Let's End The Week On This...

Because who doesn't enjoy a little heart-stopping terror with their liquor purchases? I guarantee you that this thing comes alive at night and lurks in the surrounding neighborhood's alleyways. Which, conveniently, is where most of the people who shop at Circus Liquor end up at night. Boozie the Clown eats them like bar snacks.

Anyway, have a super weekend!

(he's coming for you)

Arbitrary Rulings (Emotions Edition)

Sadness - Generally, it's not cute. Particularly if you're fifteen and haven't, you know, technically had anything happen in your life that would be considered by the population at large as "sad" (Taking Back Sunday not coming to your town doesn't count). Plus, with sadness comes a predilection for wearing a lot of black, and wearing a lot of black means that people won't want to talk to you because they think you're going to try and tell them all about why vampires could happen. Unless, of course, you tart up your black outfits with some red lipstick or a pair of shoes from outer space or something along those lines, but that's not really the point. The point is, sadness makes everybody uncomfortable, especially because everyone's got their own problems these days. I mean, like, why are you so selfish? It's not all about you, Dark Prince of Poets at the Back Lunch Table.

Anger - A perfectly acceptable reaction to the current state of the world, but one that really requires a lot of work to pull off on a consistent basis. Making protest signs, attending rallies, thinking up new ways to infer that the Republicans are Nazis... shits a lot of work, especially if you're all vegan or whatever and aren't getting enough protein. Angry can be sexy, though; bar fights are like orgies but with a focus on hitting people and not getting glass in your eyes. When you see a drunk guy standing on top of a table, swinging a pool cue over his head and shouting out half-remembered lines from Braveheart while three other dudes try to rip his shirt off and another guy is punching him in the spine... how could you not want to fuck that? And I don't mean the drunk. I'm talking about the whole scene. Fighting is foreplay that leaves two-week bruises.

Happiness - Gross. I mean, good for you for finding that perfect "going out" shiny shirt and for meeting someone special while buying Top Ramen at the Duane Reade, but your constant smiley face and the way you keep whistling, "Walking On Sunshine" is making your coworkers dream about your head and a hatchet and a quiet place in the woods where problems disappear. Keep it inside, friend-o... I'm one of the happiest guys you'll ever meet, but you wouldn't know it because I keep my emotions in a bottle marked Jack Daniels and then I drink them away and away and away until smiling feels like trying to write with my wrong hand. That's called, "being polite to others around you" and it should be a law.

Apathy - Now here's an emotion I can get behind. What's a better way to ride out your 70-some odd years of existence while you wait for the peace and quiet that come gratis with the eternal dirt nap? Not caring about anything, not letting anything rile you from your whatever-based funk, never wavering from the unendingly straight corridor of an even keel... that's the note-perfect reaction to a world gone mad, or at least annoying. Plus, if you're handsome or beautiful, dumb people will think you're deep for being so reticent and you'll get laid more than discount tile.

Lust - A great emotion, there's no denying that, especially when you consider how well you sleep afterward. But think about this... have you ever been around someone who's actively in the throes of lust, but you yourself aren't horny at all. They get all red-faced and they can't stand up and they start making those facial expressions that they learned from watching porn in the eighth grade and suddenly you realize that if you don't move down a couple of bar stools, you're going to get sweat in your beer. From the outside looking in, lust is nasty. But when it's you and you're in the moment, hey... can't beat that. Your heart is beating so fast it's like the opening drum solo in "It's The End Of The World As We Know It" and your vision blurs and your brain slips out of your skull and walks around the city for a few hours while you try to pretend you care about art or politics or whatever she's talking about. That's fun. That's being young and alive in the city. And if you strike out, hell, it's time you had some time alone. IfyaknowwhatImean!!!

My Nomad Years

Austin to New York - I'd lived in Austin long enough to know that if I didn't leave right then, I'd never do it; I'd be working at the video store for the rest of my life, drinking all the time, hiding it from my close friends (I was more intimate with breath mints than I was with my girlfriend), and trying to talk loud enough to be heard above the swirling, sucking sound of my life going down the drain. So I decided to finish up my schooling in New York. Sure, why not... I'd never lived farther than a couple of hours away from home, but hey, I was a street-smart kid who knew a thing or two about a thing or two. The Big Apple could suck it; I was about to show up and blow up and soon it would call me, "Master." So I went to a bunch of Bon Voyage parties, left a girl crying in an apartment complex parking lot thirty minutes before her shift waiting tables at an Italian restaurant, and I took off to New York, New York, because I'd already made it just anywhere... it was time to make it there. I arrived at La Guardia on a Tuesday night with two giant suitcases, an overstuffed duffel bag, my laptop in a leather satchel, and the sudden realization that I had no idea what I was doing. It was like trying to watch a movie with the VCR stuck on fast-forward; everyone zipped around me, told me to get out of the way, to hurry up, to watch where I was going... I started hyperventilating like a soldier about to storm an enemy bunker... I was sweating like a linebacker in a sauna... I was scared. Very scared. I was also the Webster's dictionary definition of "Fresh Meat." My taxi fare from LGA to my hotel in the East Village... 80$. That, for those of you not from the area, is an anal raping worthy of only the finest, most secluded prison showers. When I finally got to my room (at the Seafarers International Hostel on the corner of 15th street and Gross), which was smaller than most tanning beds and as fragrant as a homeless man's socks, I lay down on the bed and stared at the ceiling and couldn't breath and couldn't think and couldn't do anything whatsoever for about an hour. Then I got up and headed out to walk around for a bit, hoping to clear my head. The first thing I saw when I got to the corner was two taxis run into each other, followed immediately by the cab drivers, having emerged from their damaged vehicles, fist-fighting in the middle of the street. I went back to my room and cried and cried and cried until, eventually, I decided to stop.

New York to Arlington - Film school was over. Typically, I'd wasted the experience; sure, I went to class and I crewed on film shoots and I even bothered to shoot a couple of my own films (they weren't very good), but rarely was my whole heart or mind ever really into it. Let me put it to you this way... I started most mornings by drinking beer in the shower, and on the days that I didn't drink beer in the shower, I drank vodka in the shower. The less said about those days, the better. But anyway, film school was over and it was time for me to do... something. Get a job, maybe, or at least an apartment in Brooklyn. But I couldn't. Because, typically again, I was broke. Rather than spend the next couple of months surfing friend's couches and digging myself deeper and deeper into a shame hole with a sadness shovel, I decided to swallow hard, bite whatever bullets were available, and move home. In the end, it wasn't all bad... I love my family and they (for reasons unexplained) love me back. But still, moving from a place like New York to a place like Arlington, Texas... it was like switching from whole milk to skim; you're used to the richness, the fattiness, and then suddenly you're drinking what amounts to grey water and you're thinking, "Wow, I used to live here? Really?"

Arlington to Los Angeles - Otherwise known as the You're-Making-a-Giant-Mistake Tour Across America. My stepmother, kind and benevolent lady that she is, gave me her car so that I wouldn't have to suffer through the indignities and humiliations of the LA public transportation system. This, of course, meant that to get to LA, I would have to drive. This wouldn't have been a problem (I dig road trips), save for the fact that this car was a Standard and I was an Automatic kind of guy. My father elected to make the trip with me, seeing as how I couldn't as yet operate the vehicle, intending to teach me the mysterious arts of gear-shifting and clutch finesse as we went along. That didn't so much happen. What I mean is, he certainly put forth a yeoman's effort towards getting my slow brain and uncoordinated self to master his instructions; that I learned almost nothing during the course of our trip was my fault entirely. So this was my introduction to LA... I'd just dropped my father off at LAX, and now I had to drive this car... this confounding machine that wouldn't just fucking drive, dammit... the fifteen miles back to my newly acquired apartment. In rush hour traffic. While only barely, barely knowing what I was doing. That trip from the airport to my house took at least five years off of my life and thinking about it now makes my stomach hurt like I've got a tapeworm. My father has since told me that he, as he took his seat on the plane, felt like he'd never see his son alive again. His prophecy nearly came true at least five times, by my count.

Los Angeles to New York - I knew after about a month that having moved to Los Angeles was a fuck-up on my part similar to the White House staff letting Kennedy ride in a convertible through downtown Dallas. I hated everything about LA and I wanted to leave, sooner rather than later. New York was where I wanted to be and the fact that I didn't move back there immediately after my time at home will forever remain the biggest boneheaded move I'll ever make in a lifetime of boneheaded moves. So for six months, I saved all the money I made waiting tables at an Outback Steakhouse, thinking only about a single word: Escape. Finally, I was ready to split. My father, once again, offered to drive from California to Texas with me (where I would then, after a couple of R&R days, catch a plane to NYC). Now, I'm not sure where the idea of driving from LA to Dallas in one straight shot came from... we hadn't done it that way on the previous trip, and we weren't in any particular hurry... but nonetheless, we concluded that a 22-hour marathon ride was the way it should be. So I picked my father up at the very airport where I'd left him fearing for his son's life six months earlier, and then we hit the highway, middle fingers extended as we exited LA county. The original plan had been to switch off driving duties every couple of hours; the original plan got chucked, however, as my father ended up punking out on me because he was too sleepy to drive. Of the 22 hours on the road, I ended up driving 19. That, kids, is a looooooong time behind the wheel, any way you slice it. Fortunately, I'd been smart enough to stop by the local CostCo and pick up a case of Rock Star energy drinks. During the course of my 19 hours of road time, I drank fourteen of them. By the time we rolled into Tarrant County (home, in other words), I was shaking, rattling, and rolling like a 50's rock song, all while cursing my father up one side and down the other for not holding up his end of the bargain (once I got some sleep, I forgave him... begrudgingly). A few days after that, I flew back to New York, thus bringing my Nomad years to a comfortable, finally-home close.

It's going to take fucking dynamite to get me to move again.

Dracula Says...

Hicksploitation At It's Finest

While flipping through the channels last night, searching for some post-Idol entertainment, we stumbled across what has become the hot, new TV show at the C-dog/Girlfriend house. Kids, I give you CMT's instant classic... My Big Redneck Wedding, quite possibly the worst, best program ever. That's right, worst AND best. Bad and good, awful and amazing, repellent and... uh... pellent, I guess. Both sides of the coin living together in harmony in a double-wide trailer out by the dump.

See, it's a reality show about rednecks having weddings and, yes, it's exactly as wonderfully train-wrecky as it sounds. Maybe it's because I'm from the South, maybe it's because the farther branches of my family tree are watching this and going, "Shoot, that there's elegant," but whatever the reason, I, and Girlfriend as well, are totally hooked.
Let me give you a little taste of what we witnessed during our two-hour marathon viewing of back-to-back episodes; I'm not making any of this up...

The Sights and Sounds of My Big Redneck Wedding

-A lighted archway decorated with beer cans
-Three weddings held in cow pastures
-One wedding held in a bowling alley
-Weddings featuring mud wrestling
-Weddings featuring pig-catching contests
-Weddings featuring "mattress surfing" (which, incidentally, looks like crazy fun)
-Multiple 4-wheelers
-Tom Arnold
-Flowers displayed in beer cans
-Guns, guns, guns
-Also, more guns
-Port-A-Potties
-Camouflage groomsmen outfits
-Camouflage bridesmaids outfits
-A camouflage wedding dress
-Horrifying dental situations (including a bride who *loses her teeth* on the Big Day)
-Skinny men with obese wives
-Hog hunting

The list goes on. But I'm not doing it justice... this is something you're just going to have to witness for yourselves. So check your local listings and get ready to laugh your ass off at the expense of backwoods people who are irrationally proud of living below the poverty line.

It's the American dream, gone sour!!!

A Long Time Ago, In An Old-Timey Galaxy Far, Far Away, or, "Silent Star Wars"

NOTE: Combining silent movies with Star Wars is so fucking smart, it makes Spelling Bee champs looks like kids that eat paste. Bravo, YouTube user Neonstz... you've blinded me with your totally awesome science.

2ND NOTE: Does anyone know how I can get that music to play in the atmosphere as I walk around the city? Because that would be just my kind of HILAROUS!!!

It Came From Chinatown...

Last week, after trying and failing to consume the Dried Lily Flowers Of Unimaginable Sorrow, I made an off-hand remark about how "it couldn't possibly get any worse than this." All of you quite naturally expected me to eat those hubristic words, along with something foul and musty, possibly with it's eyes still attached. Girlfriend, too, went out of her way to make sure something special (gruesome) was in store. Folks, I give you... Pure Aromatic Fish:



And a close up:



It's a little hard to make out, but yes, it's a jar full of tiny, fried fish... whole fish, heads and all... in some sort of oil that has been spiked with chili flakes. Hundreds of them, all dead, yet somehow still squirming around like something found in a crater on Mars. We dumped a few out on a plate so you can get a better look:



My first thought was, "Wow, that liquid looks an awful lot like the kind of pee you get when you've been drinking all night and dehydration has set in, but greasy." My second thought was, "I'm so fucked, I should be charging $29.99 for access to this website." At this point, while staring down a plate of small, dead fish, I began to reflect on my life. Specifically, I started to mull over all the things that have happened... all the mistakes I've made, all the opportunities I've missed, all the roads I did not take... that brought me this point. This is what happens when you don't study, kids; you end up eating gross things on the internet for other people's entertainment. I sighed heavily and plucked a single fish from the pile. I hesitantly lowered it into my mouth (which, incidentally, at this point thinks I hate it):



It was slimy from the oil, slightly spicy from the chili flakes, crunchy because of the bones, and... hey... not that bad!!! I mean, it wasn't something I'd snack on while watching a baseball game or anything, but considering the horror show of foods that have come before it, and considering the fact that I'd pretty much resigned my tongue to a Pele-style bicycle-kicking of nastiness... you know what... Pure Aromatic Fish are pretty okay! Here's the look on my face immediately after ingestion:

Apparently, that's what a mixture of shock, confusion, wildly surpassed expectations, and "ew, it's still a little too fishy for my taste" looks like. After downing one of the little guys all by his lonesome, I decided to eat a whole spoonful, just to experience the texture and the flavor with their volumes turned up all the way:

Again... not too bad. I didn't go back for thirds or anything, but they were definitely edible. Which is more than I can say for any of the other products I've tried as a part of ICFC. My final verdict:

Keep in mind, the thumbs-up doesn't constitute an endorsement. It just means that I didn't feel like throwing up and/or downing a few shots of Everclear to erase my memory of the event. But in the landscape of this project, that's what we call a qualified victory. I will never, ever get off this easy again.

See y'all next time!!!

Worth Your Valuable Time

NOTE: MAJOR PLOT SPOILERS IN THE COMMENTS; CHECK THEM AT YOUR OWN PERIL

I'm sure I've mentioned this really irritating personality quirk of mine before, but... well... I'm going to bring it up again because it pertains to this post and this is my blog and you're not my real dad. And so on.

Anyway, so I've got this really irritating personality quirk and it's basically this: If you tell me about your favorite book/song/movie/TV show/piece of Roman-inspired architecture, and you tell me about how much you love it and how it's changed your life, etc., then I will immediately and irrationally hate it. Why? Don't know... I've always attributed it to me being a horrible snob who dislikes other people being happy because I'm incapable of feeling joy. There might be other factors as well, but I'm not sure. Being like this sucks, and it makes people not like me, but most of all it keeps me from reading/listening/watching/whatever-you-do-with-architectureing really wonderful things. I like wonderful things, after all, and having my own weirdness get in the way of my enjoyment of them is lame-o.

So, I bring this up because I finally got over myself long enough to read a book that Girlfriend loves and has been recommending to me for the entire two and a half years that I've known her: "The Perks of Being a Wallflower."

NOTE: You probably guessed that from the picture up top. Whatever.

As is usually the case after I've been snotty about something, I ended up loving this book. Like, loving it. If it were a co-worker, I'd be fired for trying to give it a massage and softly whispering that it "smelled like sexy fruit."

I don't want to give away too much of the plot... it's better that you discover it on your own, like I did... but just know that it's about a shy, bookish kid entering his Freshman year in high school, and it fucking nails exactly what that epic lifestyle upheaval feels like. Everything is there... the making friends, the experimenting with illicit substances, the parties, etc. But that's not all there is to it... nope, it goes much, much deeper than that; there's so much more than meets the eye, it's practically a Autobot.

Seriously, kids, this book knocked ol' C-dog on his ass. And not just with the story; the prose is unfussy, unpretentious, and more cinematic than most actual films. It's just... fuck, man...

Okay, I'm going to stop before I oversell it. Talking too effusively is going to turn you off, and I don't want you to be turned off to this book. So just read it. But only do so if you like books that make you go, "Wow."

You won't be disappointed.

A Bit About The Oscars, Then We Can All Get On With Our Lives

-If I had to sum up last night's Oscar ceremony in one word, it would be this: Dull. Not entirely, but mostly, and if something is mostly dull with only a few sparky bits of life to liven things up... well, then... yeah, it's pretty much just dull. Don't get me wrong, I thought Jon Stewart did a great job with his hosting duties; I'll bet you good money that he'll own this gig for the next few years. Seriously, who are they going to find that's better? Steve Martin was the only other host of the last decade that I liked as much or better, and he's already said that once was enough for him. Anyway, what I'm trying to say is that even though the show was dull, it certainly wasn't for a lack of trying on Stewart's part. Gaydolph Titler will forever live on in my heart.

-So why was it dull? I dunno. There just wasn't anything really exciting going on. Of the six big awards given out, two were virtual locks (Javier Bardem and Daniel Day-Lewis), two were not quite locks, but close (No Country For Old Men winning Best Picture and Best Director), and the one race that was actually that... a race... didn't contain a single performance that anyone was particularly passionate about (Best Supporting Actress). Which is not to say that they were bad performances; not at all. There just wasn't, say, a Jennifer Hudson in Dreamgirls this year. So five-out-of-six of the bigs were snoozeworthy. That last category, the Best Actress award, provided the only upset of the night; everyone had pegged Julie Christie to win, but she got shanked for the pretty French girl. Who, by the way, gave a truly touching acceptance speech. What's with those flighty, Gallic ladies and the being so adorable all the time? Are they running for President of I Love You? But yeah... no big shocks, or drama, or much of anything.

-Oh, and speaking of... all the acting prizes this year went to foreigners. Um, maybe it's time to close up those borders, folks. Just saying, first they take our jobs as busboys, and maids, and strawberry pickers, and janitors, and then they come along and give soulful, moving performances in our films in an effort to shore up all our awards-season hardware. Pretty soon, we'll have snooty Brits dudes, hot French chicks, and swarthy Spanish hunks running our country and we'll be sitting on our hands going, "Yeah, but he was really good in that one movie. And she's soooooo talented." Think about it, people; I know I will.

NOTE: I should mention that I would not be opposed to an Oscar win by Foreigner.

-Is it just me, or does Diablo Cody look completely different every time she appears in public? Like, she never looks how I remember her as looking. I think there's actually a few different people playing her and this whole year is going to end being a prank on Jackass or something. To tell you the truth, I'm not entirely convinced that this Juno movie actually exists. I mean, I haven't seen it, so what does that tell you?

-I was totally stoked that the song from Once won, but c'mon... the other songs that it was nominated against were terrible. Like, really bad. Particularly the one that Amy Adams was forced to sing there at the beginning. And believe me... she was forced. I'm pretty sure I saw her trying to blink out "help me" in Morse code with her eyes.

-And... yeah... I guess that's it. No one wore anything totally stupid, nobody called any political leader a motherfucker, nobody was visibly drunk (okay, maybe Harrison Ford...), nobody got totally robbed. All in all, it was a very whatever year. I will say this, though: I'm pleased that the one movie that I saw from the five nominated for Best Picture was the one that won. It makes me feel like I chose wisely with my entertainment dollar.

-This isn't Oscar-related, but Blogger's spell check function is working again!!! I'd like to thank the Academy, my director, Girlfriend (who never needs spell check), and of course, my parents...

Extremely Accurate Oscar Predictions

Update: All my predictions were correct, even if they weren't. I'm just that good. I dedicate this post to the memory of Gaydolph Titler... we hardly knew ye, good sir.

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NOTE: I know everything. Which I know you already know. Because, as I said, I know everything.

AND THE WINNERS ARE...

Best Original Screenplay: Whichever script qualifies as "quirky," but not like threatening-quirky, where it could possibly rip apart the fabric of our country with it's new ideas and questions. No, just regular, plain ol', talk-funny-with-the-hip-slang quirky.

Best Adapted Screenplay: Whichever script is adapted from a source material that people already like. In this year's case, it will be The DaVinci Code or possibly one of the Harry Potter movies. If by chance those somehow were not nominated, then the award will be given to whichever writer used the most big words in an hour and a half (as is the custom of this catagory).

Best Supporting Actress: Whomever played the prostitute, or the role closest to the prostitute ideal will take home the gold. So it's probably not going to be the thirteen year old chick. Probably. I haven't seen the movie, so I don't know if she did dudes for money in that one. Probably not though, right?

Best Supporting Actor: Whomever was wackiest in the most pleasing manner. Barring that, it will be whomever is oldest, or whomever scared the Academy so badly that they will let him win so he won't kill them. This automatically excludes Casey Affleck, as he is nineteen and even the Care Bears thinks he's a giant pussy.

Best Actress: This is a tough race to call, because this award usually goes to the prettiest girl who wore a lot of make-up to make herself look ugly. That didn't really happen this year. So, by default, it will go to the prettiest girl. Period. That would be Ellen Page, who is the youngest, and therefore the most attractive, as it is written in the teachings of Jesus.

Best Actor: Daniel Day-Lewis.

Best Director: Is there anyone here who's had a long, distinguished career and has yet to win an Oscar, even though he continues to crank out quality work? No? He won last year? Wow. Well, fuck, then I don't know. Coen is a Jewish name right? Well, then they'll win.

Best Picture: The best movie of 2007 was Transformers, and it's not even nominated in this catagory. Yet again, the Academy fucks over the deserving in it's blind efforts to reward movies that clearly, clearly, do not contain transforming robots from space. The Oscars are a joke and this is the proof.

Girlfriend Takes A Test

So, in about an hour, Girlfriend is taking the last, big test for her Master's degree in Education. It's one of those miserable, mean, all-day type of affairs; it starts at 7:30am and lasts potentially until 5pm, which I really feel is something that should be looked into by Amnesty International, or at least Jesse Jackson.

Anyway, if you feel like doing me a solid, please feel free to beam good thoughts and positive vibes up into the atmosphere in the direction of Brooklyn (if you're good at aiming your thoughts and vibes, try shooting for the Coney Island part of town). I would certainly appreciate it, although I should mention that she probably doesn't actually *need* any help... she's so going to kick it's ass, the test is thinking about carrying Mace.

Thanks, kids. Now... back to sleep! For I am the lazy one in the relationship. It's a burden, true, but it's one I suffer through bravely.

I Don't Feel Like I Do Enough Shark-Related Posts Around Here

I'm sure I've got the "zombie" part pretty well covered, but sharks... it's looking a little light, let me tell ya. So, since it's Friday and Friday's are traditionally about burning off work hours on the road to five o' clock with meaningless crap, here's...

A SHARK POST

Hey, look it's that part in Jaws when Quint gets eaten!!! Isn't that exciting? See what amazing things one can find with the power of Google and a will to search brought on by an over-caffeinated fog of boredom? The wonders of modern life, huh? They really makes you think.

Hmmmm...

So... yeah... anyone got big weekend plans... or... what... I was thinking about maybe finally checking out that There Will Be Blood, but really only because I want to use that "I drink your milkshake" line, but I'd feel like a silly poser doing so without having actually caught the flick. Oh, also, blah blah Oscar blah blah Daniel Day-Lewis blah blah. But mostly it's because that line cracks me up.

Anyway... oh, right... sharks! They're scary.

Friday Morning Hodgepodge

On the subway this morning, I happened to glance down at myself and I realized that I'm the Captain of the Goodship Gross-Nasty. The hoodie that I wore today has like three mystery stains on it, there's also some cat hair issues, and I'd be lying if I said it didn't smell a little funky. I've made jokes on this site before about how funny it is that I dress like a shabby hobo, or oh ha ha I look like a refugee but, you know, seriously, I think I might actually be a homeless person that somehow missed his calling. Don't get me wrong, I'm glad I didn't follow that path it's logical conclusion... I'm not really an outdoors-y person... but there are times when I think it might be better for everyone if I gave up working in an office and living in an apartment and just took up residence on street corner with a change cup and a permenant scowl. It would be what my high school guidance counselor would call "achieving my potential."

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I try to keep things positive on ZFS! because I'm not really an angry person and, besides, a lot of other bloggers out there do the negative, cranky schtick already and I don't think I really have anything to add to that particular subset of the internet. That being said, there is one thing that I would like to publicly come out against; it's time somebody said something and I guess that somebody has to be me. Here it is: You know dreadlocks? They suck. Like, for real. They're just ugly and I hate them so much, I might have a stroke. Let me give you a for instance. On American Idol this season, there's this one kid who's handsome, has a great voice, and will probably do really well on the show... except for the fact that he has fucking gnarly dreads. Check it out, here's Jason Castro. See what I mean? He looks like the top of his head was replaced by a Play-Doh Fun Factory but for turds. So yeah, people, enough with the dreadlocks. You're giving literal meaning to the term "shithead."

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That picture up in the corner there doesn't really have anything to do with anything. I just really like gay cowboys. Maybe a little too much, actually. Like, I think the gay cowboys of the world are a little creeped out because I keep showing up at their gay rodeos. It must be their hats.

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Before I moved to New York, I had this image in my head of the weather here always being grey, snowy and cold. Not sure where this came from (probably the movies, which is also where I got the idea that love conquers all and you can wipe out aliens with computer viruses), but nonetheless, when I thought about this city, I always thought about it as a winter wonderland. So days like today are nice for me, at least from a ideological-fulfillment perspective. I'll grant you that it's less nice when I get dirty snow in my shoe and my sock is wet for the rest of the day. That's no funskies.

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I'm wearing this sweater that my father bought me for Christmas and I'm still, two months later, not sure that I'm entirely on board with it. It's not a bad sweater, don't get me wrong; it's very comfortable and warm and good for days like today. It's just... I don't know... it's very "Dad-ish." It's black, with these big, light grey, dark grey, and black diamonds on it, which are accented by these smaller purple diamonds. It's not Cosby-sweater bad, but it's definitely in the same ballpark. Something Dr. Huxtable would wear if he decided to dial it down a notch, maybe. Girlfriend says that maybe I should just tell people that I'm wearing it ironically, but I honestly don't think it's bad enough to where irony is a factor. But it's also not good enough to be all that stylish. It's like the metephysical idea of Limbo made corporeal in soft cotton. Anyway, it's weird, but also kinda snuggly.

Deadliest. Engagement Ring. Ever.

Some dude named Tobias Wong has designed and created a line of wedding rings (such as the one above) that all have the diamond displayed in as lethal a manner as possible. That tip there... yeah, it's razor sharp. Why do this? Why give the one you love a weapon that she could easily use to puncture your trachea during a heated argument about who's turn it is to clean the toilet? Seems like... oh, I don't know... not the best idea. Which is a conclusion you'll probably come to your own self as you're watching your arterial blood arc across the room and the lights are going dim and your suddenly surrounded by your dead relatives.

Anyway, if you buy this ring, you should get a hand gun complimentary with your purchase. Just so you can defend yourself, if it comes to that.

Story via Geekologie

Movie Poster A Go-Go

Quantum Of Solace



Because Casino Royale was such a punch in the mouth, but in a good way, I'm totally stoked to see what they can do with their second go-around. Daniel Craig is the best Bond since Connery and it just seems like they've really got all their shit in one sack, so to speak, with regards to relaunching the whole series. No problems there; looking forward to it. However, I do take issue with this poster. Seriously, enough with the "teaser" concept. I mean what do we really have here... a desert floor and a shadow? Yes, the shadow is James Bond (or a production intern in a suit) and yes, James Bond is holding a fairly wicked looking gun (or the production intern is holding a fairly wicked gun), but does that tell us anything about the movie? Does it whet our appetites? No, and not really. It's kind of like a girl trying to turn you on by sneaking you a peek at her ankle. It's a nice gesture, but frankly, it's just not enough. Shoulder blades, at least (so we can subconsciously start thinking about massages), or we'll just wait until you're naked, thanks. Also, and again, I'm sure they know what they're doing, but the title? Quantum of Solace? I'm going to write the word "Oooookay" on a piece of paper, place it in a bottle, and hurl it into the stormy waters of What-The-Fuck Bay.

Street Kings



This poster is trying to rock that whole splattery, thug-life, LA graffiti thing that was probably never even popular with gang members (I'd bet anything that it was created by a marketing research team trying to "redefine edgy"), but I don't really even care about that. What's interesting about this poster is at the very top... what's up with that cast list? They've got everything from an Oscar winner all the way down to a guy who once said, "Thinkin 'bout beads and titties as I roll through the city" in a rap song. Not to mention Hugh Laurie, whom I can only assume is in this because he got lost on the way to the House set one day and they just decided to film him because he's awesomeness times bad-ass to the fourth power. What did everyone talk about on the set? What was the cast party like? Hollywood is so fucking weird sometimes.

Leatherheads



This makes me smile. George Clooney? Love him. John Krasinski? Want to cuddle with him. Old timey sports? Always funny. A bunch of muddy guys glaring at the camera like they're about to tackle a 400-pound guy named Otto? Hey man... that's solid gold melted down and molded into a dart that's being used to hit the bullseye of my pleasure center over and over and over again. Which sounds a lot dirtier than I meant it. Actually, we are talking about George Clooney here. He can hit my bullseye all he wants, ifyaknowwhatImean!!! How do you ladies stand him, for reals? I'm a straight dude and he makes me want to float away on a cloud of cartoon hearts. If I had a vagina, the horniness would make me rip someone's head off.

The Love Guru



What the fuck happened to Mike Myers. Remember Wayne's World? So I Married An Ax Murderer? The first Austin Powers, before the series took a turn onto a sad stretch of road populated by fat suits, catchphrases, and Beyonce before she took her Dreamgirls acting lessons? What I mean is, homeboy used to be funny as shit. Now he's just kinda shitty. I think doing Cat in the Hat broke something inside of him and now he's incapable of getting it up, comedically-speaking. Also "his karma is huge" just might be the lamest excuse for a dick joke the world has ever seen. And I include Rudy Giuliani's presidential bid in that statement. HI-OH!!!

Sorry, that didn't make sense. I don't really do topical humor.

Arthur et la Vengeance de Maltazard

Holy shit!!! What this fuck is that thing? Is Hollywood recieving movies from other planets now? Fucking aliens all standing around flashing the peace sign like we're going to fall for that. We would be like, "Oh, they're peaceful; they put out movies, so they can't be all bad." And then they drop the hammer, but on a galactic level. Oh, and you know who else made movies? Hitler. So yeah... you see my point now. Stop watching the skies, people! The invasion begins at the multiplex!!!

UPDATE: Okay, so apparently this is just some movie from France. Still though, when did they start making monster movies? They're supposed to crank out flicks like Amelie that are all sweet and light and shove adorable whimsy so far up our asses that we vomit up a sunbeam called "love." Somebody get on the horn and tell them that we'll handle the creature features. They can keep romance all to themeselves.

A Project Just For You

UPDATE: I just noticed that the original post I had here was terrible, so I decided to delete it. I kept the video though, because the video is still awesome.

Notes On A Concert

NOTE: Last night, thanks to the benevolent Cheese who happened to have an extra ticket, I got the opportunity to see Foo Fighters in concert at Madison Square Garden. Herewith, my notes on the experience, presented to you in a convenient bullet-point format.

2ND NOTE: Why yes, "convenient bullet-point format" means "I had a lousy night's sleep and am consequently so exhausted that I'm incapable of writing in paragraphs that flow together like a river of coherent thought." Thanks for asking!

-Madison Square Garden is large. Like, I bet there were at least a hundred people there. Or, like, maybe there were 50,000,000 people there. I'm not sure. When the other kids were learning to count, I was out in the fields helping my family bring in the harvest. Our crop? YOUR MOM!!! *snap*

-It was a night of firsts. In my five years of living in New York, I'd somehow never been to see a concert or a sporting event or a boat show at Madison Square Garden. Also, I'd never had the pleasure of seeing Foo Fighters live before, despite the fact that they've long been a fixture in the landscape of my musical enjoyment. Trying new things is my anti-drug! My anti-drug used to be heroin, but then somebody spray-painted the words "you're missing the point" on my front door and I slapped my forhead and went "doye." And that's how the idea of going to concerts was born.

-"A fixture in the landscape of my musical enjoyment?" Man, well-rested, quality writer C-dog is going to kick my ass when he reads that. If only there was a hot beverage, possibly from Colombia, that could wake me up and also taste delicious... oh, to live in such a magical, wonderful world.

-Would anyone like to hear an example of how I'm gigantic dork? You would? Excellent, here goes... please note that admitting this is painful for me, but I do so in an effort to maintain a level of complete honesty here at ZFS!... okay, so at the concert last night, there were people smoking cigarettes and it was fucking killing my allergies. Like, I was thinking about going around to the people who were obliviously puffing away and forcing them to look at my red, puffy eyes until they felt such a surge of shame that they had no choice but to throw themselves off the balcony and into the mosh pit below where they'd be ground up like Steve Buscemi at the end of Fargo. But I didn't do that. Because I'm a gigantic dork who is allergic to smoke. We bruise easily.

-They played an epic version of "Everlong." They also did an absolutely ball-smashing take on "Monkeywrench." They also played some stuff off their new album, which was a lot like Dave Grohl saying "hey now's the time to go to the bathroom, everybody." And so they did, which made me kind of sad for Dave Grohl. But then I remembered that he's a millionaire rock star who was one third of the most influential band of my lifetime. So he's probably fine.

-Speaking of which, I've now seen a member of Nirvana play live. How cool is that? I just need to catch whatever weirdo band Krist Novoselic is playing in these days (when he's not farting around in Washington state politics), and then I'll be as close as one can get to the total Nirvana experience without having to put a deposit down on a backhoe.

-Our seats were in the last row, all the way at the top, next to the bathrooms. I didn't really mind it so much (because I didn't pay for the tickets), but it was weird to be at a packed, frenetic rock show and still be able to carry on a conversation with the person next to me without shouting.

-We went to this bar last night before the show and, thus, for dinner I had a basket of cheese fries and a few beers. Unbeknownst to me, this created kind of a Perfect Storm in my guts. So this morning, I took a dump so large and weighty, I think I've technically given birth. Even worse? It was a cesarean.

-I'll leave you with that image. Enjoy having that rattling around in your head all day, my lovlies!

It Came From Chinatown...

After last weeks nauseating encouter with the Satay Jellyfish of Doom, folks, honestly, I was hoping for some sort of a break. Not from the ICFC adventure as a whole, of course... don't be silly... but maybe, you know, maybe this week I could have a product that didn't make me want to individually rip out my tastebuds with tweezers and set them on fire. I don't think that's too much to ask. And, apparently, neither did Girlfriend. She felt a bit bad about subjecting me to the bouquet of sticky, stinky dried invertebrate pieces and, thus, went out of her way to look for something that was perhaps a bit more bland and non-threatening.

That... um... didn't quite happen, in much the same way that Bonnie and Clyde didn't quite get out of the way of all those bullets. Ladies and gents, I give you... Dried Lilly Flowers



Could I be more cocky? I'm thinking, "Pshaw... they're just a bunch of dried flowers. They probably taste like herbs or maybe some sort of plant, and that's if they taste of anything at all. I laugh at them! They are weak and I am mighty!" Yes, I really do think in complete, haughty sentences like that. What of it? Here's a closer look at the package:



Commenter J (our language guy), does that really say "dried lily flowers," or does it actually say "slices of what your own death tastes like?" Here's another picture of them, unleashed:



The cockiness started to subside as soon as the package was opened, or, more accurately, as soon as I caught a whiff of the dried lily flower's stink. Bad, kids... bad. Like something old and musty that you would find in the attic of a haunted house. Something that more than likely carries with it a horrible curse, damning all who possess it to a lifetime of misery, woe, and a really funky taste in their mouth. Here's me attempting to use the dried lily flowers as a moustache disguise in an effort to avoid actually eating them:



Actually, I'm just smelling the little bastards, trying to figure out if that odor was coming from them, or if a Cthulhu had just entered the room. I put them in my mouth:



Sweet baby Jesus, I am not a talented enough writer to accurately express to you how bad it was:

They're chewy, almost raisin-y, and they taste like an unholy combination of sweaty feet and rotten fruit. I never thought I'd say this, but they were worse... worse... than the Satay Jellyfish. By a country fucking mile. So bad that my throat closed up and I had to spit them out; it was like my stomach took over for my brain and refused to allow these hateful nuggets of sorrow down my gullet. It was the gustatory equivilent of watching your family get slaughtered by a rampaging horde of zombie clowns. Every color in the spectrum of awful was represented and it hurt me... it hurt me real bad:

Now, to be fair, and to satisfy my own curiosity that I hadn't just eaten, you know, poison... I Googled up "dried lily flowers" to see just for what in the name of all that is good and decent these were actually used for. It turns out... and not that this excuses them... but it turns out that I kinda sorta ate them wrong. As it happens, you're supposed to let these soak in warm water for a half hour before you do anything with them, and even then you don't just eat them like soggy chips out of the bag. You're supposed to chop the dried lily flowers up and put them in a soup, or add them to a stir-fry dish with a million other things. They're a flavoring, not a snack. Again, that doesn't make it right; we don't forgive a serial killer for murdering a bunch of hookers just because he once got fucked by his stepdad. Trust me, it's the same thing.

Anyway, Girlfriend apologized for inadvertently subjecting me to these ass blosoms, but I told her that she was entirely blameless. This is just the sort of thing that happens in the unpredictable world of ICFC... it's Chinatown, in other, more famous words. Still, though, that doesn't mean I'm going to take this shit lying down:

Yep. That showed 'em. Motherfucking stench weeds. Dude, I hope next week has a happier ending. Truthfully, though, it has to. It cannot possibly get any worse than this.

(I just jinxed myself; the next item I eat will now actually make my head explode)

Happy President's Day

NOTE: Spending my day off like Hard Drinkin' Lincoln, here. Hope everyone else is doing the same. And if you are at work today, make sure to report your boss to Homeland Security. He or she is obviously a freedom-hating member of Al Qaeda.

I cannot tell a lie... I'M HAMMERED!!!

The Bacon Chocolate Bar Update

We finally cracked into the Vosges Bacon Chocolate bar that I got Girlfriend for Valentine's Day (look below for the full story if you haven't read it already). Herewith, a brief review...

NOTE: It's one of those foods that you can only describe in snobby terms, so please bear with me.

The first thing you taste is the chocolate, which is milky and of high quality. Then there's a smokiness that is released as the chocolate begins to melt in your mouth. You can definitely taste the bacon in it, but it's not an overwhelming, porky taste... it's more woody and earthy, the salt (there's also sea salt in the bar) and the smoke blending together nicely in the back of the throat. The bacon itself wasn't in strips, as the packaging would suggest; it's mixed into the chocolate in little crumbles, almost like slightly chewy bacon bits. Also, I was surprised at how rich the bar was; Girlfriend and I each ate one square (about the size of an air mail stamp) and that was quite enough for one sitting. Rest assured, however, that we will be finishing it soon.

So there you go. The final verdict: Very Tasty

The Trevor

Last night, I found myself in a dubious Korean-run karaoke bar on the fifth floor of an office building in midtown Manhattan (as one is wont to do). The place itself was fairly unmemorable; if you've been in one establishment of it's kind before, you truly have been in them all, although I do give them bonus sleaze points for selling beer on the sly in an effort to skirt NYC's pesky and byzantine liquor-license laws. But that's okay. Because therein was a perfect example of a brilliant party fixture just waiting to be rediscovered; one I hadn't seen in quite a while...

As we were being shown to our room, I decided that a pit stop was in order. I opened the door to the men's room and it was then that I came face to face with a fixture of any scene where alcohol plays a larger-than-average role... I was in the presence of a "Trevor."

You've seen them before. They're young; a few years shy of the legal drinking age, at least. They're dressed like they're going to a JV football banquet; striped polo shirt (tucked in), jeans with a belt, pukka shell necklace that their "cool" older brother brought back for them as a souvenier from his trip to Cabo, fitted baseball cap, expensive shoes. They're drunk beyond all rational comprehension; they've only ever had a few beers at a time before, they don't know their own limit, and even if they did it wouldn't matter, seeing as how they sprinted past that particular line hours ago. They're away from home for the first time; freshman year at NYU is just so wicked awesome, dontcha know. They are named Trevor, even if they're not; Caleb, Drew, Blake, Eli, The Brodie-meister, it doesn't matter... in the eyes of the world, they are...shouted to the heavens, the stuff of legends... TREVOR: THE DRUNK KID IN THE BAR BATHROOM!!!

My Trevor had his head in the sink and his feet on the floor, his body bent nintey degrees at the waist. He had vomited very recently (the whole bathroom stunk of it) and just before the blackout hit him, he'd managed to turn on the cold water; it was running down the side of his face at full blast. He did not move for the duration of my pee, and when I left, there he remained. And so he did for the two subsequent times that I visited the men's room; on my final visit, he was joined there by another, slightly-less inebriated Trevor, who was urging him to arise, to awake; it was time for the Trevors to depart.

"Dude, we gotta... like... go. Dude... dude... hey, dude... are you okay... dude?"

My Trevor mumbled something in response and he managed to stand up straight and I could tell by looking into his eyes that he was drowning in very cheap beer. His tomorrow would come bearing the worst hangover of his life and he would pray for death.

But that's okay; such is the life of a Trevor. We wouldn't have it... or them... any other way. Because, and you know this much is true, the Trevors are hilarious! Fuck, I wish you could have seen this kid!!! All sleeping in the sink with puke on his pants.

God love ya, Trevor. You and your kind make nights out amazing.

NOTE: Enjoy the long weekend, suckas. I sure as shit will. Limited posting until Tuesday, unless I get bored. Then all bets are off.

Love Bacon

As I've said in the past, I'm not a big fan of using this blog for public displays of the gloopy affection that Girlfriend and I feel for each other. I'm convinced that no one wants to read about how happy another couple is and I'm sure you'll all agree that that's the truth. So, bearing that in mind, I'm just going to present some evidence to you and let you draw your own conclusions as to the emotions, saccharine or otherwise, behind them.

For Valentine's Day, Girlfriend and I decided to keep things mellow. She had grad school class last night anyway, so it wasn't like we could go out to dinner, and besides, we're both aware that Valentine's Day is is a sham perpetrated on the general public by the greeting card companies and chocolate makers of the world. Not to mention the fact that money's tight; I'd love to buy her a snazzy pair of solid gold pants, say, or a private, heart-shaped island in the Caribbean where they've got Pina Colodas on tap and a cable network that runs the Travel Channel's Cash & Treasures show (her favorite) on a 24-hour loop but... alas... I am, as the French say, le broke ass.

My point is, for Valentine's Day this year, we decided it would be fun to just get each other some sort of funky, unusual candy. No Snickers, no Reese's Peanut Butter Cups, No Skittles, nothing you could find readily available in a Rite-Aid... we're looking for the fringes of the confectionery world here; hit me with your best, weirdest shot. So we headed off to find the oddest treats we could, completely unaware of what the other was buying.

Here's what we came up with:

I got her...



She got me...



and...

That's right! We unwittingly had a bacontastic Valentine's Day, which, if I'm not mistaken, makes us the most awesome couple on the planet. Again, I'm not trying to be all "ooh, look at our relationship; doesn't it burn you with it's firey flames of we-totally-get-each-otherness?!?!" I just wanted to point out that great minds think alike, specifically when it comes to pork-themed candy products.

Oh, and as for the taste...

We haven't tried the bacon/chocolate bar yet; saving it for the weekend (but I'll keep ya posted).

The bacon mints are hilarious, but kinda gross. They really taste like bacon, but they also kinda sorta taste like plastic. It's really weird, though, because they look exactly like normal, everyday mints... smaller than Altoids, and all shiny and smooth... but it's like they substituted the peppermint oil for liquid smoke. I of course brought them to work to show off to everybody and the reaction from my fellow office-mates has been a unified "blurgh."

The gummi bacon was good; strawberry flavored and oddly thick for a gummi product. The weirdest part though (beyond the fact that it looks like a package of bacon) is that it leaves a film of grease on your fingers just like the real thing. Candy grease... can't get any better than that.

Mick And Keith In Love, or, "A Romantic Valentine's Video For You"

Seriously guys, despite previous evidence to the contrary, I really am a big fan of deep, squishy, heartfelt love. Particularly when it's the love shared between two emaciated, aging rock stars. Watch this video and just try to tell me that your very being isn't overwhelmed with feelings of swooning, vaguely homoerotic romance:

That shirt!

Their tender hug!

The admission that he "ain't waitin' on a lady; he's just waitin' on a friend" (like we don't know what he's talking about)!

Not since Bono and The Edge have a lead vocalist and guitarist made such an adorable couple. And you know the music at their commitment ceremony is going to be totally kick ass.

Valentine's Day Is An Evil Genius

"It's just one day out of the year, C-dog. It's just a harmless holiday that promotes romance, sexy underwear, and a fantasyland of chocolate that tastes delicious and doesn't make you fat because you can't gain weight when you're soooo deeply, deeply in love (it's true, I heard it on Blind Date this one time)."

Bullshit. BULLSHIT, I SAYS!!!

Valentine's Day is evil, but it's smart about it... it's sneaky, it's sly, it worms it's way into your confidence like a filthy junkie that's only waiting until you fall asleep so it can whisk all your valuables to the nearest pawn shop to exchange for a few sheckles of junk money. And when that needle is in it's arm, as it falls backwards into the sweet nod of heroin, with it's last breath it will laugh at you and your foolish self!!! Can you handle that, man? Can you stand to live in a world where a fucking drugged-out holiday is cackling behind your back?

Look, I know that the candy from the Whitman's Sampler is scrumptious, but the answer to these questions is a resounding, bellowing NO!!!

Let me lay it all out for you. Let me show you what we're up against. Pay attention, kids... we're not just going through the looking glass, here. We're gonna burn that motherfucker down as well!

The Evidence Against Valentine's Day

You can't talk bad about it - If you say you hate Valentine's Day, you're immediately placed into two separate camps: If you're in Camp A, you're a lonely, bitter sadsack that hasn't been touched in so long, you think hugs are a myth. And if you're in Camp B, you're in a relationship that's more like a jail and anything that's love-themed makes you long for life on the outside, where you think you remember one time maybe being happy, but you're not entirely sure. Both of the camps are unfair and, more importantly, completely untrue... but it doesn't matter. According to the media, according to fucking Hallmark, according to that giggly secretary in your office who's right now dressed in so much red that she looks like a blood clot, if you don't like Valentine's Day, there's something wrong with you. This pro-Valentine's campaign is so airtight and impenetrable, even Karl Rove is like, "Yeah I can't fuck with that." How do I know this campaign is working? Because while you read this, you're trying to decide which of the two camps I belong in, almost against your will. See?

It will take all your money - Girlfriend and I went out last night in search of presents for her to give to her teaching assistants. Nothing fancy, just some flowers perhaps or some festive candy. We were shocked... SHOCKED... to discover that a single red rose at our local flower vendor cost more than the security deposit on our apartment. Alright, maybe that's an exaggeration, but you see my point: Roses, jewlery, candies... the people that produce and sell them use this horrible holiday as an excuse to jack up the prices like those assholes selling bottled water at 20$ a pop during Hurricane Katrina. And we take it! We think, "Yeah, 8,274$ sounds reasonable for a nice card and some chocolate-covered cherries. What a magical snowdream of a day this is!!!" We're being mugged in alley by a vicious thug named Cupid, people, and it's time we all banded together and gave Big Business the collective middle finger that screams, in the words of Dee Snyder, "We're not gonna take it... NO... We ain't gonna take it!!!" Choosing not to do so will only lead to empty wallets and apartments full of useless heart-shaped crap.

Valentine's Day gives you brain tumors the size of a racquetballs - Okay, maybe not, but I feel like all damning evidence against major holidays should come in groups of three.

So now you get it. Now you understand. People, Valentine's Day is an evil genius of Dr. No proportions and it's not giving up without a monster-brawl of a cage fight to the death. But fight is what we must do. Valentine's Day, to paraphrase Melville, from hell's heart I stab at thee; for hate's sake I spit my last breath at thee, you fucking evil motherfucker. You're going down.

That being said, if you've got plans tonight, I hope you have a lovely time! LOVE IS IN THE AIR!!!

I Think I'm On My Period

I can't really think of another explanation for why I'm acting the way I'm acting today. Like, I'm cranky, having mood swings, I want to sit in a hot bath and eat chocolate, I nearly started crying while listening to country music... this is what a period feels like, right ladies? Because if that's the case, then I really feel sorry for all of you having to go through this bullshit every month. I sympathize, totally.

Oh, also, my vagina is bleeding.

Which is worrisome for a couple of reasons.

These Are Some Of The Guinness World Records That I Could Break If I Felt Like It

NOTE: Special thanks to office-mate Andrew for the inspiration. He's a true friend, a patriot, and ladies... he's single!!!

We all know that I'm basically the best person in the world at everything, right? Particularly when it comes to things like "being awesome" and "always making pretty girls smile" and "sleeping off a whiskey drunk in the alley around the corner from my house." I know, I know... you're thinking, "Doye, C-dog, you're long and strong and down to the get the friction on... that's why we love you!!!" Seriously kids, I appreciate your support. Y'all my homies and as that's the case, I feel like I can let you in on all aspects of the glory and the wonder that is me. No need to thank me... I want to do it. It's my pleasure.

Specifically, I wanted to talk to you today about The Guinness Book of World Records and how it's bullshit because it doesn't factor in "The C-dog Effect." What is "The C-dog Effect?" Well, it's many things, but when it comes to the so-called record books, it means this:

All world records are great and everything, but it should be duly noted by everyone that these records could totally be broken by C-dog if he felt like it.

Obviously.

You want proof? Well here it is, my lovelies...

Most Cockroaches Eaten - The record is 36 but... like... what? How is that pussy number the most anyone's ever eaten? I've eaten fucking tubs of gummi worms and they're basically the same thing. I will say right now that, if I felt like it, I could eat 429 cockroaches in a single sitting. More if I were allowed to liberally douse them in A-1.

Most Books Typed Backwards - I don't technically know what this is, but I'm pretty sure I could do it no problem. I type this blog drunk most of the time, so I figure it's got to at least be the same basic skill set. Parenthetically, the keyboard is all spinny right now. And the N key is laughing at me. God I fucking hate the N key. Bastard.

Most Tattooed Person - You say I can't tattoo more than 100% of my body? Bitches, I tattooed my motherfucking SOUL!!!

Longest Aerobics Class Marathon - Apparently a bunch of nerds in Colombia thought they were hot shit because they did an aerobics class for 24 hours. That's so cute. Doing 24 hours of aerobics is how I get warmed up before my real work-out begins. My real work-out, incidentally, is sprinting to Canada, making beautiful love to a dozen women in Montreal, and then lightly jogging back to New York by way of Oklahoma. While carrying a Buick.

Most Live Rattlesnakes Held In Mouth - The record is ten, which I'll admit is impressive. Still, though... eh... I'm betting I could do eleven. Cobras. That know karate. And were made super-poisonous by a mad scientist who wanted to take over the world. I guess what I'm saying is, if you're going to go for a record like this, fucking go for it!!! I mean at least make it challenging.

Largest Irish Dance - This one's too fucking easy. Just clone me 10,036 times, play us some kicky jigs, and stand the fuck back. We'll make Riverdance look like a bunch of retarded trannies shitting in a rusty bucket.

Oldest Male Stripper - Check back with me in 2084. You'll see a 104-year-old man do the sexiest side-splits you've ever seen. And that's when I wow you with a backflip.

Look, I think you get my point, which is that I'm better at everything than everyone. Again, I know we all know this, but it's good to remind people now and then. Just so no one ever forgets that I fucking rule. Ha ha, like you could ever forget that!

I've Watched This Eleventy Billion Times Today (At Last Count)

The "Mama" part at the end is sweet and everything, but the first song just kicks my ass all over the place. Enjoy it until CBS gets wind of this whole "YouTube" thing and orders it shut down.

Also, I *need* a pair of glowing sunglasses like yesterday. Someone get on that for me, thanks!!!

It Came From Chinatown...

Previously on It Came From Chinatown... we explored the mysteries and complexities of a greenish, viscous substance known as Grass Jelly. It was concluded that it came from another planet and was more than likely being sold as a joke. It wasn't, however, all that bad; not good, mind you, just not offensive. It was also, as it turns out, a bit of a soft start to this whole project. Kids, I was not ready for this week's offering; it was the Ivan Drago to my Apollo Creed. Without further adieu, I give you...

Satay Jellyfish



My new motto is this: Always be wary of foods that come in a horrifying bouquet. Particularly if said food is a marinated, dried invertebrate. Here's a closer look at the packaging. Another bad sign? They spelled "jellyfish" wrong (it's one word, not two):



As I peeled off the wrapper, I was filled with the same sense of dread one gets while walking through a bad neighborhood in the middle of the night. Then I was hit with the smell... oh, sweet baby Jesus, the smell... like cat food that's been left out on the porch overnight and then farted on by a squid. We laid them out on a plate; they look so innocent lying there. They're like Damien in The Omen, but much more likely to drive baboons crazy:

And here's a stick all by it's lonesome:

One key detail that you're missing just by looking at the pictures: It was sticky; the jellyfish bits, the stick, the wrapper... everything. It was the same kind of stickiness that you find covering candy apples at a carnival, but with a color and an odor from the deepest, blackest, sub-basements of Hell. I took the first bite:

I was struck immediately by the overpowering taste of old fish. There was a smokiness to it as well that reminded me of beef jerky (if beef jerky was made from human skin and pure evil). Texturally, it was like eating a mouthfull of chewy corn flakes. Put all of that together in your mind for a second... I was eating a fishy, smokey, chewy, cereal that was sticky.

It. Was. Awful.

That is a face of pure misery, folks. At the time this picture was taken, all of the sorrow in the world, every bad dream mankind has ever experienced, every secret shame, every lie told between lovers... it was all in my mouth. It clouded my senses, it choked me and made my eyes water... it was like having a busted sewer line seeping down the back of my throat. It should also be noted, and you can take this as you will, that as soon as we opened the package, our cat went absolutely bonkers from the smell. We offered him a taste, since he seemed so interested, but after a single nibble he walked away with a look in his eyes that implored of us, "Why? What did I ever do to you?"

I too had questions: People actually eat this stuff? Like, on purpose? Do they hate themselves? Or is this a food you're only supposed to give to an enemy? I don't know, specifically, but I think the answer lies somewhere in this photograph, which was taken mere moments after my "just to be sure" second bite:

I'd like to think that that tells you everything you need to know on the subject of satay jellyfish. I can't imagine there's more to it, except for maybe some dry heaving. As for me, the only thing left was to get the taste out of my mouth the only way I knew how:

And with that, another episode of ICFC draws to a stomach-churning, indigestable close. Until next week, of course! Please, pray for me!!!