and disagree on many good alternatives to the puritanical "number two" during the course of the movie, the characters are finally able to come to an agreement in the end when a small orphan child makes the suggestion of "Thunderdump."
Then there's a musical number. A horrible, horrible musical number...

UPDATE: Your Daily Dose Of Maturity

UPDATE: MSN still has that graphic up. Like, you'd think someone would have mentioned to them by now that everyone in America is laughing at their unintentional dick joke and that... you know... maybe they might want to put something else up there that isn't burdened with so much innuendo. Unless they really are trying to get everyone who visits their website to think of penises. But if that's the case, it seems like it'd just be easier to put up a picture of some dude's dork instead of being all sneaky about it.

Whatever. Also, penis boobies vagina butt fart. Thanks!


I was all set to tell you kids the story of how I just watched a small girl spectacularly barf during this morning's subway ride. It was a fine tale; gripping, taut, and with a strong protagonist (Me) who ultimately learns from the experience a valuable lesson (don't stand next to small girls on rocky trains who are eating sandwiches of questionable origins). I would have told you this story and we'd have laughed together like old friends, after which we'd have cried some healing, bonding tears and then possibly all gone out for ice cream. In short, it would have been a magical morning for us all and, quite possibly, it would have been the first step to making this world a better place for mankind.

But I can't tell you this story now.


Because MSN decided to run a graphic on their news page today with this headline:

Sorry, but stuff like this takes precedence over any story I could possibly tell, no matter how amazing it may or may not have been (it was totally amazing, just so we're clear). And if you fail to see the humor in this unfortunate use of the surname "Wang" in proximity to the word "up," then clearly you and I are two people with nothing to talk about, ever.

Heh... "Wang."

Other MSN Headlines Not Pictured:

-Johnson Named Head Nurse
-Wieners Taste Good In Nation's Mouths
-Shiny, New, Dick Building Erected
-Law Firm Of Boners, Dong & Penis Now Swollen With Clients
-Hot, Throbbing Cock. No News... Just Hot, Throbbing Cock

Anyway, so there's that. Glad to have it all out of my system. Oh... and in case you were wondering... I am in fact the most mature person on the planet. It's true, I have a certificate and everything. The certificate is printed on a picture of a lady's hoo-ha!!!

NOTE: Just so I don't leave you in suspense or anything, when the girl puked on the train, it looked exactly like this:

Wednesday, July 11, 2007

Words Are All I Have To Take Your Heart Away

-"From the moment I saw you there, standing in the rain, missing a leg and wearing a barrel held up by suspender straps, I knew it'd be you and me forever."

-"Kiss me now, quickly, before the waiter notices that we didn't leave a tip."

-"The way your eyes sparkle, it's like I've set them on fire while you slept, sound and secure in the knowledge that the man you love would never in a million years set your eyes on fire. Well you were wrong, weren't you?"

-"My tests came back negative. Okay, mostly negative. Look, the point is, I love you."

-"I feel so close to you, like I've known you my whole life. Well... known of you. Like, a doctor or something told me about you at birth and I've always had kind of a vague idea of you, but I've never really known what you were all about, exactly. Until now. Honestly, I thought you'd be taller."

-"Finally, darling, I think we can really begin to communicate. Openly, honestly, and without the walkie-talkies."

-"We'll always have this moment, my love. And hopefully I can obtain a copy of the tape from that security camera to post on my website; that way, we can relive this moment forever, as can the rest of America for only 9.95$ a month."

-"You're the most important person to me in the whole world. I mean, not counting the surviving members of the Bee Gees, of course."

-"I'd walk a thousand miles through the driving rain, just to kiss your sweet lips. But no more than a thousand miles. Fuck you if you think I'd walk more than a thousand miles for one lousy kiss. Who do you think you are?"

-"Are you legal? No? Well, can you keep a secret?"

Today In Horrifying, Intentional Eye Trauma

Ever seen a guy with a tattooed eyeball?

Well, now you have.

Aren't you thrilled? Or are you just so close to puking that you've got a look of excitement about you? Personally, I'm bunked down squarely in the latter camp; I have "eye issues" anyway, so seeing something like this, where a guy has repeatedly had needles jammed into his ocular cavity in an effort to give the whole thing a blueish tint, gives me a case of the screaming willies so powerful it threatens to put a permanent kink in my spine.

I mean, seriously... yeesh. My suggestion for this gentleman, whom I'm sure is very nice in person and not at all addicted to, say, crystal meth, is the that next time he feels like being "kooky" and "out there," he consider sticking to a nice, old-fashioned Prince Albert.

Like our forefathers had.

NOTE: Thanks to my boy Dan for sending this in and making me nauseous. Because that's what you do for friends. There's more here if you'd like to know exactly how they went about dying this dudes eyeball blue. Be warned, though: It's way gross.

NOTE 2: If you're curious as to what exactly a Prince Albert is, and you're not at, or even anywhere near, work, feel free to click here. It, too, is way gross. And very penis-y.

Tuesday, July 10, 2007

UPDATE: Fixing The All-Star Game

UPDATE: I would just like to point out that if my idea of having the American League start off with a score of -3 had been implemented, this would have been a much different ballgame. But, since no one ever wants to listen to C-dog (The Drunken Voice of Reason), the National League has once a-fucking-gain lost the All-Star game for the tenth straight year in a row.

It was, however, a much better game than usual... I'll give it that. Though it would have been nice to hear the announcers talk about, oh, I don't know, anything other than Barry Bonds for the three-hour duration.

We get it. He's controversial, but those Giants fans sure do love him. That's just fantastic, he says, as he rolls his eyes so hard that all the canoes flip over in McCovey Cove.


NOTE: Despite the fact that I consider myself to be a baseball fan, I have a really hard time getting into the All-Star game that traditionally comes at the halfway point of the season. For those of you unfamiliar (or uninterested), the All-Star game is where the "best" players from the American and National leagues team up and square off in an exhibition match that means exactly fuck-all. Sure, the ads will try to tell you that "This One Counts," because it determines home-field advantage for the World Series but... again... that amounts to a big, steaming pile of who cares. So, with that in mind, here are my ideas for what the MLB can do to liven things up a bit and, thus, really give the viewers... the fans... something worth caring about.

Ways To Make The 2007 All-Star Game Interesting

-The American League automatically starts with a score of -3, just to make it fair.

-Sure, it goes against all the principles of the game, and, yes, it would tarnish all the player's reputations, but hey... just this once... let'em take all the steroids they want. Not only would we get to see some monster home runs, but there's a good chance we'd get to witness a player totally flip out and start chasing an umpire around with a bat.

-Make an error, remove a piece of the uniform. A-Rod should be naked by the fourth inning.

-Replace home plate with a margarita machine. Also, margarita machines in the dugouts. And one in the On-Deck Circle. Bullpens, too. You know what, lets go ahead and put a couple of margarita machines in the outfield while we're at it.

-Seventh-inning stretch? How about a seventh-inning sniper?

-1st Base: Prince Fielder. 2nd Base: Chase Utley. 3rd Base: A rotating cast of strippers.

-During the 8th inning, everyone's on a motorcycle. And there's ramps everywhere. Flaming ramps. And one motorcycle's got a bomb on it, but no one knows which one.

-Regulation baseballs are all replaced with delicious Florida oranges.

-If a fan can make it past security and actually on to the field, he gets to fistfight the player of his choice. If a player makes it past security and into the stands, he's allowed to take all the hot dogs he can carry back with him to the dugout.

-For the game's duration, All players are renamed Boof Bonser.

Here's A Picture Of The Baconator

<--- Heed The Warning!


Discussion Questions:

-Wendy's is trying to kill us, huh?

-Even I, the unhealthiest eater in the history of the world outside of Henry the VIII and Babe Ruth, think this is taking things just a touch too far in the gluttony department. How shocked are you by this statement? Are you considering a call to the police because you think I've been murdered and replaced by a vegan? Or if not a vegan, someone who at least has a modicum of self-control when it comes to shoving hunks of meat into their face? My point is, why aren't you calling the police? Don't you care about C-dog anymore?

-A quick glance at this picture made my face break out like I was sixteen again. Anyone else get that, or am I the only one who suddenly wants to go hang out at a mall and try to get away with breaking curfew?

-Can you fucking imagine the dump you'd take after eating one of these bastards? It'd hurt coming out, for one thing... it wouldn't really be coming out sideways, but that's what it'd feel like. And then it'd more than likely smell like a slaughtered cow that had been draped with the remains of a slaughtered pig that had been slathered liberally with mayo. And when it was all said and done, you'd probably have to break the damn thing up with a stick or a sturdy coat hanger or something, just so it would flush. Horrifying. And I hope none of you were eating during this paragraph.

-Am I a horrible person for kinda sorta hating America for the Baconator?

NOTE: This only looks like a bunch of questions about a gross cheeseburger. It is, in fact, the latest version of the Bar Exam. The person with the most answers correct will automatically be licenced to practice law in New York State. The person with the fewest answers correct will have to actually eat a Baconator. Funeral costs will be handled by Wendy's Inc.

Monday, July 09, 2007

"What Jonathan Has Wrought," or, More Things To Chill Your Soul

NOTE: I found all of these pictures just hanging around the hard drive of my office computer. From this, I can only conclude that my office computer is a conduit for evil and that I should take it as a sign to start looking for a new job. One that's much less evil-y.

Pennywise, The Clown from IT

His inclusion here is obvious. I mean, look at the guy. Clown make-up? Check. Scary teeth? Check. Tim Curry? May god help us... check.

Carrot Sticks

I don't like carrots. They're gross. And evil.

The Ebola Virus

Anybody read The Hot Zone? This shit's like getting run over by a car, but on the inside. And then, after a while, what's on the inside suddenly is on the outside. In a fountain of blood and other things unmentionable in polite company. Poo. I'm talking about poo.

Creepy Baby Record

I'm pretty sure that this is Jonathan as a child. His eyes are hidden, thus masking their inky, deadness, but still... how could it not be him? He probably recorded this album so he'll something to play as a soundtrack when he and his "tuttles" take over the world.

Jay Rodriguez

I know a guy who knows a guy who knows him and the reports are generally unfavorable. Also, that one dog is wearing a purple something-fuzzy. Yeesh.

The Legion of Doom

The mere presence of Gorilla Grodd and and Captain Cold prove only that their evil knows no bounds. Because nothing says "supervillain" quite like a really smart ape and a guy who has total mastery of a temperature.

Decrepit Shack

For some reason, I feel that this is where I'm going to eventually meet my end. Why do I feel this way? I don't know... but there's just something about me that screams, "Will die horribly in a run-down building out in an abandoned field." I think I get it from my Dad's side of the family, all of whom died bloody in places much like this.

Dr. Skipper

I have it on good authority that Pennywise, Jay Rodriguez, Jonathan and the Legion of Doom will drink nothing else but this off-brand Dr. Pepper. Also, if you check the label, it contains Ebola, as well as traces of decrepit shack materials. And it goes great with carrot sticks.