Finally!!!

Yes, kiddos, that day which we never dared dream would arrive is finally, blessedly here. Magical douchebag David Blaine has... I can barely type this, my hands are shaking so... broken the world record for holding ones breath!!!

SQUEEEEEEEE!!!!

Omigod, it feels just as good as I'd hoped it would. He held his breath for, if my sources are correct, a gajillion minutes and is now some sort of land-fish that fights crime. My sources are on a lot of medication right now, but I think they're basically accurate.

Anyway, let the feasting and dancing begin!!!

NOTE: David Blaine just appeared in my cubicle and said, "thanks for the kind words." Then he made all my problems disappear with a single kiss! I said it once, I'll say it again... SQUEEEEEEE!!!!

Packing Tips

Seeing as how I'm heading out of town tomorrow, my thoughts naturally have turned to packing my suitcase and how I should probably, maybe, you know, at some point get on that before my flight leaves in the morning and I find myself stuck in Texas with no clean underwear. And since it's illegal to purchase underwear in Texas (they consider it a tool of the Devil), I'd really be screwed. Luckily, I'm the greatest suitcase packer on the motherfucking planet. Seriously. The best. Other people try to pack suitcases and then I walk in the room and they shit themselves and start worshiping me all bowing and chanting in their own filth and then... well, it's a bad scene, let me put it to you that way, and it's the reason why I can only pack suitcases by myself in a locked room of an abandoned doll factory under the cover of darkness. It's a hassle, but hey... such is greatness.

Anyway, my point is, I shan't worry about waiting until the last minute to pack my suitcase because, as I said, I'm so fucking good at it, it hardly matters when it gets done.

So it's with that in mind, and since I'm feeling generous today, please allow me to impart unto you a small taste of my packing wisdom. You're just so fucking lucky. It's like you're winning the idea lottery right now. Smile, children... SMILE!!!

C-dog Helps You Pack Your Luggage, IFYAKNOWWHATIMEAN!!!

Tip 1... If you're anything like me, you like to carry a whole lot of gravy with you at all times. Sandwich bags, pants pockets, or even your cupped hands are just fine for day-to-day use, but what about when you want to bring a whole lot of gravy with you on vacation? You can't carry it on to the plane, thanks to some smarty-bombers who just had to make liquids into explosives somehow (magic). Don't worry, folks... here's what you do. First, rinse out some old shampoo bottles. If there's still some some shampoo left in the bottles, go ahead and drink it (never waste shampoo). Now that you have some clean, empty bottles... you know where I'm going with this... recycle them and use the money to buy a GravyCarrier 3000 from Sharper Image. Those things are fantastic! They keep your gravy pipin' hot and only cost $900!!!

Tip 2... As a prank, get a favorite midget to hide in your carry-on bag. When he goes through the X-ray machine, everyone at the security checkpoint will have big, much-needed belly laugh! You will of course be arrested, but I think we can all agree that that's a small price to pay for bringing joy into the world. (Don't call me for bail money; I will not help you)

Tip 3... If you ball up your socks and stick them in your shoes, you'll give yourself an extra few inches of space. Space which you can fill with bricks of hash.

Tip 4... Before you leave for the airport, make sure everything that you think you'll need during your plane ride is in your carry-on and not in the bags you intend to check. Seriously, everything. The flight crew will not let you into the cargo hold to dig through your suitcase for that CD wallet full of Monster Ballad compilations, no matter how much of a scene you make. Parenthetically, most flight crews are not impressed that you're a blogger who's logged over a thousand posts, so don't bother shouting that right in their fat fucking faces because the Sky Marshals have tasers now. (and think they're real hot shit because of it, too) (assholes)

Tip 5... Here's the order in which you should put things into your suitcase. Follow this list exactly and it will maximize the amount of items that you can pack. Are you ready? Pay attention, because I'm only going to give this list once. Okay, here it is.

In order from first thing in to last thing in...

Pants
Dress Shirts
Folded shirts
More pants
Underwear
Sexy underwear
Plastic underwear for "oopsies"
Shoes (with balled-up socks inside!)
Bricks of hash
GravyMaster 3000
Sex toys
Toothbrush and toothpaste and dental dams
Electric razor
Straight razor
Razor scooter
Favorite midget
2nd GravyMaster 3000
Sports memorabilia
Russian nesting dolls
Six-pack of Coke Zero
Bottle of Jose Cuervo Zero
50 pound weight for ballast
Bootleg DVDs to sell outside the airport
9mm pistol
Water wings
Additional sex toys
And if there are any nooks and crannies left un-maximized, fill them with some wadded-up $100 bills and/or tiny bricks of hash

It Came From Chinatown...

While we've certainly crossed a wide and varied swath of terrain during the course of ICFC (gross fish parts, different gross fish parts, inappropriate jellies, death fruit), one area that we've regrettably neglected is, doye, junk foods. This is odd because... well, you've seen my picture. I'm a man who knows, intimately, perhaps biblically, all the ways in which a basic food stuff can be processed, chemically altered, and slathered in a powder that's a color not found in nature and that tastes of Nacho Cheese. So, let's correct this oversight. To the snack isles, kiddos, post-haste!!!

It's... Japanese Crispy Seaweed: Tom Yum Goong Flavor:



Okay, now first off... before any of you Picky Pattys or Pauls call me on it... yes, I recognize that this product is, in fact, Japanese and not Chinese. However, if you'll glance up top, you'll see that the title of this post is "It Came From Chinatown," not "It Came From China." And guess where I bought said seaweed cracker thingies? Yup. Chinatown. On Mott Street, if anyone is interested, at a candy store operated by the most severe, angry Asian woman I have ever seen (I've seen roughly six severe, angry Asian women in my life). Anyway, my point is that these are totally within the confines of the experiment and if you disagree well then you can suck my Tom Yum Goong, which... he says, segueing like a motherfucker... brings us to the reason I bought these in the first place: The flavor.

Tom Yum Goong? Is what exactly? I have no idea. Judging by the graphic on the bag, it's possibly some sort of soup, possibly an animated shrimp, or possibly the guy with steam coming out his ears.

Oh, speaking of:



Okay, I know it's their country and they can represent themselves in cartoon form any way they choose, but... yikes... how is this not considered a racist caricature? Particularly since it's not being sold exclusively in Asia. If this exact same thing was drawn up and mass-marketed by a group of white advertising executives, they'd get karate-chopped across the skull by a million most honorable lawsuits before they could say, "me so solly, happy fun Orientals."

WOW... holy shit... sorry... that was... awful... I think the picture is rubbing off on me in a horrible way, like how hanging with the bad kids in school leads you to smoking cigarettes and taking the Lord's name in vain and feeling up slutty girls behind the gym before curfew which, okay, that part was a bonus.... but...

Look, my point, which I'll grant you fell of this truck a few miles back, is that Tom Yum Goong is a flavor that's new to me. This, my friends, is a rare occasion indeed. Thus, I had to try it, even if it is found on dried seaweed, which I bet looks just frightening:



Hey, whaddayaknow! It's like someone skinned an Orc and left it out in the sun and forgot it was there for a million years and then said, "Oh hey I skinned an Orc a million years ago... hey, I wonder if I could sell all that Orc skin as a snack food...?" The odd thing about this crispy seaweed is that it has no weight... like, none. One strip of it weighs exactly as much as a puff of smoke or a Prom Queen fart or a newborn baby's sigh.

Let's get on with it, hmmm:



The texture is what you notice first. It's rough, sort of cat's tongue-y; it would be just the thing to pack in the empty spaces between the cardboard box and your stereo when you're moving apartments. However, it's not something you'd want rasping against the inside of your mouth. But the texture is really a non-issue because, suddenly, the taste of the damn thing shows up and subsequently that's really all you can focus on:



Well, I've figured out the mystery of Tom Yum Goong flavor. There are strong notes of week-old shrimp sushi, the kind you'd find at a suburban grocery store in a refrigerated case next to the place where they decorate cakes, and they're backed up by a dry, saltiness that brings to mind a shipwrecked pirate galleon that fell through a rip in the fabric of time and landed in the middle of the Mojave desert. There's also a subtle swampiness to the crispy seaweed... you're left with the same aftertaste that you get when you soul kiss a Louisiana hillbilly who lives in a shack on the Bayou.

Worried that I was just tasting the seaweed and not getting the true Tom Yum Goong experience, I decided to lick it in a effort to get just the seasoning, much like how one attacks a Cool Ranch Dorito when the Cool Ranch is all that one desires:



Oddly enough, doing this produced no flavor at all. Texturally, it was sort of like rubbing my tongue against a My First Cheese-Grater, by Playskool, but otherwise there wasn't a whole lot going on. I don't know if they use some sort of black magic to infuse the seaweed itself with the Tom Yum Goong flavor (which I guess, final judgement, is just shrimp... maybe), but they certainly don't season their snack food like we do here in America, which I think you'll agree is just down right un-American. I mean, come on, other countries! Be like us, already!

But, yeah, Japanese crispy seaweed: Tom Yum Goong flavor was just awful. Not something I'd eat on a dare, much less as a tasty treat while watching the baseball game (although I will eat it for you good people's amusement, apparently). If it's all the same to you, Japan, I'll stick to Cheez-Its.

See y'all next week!!!

White Rabbit Candy Is Amazing

NOTE: You can look at this as an appetizer to tomorrow's ICFC main course, if you like. Or don't. Whatever melts your butter, baby.

Oh my god, guys. Seriously. If you trapped an angel in a big net and knocked her unconscious and then cannibalized her like an Amazon-dweller in an Italian horror film, her flesh would taste exactly like White Rabbit candies. Creamy and vanilla custard-y and sweet... although I'd bet angel flesh wouldn't be as chewy as these guys are; it probably has a marshmallow consistency, seeing as how they're all ethereal and shit. But the White Rabbits are like photo-negative Tootsie Rolls, all off-white and cylindrical and with enough resistance to where you feel it in your jaws, but not so much that it's like trying to bite through a Gobstopper or something and you end up with a dentist calling you an asshole because, doye, you're not supposed to try to bite through those. Asshole.

Actually, White Rabbits taste like when your favorite, arty band decides, just for giggles, to release a sugary pop song and they get all famous for it and you're so happy they're getting the attention, even though it sounds like nothing else in their back catalogue. Here, of course, I'm thinking of The Cardigans and their song "Lovefool," which is the lone, sparkly, dance-with-all-your-friends-high-on-Red-Bull tune amid their moody, group-suicide-sounds-better-than-an-evening-out repertoire. You could also say they taste like "Stacy's Mom" by Fountains of Wayne, and you'd be right, but the metaphor doesn't really hold up in the grand scheme because that band is pretty poppy anyway. They just weren't famous for it until said hit.

Anyway, White Rabbits are delicious and I could listen to a bag of them for hours, if you'll allow me to extend the aforementioned metaphor to it's breaking point.

Try some!

Monday Morning Hodgepodge

I usually only like to do the these posts on Fridays... they just seem to fit better there, and besides it's nice to have some semblance of order in a world of chaos, however small that order may be... but we're about to embark on a different sort of week here at ZFS! and, thus, up is down, black is white, God is an astronaut, Oz is over the rainbow and the Hodgepodge is appearing on a Monday morning. What? Exactly. Alright, I suppose I should explain (all oblique Nightbreed references aside). Thing is, I'm going to be gone for the last half of the week, Thursday though Sunday. My cousin is getting married, see, and Girlfriend and I are heading down to Texas to watch it happen and to eat BBQ and drink free beer and wear a tuxedo (well, I'm going to wear a tuxedo, seeing as how I'm in the wedding). Anyway, after Wednesday and until Monday, posting will be sporadic, short, drunken, and filled with jokes about cattle. And yes... I know I said I'd never leave you, but you should have known by now that I'm a no-good liar who's incredibly handsome. Also, I've stolen all your wallets.

----------------------------------------------------------

My Weekend Viewing:

The Purple Rose of Cairo - A heartbreaking film about the escapism provided by a trip to the movies, as well as an exploration of fantasy-versus-reality and it's relation to love. And it's funny. Woody Allen has said numerous times that, of all the films he's made, this is favorite. For me, a life-long fan of the dude's offerings, it ranks in the top five (the other's being Manhattan, Annie Hall, Love & Death, and Stardust Memories). If you haven't seen it, do yourself a favor. And, bonus, it clocks in at about 70 minutes, so it's not even that much of a commitment.

Dreamcatcher - Easily one of the most batshit crazy movies to ever be released by a major studio, it's also the closest anyone has ever come to creating a literal adaption of Stephen King's work. Not that that's a good thing; I love King's books (am reading one right now, actually), but his style is such that it really only works 100% on the page. When you put his dialogue in actor's mouths and you pepper a film with his go-to quirks, the end result ranges far beyond insanity. But it's still totally watchable in a lets-get-drunk-and-laugh-our-asses-off kinda way. To wit, this movie contains... psychic friends, British aliens, crazy army guys, lots of farting, exploded rectums, an alien trapped in a toilet, a magical retarded guy, the phrase "fuck me, Freddy" repeated endlessly, and, of course, ass-weasels. And it just keeps going and going and going. When you think the movie has reached the apex of it's ridiculousness, look up. You'll see new and exciting heights yet to come.

Hoodwinked! - Cute little animated movie that somehow manages to recall classic fairy tales, extreme sports competitions, and Akira Kurosawa's Rashomon. It's very clever and quite funny, but it's marred by some of the worst computer animation I've ever seen. Like, ever. Though it was released last year, it appears as if the directors of the film invented time travel and outsourced the visuals to 1996 for budgetary reasons. Still though, for kid-geared entertainment, you could do a lot worse. Way fucking better than Shrek, that's for sure.

Black Sheep - Not the Chris Farley/David Spade one. The one from New Zealand about killer sheep that eat people and can turn you into a sheep-zombie with one bite. And it's funny. Highly recommend if you like your horror with it's severed tongue planted firmly in cheek. Also, it's way gory, which is always appreciated. For those of you that care, the special effects were done by the same folks that did The Lord O' The Rings trilogy. Obviously, the effects aren't as good as the ones in those films ("low-budget" would be the name of the game). But what they lack in majesty, they more than make up in chewed-on penises and arterial spray.

----------------------------------------------------------

Every morning, I have to walk along side the mammoth monument to consumerism that is Macy's Department Store to get to my job. On rainy days (like today), I really appreciate the series of awnings that they have over their windows because they help me stay dry, seeing as how I'm invariably sans umbrella. What I don't understand, though, is the few people... and it's usually only one or two... who walk under the series of awnings while carrying a fully-opened and operational umbrella. I mean, I understand not wanting to get wet, but that seems to me a lot like wearing both a belt and a pair of suspenders. I guess my point is, I'm going to start pushing these people... these fraidy-cats... out into the rain to see if they melt. Or I might just push them into traffic because, let's face it, that would be a whole lot of fun too.

Vitamins

I've been thinking lately that maybe it's time that I start taking better care of myself. Since I left home at eighteen, I've pretty much lived my life as poorly as a person can without actually turning to hard street drugs (and don't think I haven't been tempted to do that a time or two) and I believe that, these days, I'm beginning to feel the cumulative effects of my well-documented excesses. I'm sick all the time, it seems like... always horking up nasty green creatures from other planets, always slightly scratchy in the throat, always tired and listless... and now my bones have begun to ache as well; my back, my feet, my neck, and so on. I'm nearly 28 years old and, more often than not, I feel like I'm 68.

This should not be. So, in an effort to turn things around, I've decided to start taking vitamins.

NOTE: If you're thinking to yourself, "Oh my god, C-dog, you don't take vitamins already? What's wrong with you???," I'd advise you to re-read the ZFS! archives and realize exactly what sort of person you're dealing with here. Then keep your yap shut about it because, seriously, doye.

I mean, yes, I know that taking vitamins won't suddenly make me all better and able to take on Kobe Bryant in a pick-up basketball game, but still... every journey begins with a single step, so they say, and this seems like as good a first one as any.

So, my question to you, my sexually provocative readers is this: What's a good, all-purpose, make-ya-strong vitamin for a guy like me (fat, liquored up, lively dancer) to take? I remember at one point being told by a fellow Whole Foods employee that their basic brand of one-a-day vitamins were the best on the market, but that could have just been propaganda. Anyone have a better idea?

Appreciate the help, kiddos. You're the meaning in my life; you're the inspir-aaaaa-tion!

A Day Of Coincidental Milestones, or, "Two Years And A Thousand Posts"

I realized the other day that, quite by accident, the two-year anniversary of ZFS! was going to fall right around the publishing of my 1000th post, and then my mind was totally blown clean out of my head. It's kind of like Fate giving me a thumbs up and a giant bear hug and whispering in my ear, "the universe cares about what you're doing, my child." I mean, what are the odds that these two momentous (to a nerdy blogger) milestones would intersect so perfectly? Well, I did the math and, turns out, the odds are exactly 1 in HOLY FUCK to the third power. Neato!!!

Anyway, yes, this is my 1000th post here on ZFS!, and it's happening exactly two years to the day that I started up this here blog as a way of occupying my time at work. I feel like I should shoot off some fireworks or sacrifice a goat to Bill Gates or drink so much Everclear that I travel through the dimensions and fight an evil army of dragons. Or, you know, something to mark these twin occasions.

I've been debating all week about what to do, actually... about what would strike just the right note and really sum up everything that I want to say about this which has been such a large part of my recent life. After it was determined that a close-up photograph of my balls would be inappropriate, I decided instead to go with the blogger equivalent of a parent showing off pictures of his kids to disinterested relatives. The truth of the matter is, while there's a lot of stuff on ZFS! that I could take or leave, there are a few things that I am in fact quite proud of. And what better time to give myself a nostalgic handjob than on a day like today?

So here now, I give you...

C-dog's 15 Favorite Posts From Two Years of ZFS!

I shoud point out... these are just what I came up with off the top of my head; the ones that really stuck out, in other words. I might think of other ones later that I liked better or for different reasons or whatever, but this is as close to a "Best Of..." list as I could get. Oh, and they're in no particular order, because that's for suckers.

Wisdom For The Kids
C-dog And Girlfriend On The Mermaid Parade, Pt. 1 and Pt. 2
My Los Angeles Nights
Grand Theft Uh-Oh!
We Are Excellent Tenants
Cheap Beer Is Hilarious: A Pictoral
It Came From Chinatown…
This Blog For Sale
My Nomad Years
Substances Into Which You Dip French Fries
Ash Wednesday Alternatives
Sandwiches I’ve Never Eaten
My Hometown: A Brief Pictoral
I Got 99 Problems But A Bitch Ain’t One
Hood Memories

So there you go. Hope you enjoyed this little look back, and I hope you continue you to enjoy ZFS! until the day comes that I finally decide to take it out behind the barn and "put it to sleep" for good. But no worries... that day is a long way off.

Thanks for reading, guys. Seriously.

Yeah, That Show Is Kind Of Lame, But You Really Shouldn't Take It So Personally...

NOTE: I found this via The Emptees Crazy Tattoo thread, which you should totally check out. Be warned, though: there are some NSFW tats of wangs and faux-vaginas (you'll know it when you see it). They are hilarious, particularly the ghetto-fab "dick sucka" one, which is all kinds of priceless and I would have featured here except that, you know, ZFS! isn't that kind of blog. Yet.

Movie Poster A Go-Go

Wanted



I'm just so sick of these sort of movies. These post-Matrix, super slick movies about gravity defying supermodels with guns that shoot special effects and every male in the audience is supposed to start masturbating because all we like is BANG and BOOM and HOLY SHIT SHE'S RUNNIN' UP A WALL!!! We get it... you can do amazing things with computers these days. Neat. Now design a program that makes me a give a shit about secret assassins that make bullets dance around like they're at the ammo prom. Also, Angelina Jolie. Seriously, men of America, enough with the thinking she's the hottest woman on the planet. She's an ex-junkie who won an Oscar for playing a crazy person because she's actually a crazy person!!! Remember: Having sex with Angelia Jolie would last, if you're lucky, about twenty minutes. But having to lie there and listen to her talk about Darfur while you try to figure out why your crotch is burning... that's a couple of hours that will feel like the rest of your life.

The Incredible Hulk



Having The Hulk sport an Edward Norton tramp-stamp is kind of an odd choice, but I like that Marvel is out there trying new things, connecting with the kids and so forth. They could have really gotten a stranglehold on the hip, youth market if they'd listened to my suggestion of just having most of the movie be The Hulk updating his Facebook page and trying to beat Emil Blonksy at Scrabulous, but, you know, whatever... they wanted "action scenes" or something. Like anyone cares. Still though, Edward Norton's always good for some method actor-y entertainment. I saw him once in Manhattan, leaning against a wall, smoking a cigarette and looking all coolsy woolsy. True story. But... not... an... interesting one, I guess. Ah, fuck you guys. You're just jealous you've never seen Edward Norton.

Outlander



You know what this movie's about? It's about a guy from the future who's fighting an alien and they both travel back in time to the Viking Age, and then the Vikings help him fight the alien. I'm not kidding. It's like Beowulf fell into a large tank of WTF batter and came out babbling about swords and lasers and rips in the inter-dimensional fabric. And a fat nerd who still lives with his parents was hanging around and overheard him and wrote it all down and that's how movies like this get made! No joke, though, don't go see this unless you're sure you can handle being in an enclosed room with a bunch of guys who think bathing is just some gadget from the Batman comics. I mean, it's got the word "bat" in it so what else would it be?

What Happens In Vegas



There aren't people that would actually pay money to see this, right? I mean... it's Ashton Kutcher, who would barely be tolerable if he was your waiter at Chili's, much less rendered huge on a movie screen, and it's Cameron Diaz, who can't technically act and looks like she probably reeks of nicotine, and they're in a movie about fucking each other in Vegas or something? How is that a thing that anyone would want to see? I mean, do they get all butchered and killed like those kids in Hostel? Because then I could kinda understand the point of this. Otherwise, it just seems like a good reason to stay at home and read and pretend it's the late 1700s, which was a time where people like Ashton Kutcher and Cameron Diaz would have been eaten by wolves for being inferior farmers (or whatever happened back then; look, I'd just like to see them eaten by wolves).

The Strangers

Creepy poster, despite the obvious Photoshopping going on with Liv Tyler's face. I get the feeling they just took her picture off of some Aerosmith liner notes and slapped it onto some model's body and said, "yeah, that's fine... whatever... who wants so many beers right now?" But who cares, it's got a creepy guy in a freak mask emerging from the shadows in the background and that's the kind of image that will stick with me long after the booze has rotted all the pertinent info out of my brain. All that'll be left: the theme song from Friends, the quotable quotes from Goodfellas, and this guy about to stab me in the face so he can steal my soul. Going drunk-crazy is awesome!

It Came From Chinatown...

Well, friends, here we are again. A day late, yes, but who's fault is that really? Mine? Nope. Girlfriend? Of course not. Tequila? Most certainly... it's a wicked beverage that, when blended with fruit and served in a pint glass, makes even the most dedicated of bloggers go, "writing is boring; hanging around like a taco fart is where the real action is."

But no matter... what's done is done (or not done, rather) and it's now time once again to get our weird-ass food on. This week's culinary spit-take... Canned, Scary, Fish Parts:



I wish I'd taken the price tag off in an effort to ease Commenter J's translation (which, thanks!); I'm fairly certain, though, that it says something along the lines of, "You're not really going to eat these, right? I mean, they clearly still have the skin attached. And is that the spine? Ew." The can is certainly a festive, sky blue, though, and that's one thing I'll give the Asian food community: they're bursting at the seams with packaging design skills over there. Throwing all sorts of colors and shapes and weird cartoon characters around like the concept of advertising came to them during an acid trip, making our Toucan Sams and Joe Isuzus look like cardboard cut-outs in a long forgotten 7-11... well played, China... well played.

Anyway, here's me opening the can and laughing my ass off:



Why am I laughing? Well, I'm sure there's some sort of deep-rooted psychological reasoning behind the fact that I laugh when confronted with an image of stomach-violating horror, but I haven't the course credits to suss it all out. So I'm just going to say that the contents of the can, coupled with the fact that I was about to put said contents in my mouth, made the whole scene way too fucking funny. And by funny, I mean tragically disgusting:



No liquid should be that color. Pus from an infected bullet wound is all, "Gross, dude... you look like distilled sorrow flecked with hate and reeking of the ocean floor that resides within a cosmic giant's asshole." And I'd be inclined to agree with the pus, although personally I'd have to say that the whole mess smelled like a cat food factory got hit by an atom bomb made of wet farts and every nightmare you've ever had. Plus woeful chunks of death.

And yes, that is the spine:



I thought about eating the spine, or at least giving it a shot, but then I remembered that I'm not a soulless ghoul and I'd like to be able to look my loved ones in the eye again without the shame of my misbegotten deeds melting my brain.

So no spine. But what say we go for one of the chunks, hm?



Oh. Well. Huh. After gazing for a few long minutes at it's freak show appearance, I'd really kind of expected the taste of the Scary, Canned Fish Parts to take the top of my head off like I'd just pulled the trigger of a shotgun with my toe. But you know what? It wasn't that bad. Wasn't great, mind you... I didn't pull up a chair and finish the can while rubbing my belly and going, "Mmmmmm!" or anything. But still, compared to some of the slop that I've shoveled into my maw during the run of this series, it at least didn't make me beg Girlfriend to plant a kitchen knife in my sternum.

For the record, however, it tasted sort of like canned tuna... Starkist or whatever... but with the flavor turned up a few notches and with the texture of something Slimer excreted in the unproduced screenplay for Ghostbusters 3. Again, not anything I'd combine with mayo and chopped onions to spread on some toast, but not inedible and wrong.

Which, quite frankly, leads to a fairly unexciting edition of ICFC. So, in an effort to perk up the excitement and produce a few cheap, skeevy thrills, I went ahead and picked out all the dark, organ-y bits to see if they tasted any different:

Grody, right? I mean, I'm sure if you hoisted my innards on a fork and shoved them towards a camera, they wouldn't exactly look like a Monet retrospective either but... oh... who am I kidding? My guts are so gorgeous, they're starring this fall in a new teen drama on The CW. It's like Gossip Girl meets an autopsy video!!!

But yeah, so I ate them (the fish guts, I mean):

And they were pretty meh too. A little more iodine-y, perhaps, but still nothing to write a whole blog post over. And yet, here we are, mildly disappointed. But that's life amongst the stalls of Chinatown. Sometimes, you can't judge a product by it's butt-nasty cover.

Now, before I go, I did want to make a small announcement about ICFC... specifically, about it's conclusion. Girlfriend and I have always looked at this project as a thing that had a definite, logical end... that being her finishing up her Grad School classes (she won't have much cause to be hanging out in Chinatown after that). And as we near the end of the semester, that day is, obviously, rapidly approaching. So, that being said, I wanted to let you know that there will only be three more It Came From Chinatown posts, at least for this "season." There's every chance in the world that we may pick the idea up again at some point in the future but, for the time being, I personally think it's for the best if we end it before we're all... myself included... sick of the whole thing.

So there you have it... the end is near, kiddos. We'll try to make them count.

See y'all next week!!!

ZFS! Celebrates Earth Day, or "Let's Save Our Fucking Planet, Motherfuckers!"

I care so much about our planet, you guys. It's true. Whenever I see somebody disrespecting the planet, I fly into this blazing, man-tiger rage and I just start hitting and hitting the offender with a green-painted baseball bat until I find myself standing in a pool of what was once their face and then the Earth gives me a big thumbs up and we go get root beer floats! See, psychiatrists, sometimes mental illness can be a good thing!!! Although I do feel bad about all the murders...

Anyway, since I'm all about saving the Earth from assholes that litter and dickwads that hate our ozone, I'm going to share with you some of my patented...

Planet-Healing Tips for Making Our World Not-Shitty

NOTE: I'm going to win an Oscar for these just like Al Gore!!! That Best Supporting Actor trophy is going to look fucking sweet on top of my TV...

-When pooping, don't do it in a toilet. Toilets are wasteful and against God. Instead, poop out on the lawn. You'll be fertilizing the soil and making the grass grow green and your neighbors will call the police so they can show them what a conscientious citizen you are. They'll want to take you downtown, but no worries... it's just so they can give you the coveted Medal Of Awesome.

-Don't use plastic bags. Hire a native boy from the jungle to carry your groceries. Don't live near the jungle? Use a kangaroo! They're nature's sacks!!!

-Kill and eat your own food, just like in that "Circle of Life" song. Remember, city-dwellers... hobos count as food.

-I know that recycling is a pain in the ass, what with the having to buy different, clear bags for it and having to separate all your cardboard and your plastic and your cans and then you have to put it out on a specific night and then... ugh... you know what? Fuck recycling. Way too much effort.

-If you see someone wearing fur, throw paint on them! If you see someone wearing leather, throw paint on them! If you see someone eating meat, throw paint on them! If you see someone doing anything at all that you don't agree with, throw fucking paint on them! Always keep yourself well-stocked with paint! Make sure you get it in their eyes because paint burns and it will teach them a lesson! PAINT!!!

-Maybe don't be such a fucking gasoline pig, huh? Just a thought.

-You really want to prove how much you love our planet? Here's what you do... First, dig a small hole. Then, take off all your clothes. Next, become aroused thinking about our big, sexy life-sustaining planet. Lay down over the hole that you've dug. Fuck the Earth, man... fuck it... hit that shit... show that planet how much you love it. Oooh... yeah... so nasty... who's got global warming now, baby...

Programming Notice

Er... yeah, so last night, Girlfriend and I totally intended to take all the pictures for this week's ICFC. But then, after some serious debate and a batch of Watermelon Margaritas, we decided it would instead be in our best interests to make sloppy joes and watch reruns of Anthony Bourdain's No Reservations on the Travel Channel.

What can I say, sometimes there's just no getting around being lazy-butts on a Monday evening. And, truth be told, we're going to continue our lazy-butt ways this morning... I don't have to be at work until noon and Girlfriend is off for Spring Break all this week. So that's pretty much where we're at over here.

But fret not... ICFC will be up tomorrow, and I'll more than likely post some stuff later on once I get work. For now, though, it's bagels, bed, and early morning TV. Suck on it, obligations!!!

Oh, and because sharing is caring (and I do care for all of you, my babies), here's the recipe for...

Girlfriend's Watermelon Margaritas

-Some tequila
-A bunch of watermelon chunks
-A couple of spoonfuls of frozen strawberries
-A few splashes of OJ
-Ice

Dump all of the above in a blender. Turn on the blender. Blend the fuck out of all of that until it's smooth. Pour it in a glass. Drink it. Drink some more. Fall over. Decided not to do this weeks installment of a semi-popular blog series. Continue drinking. Sleep.

Love, Money, The Pants-Shitting Fear Of Growing Up... This Post Has EVERYTHING!!!

For most of my adult life, I've been dragging around a hateful, two-ton boulder called "credit card debt" and, due to it's soul-sucking nature, my life has sort of been like a man trying to run a marathon with his feet chopped off... sure, he's making progress, but just barely, almost imperceptibly, and his path is marked by a polka-dot pattern of bloody stump-prints (which represent all the missed opportunities and blown shots at happiness that are the result of never having any money, just so we're clear). Now, don't get me wrong, I'm completely aware that the fault here lies entirely with me... I got credit cards when I was barely mature enough to remember to check the mail every day, much less handle what amounts to the financial equivalent of a loaded gun with a busted safety catch and then, because I'm all kinds of stupid, I ran up the charges while making it my business to avoid ever paying the bills.

It started out as stupid kids stuff... the rotten irresponsibility of youth... but, as I've grown up (in actual years, not in terms of maturity), it has solidified itself into this weighty, rock-solid monument that I've worn chained around my neck like some Stone Age bling. And it has kept me, for lack of a better phrase, eternally young. And not in the good, Ponce De Leon-ish, Fountain of Youth kind of way; it's kept me young like the thirty year old guy who still borrows money from his parents and lives in an efficiency apartment next to a check-cashing place in the bad part of town.

And there's no question that that's exactly where I was headed. I could smell the moldy carpet, hear the distant wail of sirens, taste the malt liquor that I bought on sale...

But then, for reasons I have yet to entirely figure out, Girlfriend decided to take my fate into her own hands. She decided, against all reason and logic, to utter the one phrase that sounds like a hundred prison cells unlocking. She said to me:

"If you promise, promise, promise to pay me back, I'll loan you the money to pay off your debt."

And I made that promise and she gave me that loan. The debt is now gone; replaced by an owed sum that's interest free, but loaded-for-bear with one immutable truth: If I pay her back, we'll more than likely live happily ever after. If I don't... we won't. It's a frighteningly simple as that.

But that... the last part... isn't going to happen. There's just no way that I'm not going to pay her back. Doing so would end me, and not just in the sense that she'd stab me to death (which she totally would, and not a court in the world would convict her). What I mean is... not paying her back would be a betrayal of a trust, an act of aggression, a direct slap in her face for daring to believe in a person as low and miserable as myself. I couldn't do that to her. But also, I couldn't do that to myself... I wasn't raised to be that kind of man and discovering that I'd turned out like that anyway would break something deep inside my mind and my soul and my heart. I've been down some dark, scary, spiral-shaped slides before, but this would kick me off the darkest and the scariest one in existence, man... one that ends with a sharp, long drop into nothingness... can you dig it?

This, I do not want. I love Girlfriend, would like to marry her sooner rather than later, and would much prefer to not get broken against the rocky coast of my own worthlessness yet again.

So I've got to spend the next six months or so growing the fuck up. Easy-peasy, no sweat, watch him stick the landing, folks! At least I hope so; I hope it's like that... I know deep inside my mind and my soul and my heart (the very same places previously marked "Fragile," if you'll remember) that this is what I want. Thus, I'm going to do everything I can to achieve that end. I've already decided that I'm going to get very well acquainted with my Netflix account and my bookshelf and my computer screen... going out, right now, seems like the wrong move. I've spent the last ten years or so being Mr. Social and it's time to hang up that mantel for a little while. Staying in will help me to avoid the temptations and avoiding said temptations will help me save money and saving said money will help me pay Girlfriend back and on and on and on.

It's about being responsible... something that up until now I've never really been. I've even actively avoided it, on occasions, but the fact of the matter is this... I'm going to turn 28 in a few months. I'm inching ever-closer to becoming that thirty year old loser in a dumpy apartment. This here... this really feels like my last shot.

So fingers crossed, kids. Time for C-dog to be a big boy, once and for all. The grand prize? The love of a good woman (and believe me when I say, it's a prize worth the effort). I'll keep you posted on my progress, should any of you be interested, but be warned... I'm going to do my best to make it as uninteresting a journey as possible. No bumps in the road, no turbulence, no crashes or winding detours.

I'm anticipating nothing buy smooth sailing ahead (but don't un-cross those fingers; a little luck never hurt anyone).

I Have An Issue With The Salvation Army

While hunting for cheap reading material at the Salvation Army outpost near my apartment yesterday, I stumbled upon two large shelves positively groaning with books all labeled thusly:



My immediate reaction was, "Oh happy day! Oh lucky man! All of these books are 4-for-99-cents! I'm going to be whatever the literature-based version of a millionaire is!!!" So I dug through the shelves, finding quite a few 70s-horror-and-British-comedy diamonds amidst the Dean Koontz and Sue Grafton rough, ending up with a barely manageable pile of sixteen different selections. I practically sashayed to the counter, adrift on the heady, drunk winds of buying a large quantity of things for a small amount of money. Four dollars or so and this wordy bounty would be mine! In your fat fucking face, Barnes & Noble!!! Choke on it, Borders!!! Today, you are collectively my bitches!!!

I dropped my haul on the counter, beaming like a Pixie Stix sun in a cartoon wonderland of songs and dance routines, and the cashier counted my books and said...

"That'll be sixteen dollars."

Confusion, sorrow, a slight quiver in my bowels...

"But... but... I thought they were 4-for-99-cents? Oh happy day? Oh... lucky... man?"

She stared at me with the dead eyes of, well, someone that works at the Salvation Army, and she said, quite coldly...

"No. They're 99 cents each."

"But then why is there a "4" on this label, on all the labels? Please, ma'am, my heart is breaking."

She looked off into the distance, as if contemplating a long-forgotten poem, and then she returned my gaze. She sighed heavily, like a great weight had been lifted, and after an eternity, she spoke...

"I don't know. Do you want these or not?"

Harrumph!!! (shakes fist, gnashes teeth, turns his back on an unfeeling, uncaring God, pouts like he's never pouted before)

So, much like in the immortal Meryl Streep classic, Sophie's Choice, I had to spend the next ten minutes agonizing over which books would survive (i.e. come home with me) and which books would be killed by the Nazis (i.e. left at the store). It was traumatic, to say the least, and I don't know if I'll ever recover.

So my question to you, my handsome readers whom I just bet are all wonderful in bed, is this: Was I totally out of my mind on this? That label clearly means 4-for-99-cents, right? Because if it doesn't, then I don't think I understand the world any longer. Also, I'm considering firebombing the Salvation Army store...

NOTE: I should point out that I showed said label to Girlfriend and she didn't get the whole 4-for-99-cents thing AT ALL, so there's a very good chance that I'm just an idiot.

Andrew's Extra-Innings Solution

NOTE: This post is about baseball, for those of you that don't care. If it makes it easier to take, replace every reference to the game with one about me farting. Then it'll be just like every other ZFS! post and we'll all be happy. Me farting makes us all happy, is what I'm saying.

This morning, my boy Andrew and I were discussing last night's baseball games... specifically, the 22-inning marathon between the Padres and the Rockies... when an idea came up that I, personally, found so ground-breaking, so innovative, so... so... sparkly with imagination diamonds... that I had to share it with all of you. So, without further adieu, in his own words for the first time ever on ZFS!, A-dog:

In light of the 22 inning Rockies/Padres game last night (or should I say this morning?) and the 14 inning Mets/Nats game, I thought about the fact that Major League Baseball should re-think how extra inning games are played out. If you think about it, baseball is the only sport in which there is no definitive end to an overtime/extra inning game. Technically, a baseball game could last 5 hours, 10 hours, two days...even a week (it's possible!) if both teams keep failing to score in extra innings. I truly believe this is bad for the game, as not only is it a little bit overboard for the fans (22 innings, I mean really?) but it's hurting the players as well as there are only so many hitters and pitchers available on the bench and I guarantee those catchers were not happy about crouching for the entire game (my groin hurts just typing that). Should the Rockies really feel good about their win last night when they had to strike out pinch-hitter Glendon Rusch (a pitcher on the Padres) to end it? Oh, and to celebrate playing the longest game in 15 years, both teams had to board their planes in time for today's away game. You don't think the players would have LOVED to have gotten it over with hours earlier?

That being said, I have come up with a solution for Major League Baseball - HOME RUN DERBY!! That's right, the good ol' home run derby. Think about it - is there anything more exciting in the otherwise boring (sorry to all the European readers...do you have European readers C-Dog?) sports of hockey and soccer than the shootout at the end of regulation? You don't see them playing and playing until one team scores another goal, do you? No. In hockey they have one additional overtime period, sudden death, and if it's not settled there they go to the shootout. I propose that in the event of a tie game at 9 innings, the teams play one additional inning and, if either team fails to score or it remains tied, they go the HR derby.

The rules of the HR derby would be simple and similar to that of the All Star Game HR derby- each team picks 2 or 3 players (variance here people) and they have a pitching coach/bullpen coach pitching (if you want to call it that) to them. They'll have 10 pitches to hit as many homers as they can, and whichever team has more long balls after those 30 pitches wins. Tell me it wouldn't be thrilling to see a tied Yanks/Red Sox game come down to Manny vs. A-Rod after watching the previous 4 hitters swing to a draw? Mark Teixeira vs. Ryan Howard in a huge series finale with the NL East lead on the line? How bout it coming down to Prince Fielder vs. Big Papi in a battle of the behemoth sluggers?Most homers gets the victory and, in the latter case, unlimited Dunkin Donuts for the season. There are endless dream matchups that come to mind, but you get the picture.

I say Bud Selig gets to work on this and maybe, just maybe, it will take away from all the drug talk hovering over MLB and we won't have to endure any more painfully slow 7 hour 20 inning + marathons.

So there you have it. Baseball fans, your thoughts on the subject? Personally, I think it's a... wait for it... wait for it... HOME RUN!!! Goddamnit, I'm so fucking funny... home run... heh... (high fives self over and over and over and over...)

Friday Morning Hodgepodge

So as not to break with tradition, let's start things off with a quick discussion of how my body is failing me this week: Okay, remember how I stepped in a pothole the other day and consequently hurt both my foot and my pride while falling over like a fat condominium in a humiliation hurricane? Well since then, my pride has healed up quite nicely (booze helps, as does staring intently at myself in the mirror and flexing while "Gods of War" by Def Leppard blasts on the stereo), however the same cannot be said for my foot. It feels like someone took one of those bronze Statue of Liberty replicas that tourists buy and... after first squaring it up and setting it with a few light taps... drove it straight into my heel until her feet touched my own. Seriously, I'm in agony over here! It's the worst pain anyone has ever felt in the history of the word, "Ouch!" Childbirth? Whatever, women... like ripping open as a living creature crawls it's way towards daylight can even compare to it hurting when I shift my weight wrong. This one guy I know who got shot in the face is like, "Dude, I'm so sorry... is there anything I can do?" And I'm like, "No... I'll try to carry on as best I can," but I'm saying it all clench-jawed and manly. And he's all, "Oh, okay cool... you're so brave." And I'm like, "I know it, dude... I know. Now get out of here; your gross, caved-in face is making my tummy hurt like I just ate too much spicy Indian food." And he's like, "I'm sorry, sir... forgive me!" And then I shot him in the face again because seriously... fuck that guy. Could have at least gotten me a beer without asking. Jerk. Oh, so anyway, my foot really hurts.

--------------------------------------------------------

If I were getting a tattoo... which I'm not, by the way, but if I were... I think I'd either go one of two routes: totally sentimental (like a picture of Girlfriend's face surrounded by hearts and thumbs-up) or totally random (Georgia O'Keefe playing touch-football with a llama during a snowstorm in the South of France on a Thursday). Either way is good, really... the first, obviously, because awwwwww... and the second because tattoos that mean anything beyond "I love this person so fucking much, I want to permanently scar my body all pretty" are kinda corny in a lame way. It's better to just be completely crazy-go-nuts about it and have people think you're an absurdest who drives a talking shoe made of playing cards to his job at the Whatthefuck Factory in ???-ville.

--------------------------------------------------------

I totally just pissed off all my readers who are currently sporting tats, didn't I? Well I was just kidding. Jealousy is an ugly emotion and it makes me say things that I don't mean.

Fat ass.

See... I didn't mean that. It's just that I'm jealous of your amazingly huge, fat ass. It looks sooooooo comfy. Like a beanbag chair that smells a little bit.

--------------------------------------------------------

We watched that blink-and-you-missed-it Hillary Swank movie The Reaping last night. It was... interesting, I guess. I don't want my time back or anything, but it was one of those movies where the concept is good and they're playing it out really well all X-Files-ish, but when it comes to the point where they have to lay all their cards on the table, it just kinda falls apart because they forgot to write an ending that makes any sort of sense. I mean, it did and it didn't. Instead of "wow," it was very, "oh... that's... huh." Not to mention the fact that Girlfriend and I had totally figured out the Big Twist like a quarter of the way into it. Which is probably not what they were going for. But yeah, The Reaping... very plague-y, pretty Jesus-y, the part with the cattle was scary. Watching it or not watching it will have absolutely no effect on the rest of your life, either way.

--------------------------------------------------------

This video is popping up on a lot of people's blogs right now and, while I tend to shy away from marching lock-step with the crowd, sometimes shit's just too awesome to be denied. This is the first I've ever heard of Sia and, thus far, me likey much much:



Seriously, could that video be more crackity cool? It's like a disco multiple-personality disorder with junkyard backpacks full of giggles in a costume warehouse called Happiness, My Friends. And it's about a relationship breaking up because of a cocaine addiction. That's just so much more than anything else, I can hardly stand it.

Keeping Myself Awake

So, in addition to me having bright-light sign issues (as previously mentioned), I also had wicked bad dreams about credit card debt and money-related anxiety and depression and panic, which led to a shit-tastic night's sleep which, in turn, has brought me to here: A place where I'm very close to falling asleep at my desk and then getting fired and then turning to hard street drugs, which inevitably ends up with me selling my body to the night like Cosette's mother but with less operatic singing and more VD.

Because I don't want to end up trolling for tricks at the Port Authority (at least not before I can hit up Fredrick's for some killer satin man-thongs), it's now imperative that I find ways to keep myself awake for the remaining three hours of the work day. Here's what I've come up with thus far:

-Coffee enema after coffee enema after espresso enema after iced granita enema after not so much an enema as just dumping sugar in my ass with a funnel.

-Blistering guitar solos with my head on the amp. Need to find a guitarist, though... one that can shred like a dreamworld full of black magic and rainbow sword fights over lava monster massacres.

-Warm milk, cozy blanket and a roaring fire. Sounds like exactly the opposite of what I'm looking for, right? Well keep this in mind... the roaring fire is in my fucking brain!!!

-Challenging the mail room staff to a Brazilian strap-fight. Won't be great for productivity, but it should keep the adrenaline up, what with all the knife wounds.

-Working nude (which is a good thing for EVERYONE). (Not really). (Yes, really... I've got a body like a two-ton block of fuck marble). (Well, the "two-ton" part is right). (Hey, who asked you, other voice in parenthesis)? (Just speaking my mind, man... chillax). (Maybe YOU should chillax... stupid... head). (Oooh, good one). (Shut up). Hey, both of you shut up... I'm trying to work nude, here.

What am I missing? Anything? Hello? Where am I? God, I'm so tired...

Shine A Light (Right In My Fucking Eyes)

I try really hard on ZFS! to not get all bitchy about life's petty annoyances because, and I'm sure you'll agree, there are already a ton of blogs out there that are like that and most of them are to one degree or another like watching cranky paint dry. Which is not to say that I think my blog is better than anyone else's... for that to be the case, there would have to be a lot less grammatical errors and pictures of a hairy, fat guy... but still, overloading on the bitter diatribes gets old and, in my opinion, it's much more fun to talk about fry dips and silly pictures of food that looks like poop.

ANYWAY, what I'm getting at here is that, while I don't usually like to complain, I'm totally going to this morning because sometimes even a chilled-out dude such as myself can't just let certain shit slide.

Here's the situation:

Across the street from our apartment, there's this little Mexican-run deli/grocery store thing that, until this week, has caught my attention maybe once. It used to be this small, unassuming store that kinda just blended into the landscape of my block and it couldn't have possibly been more whatever if it was the color of a manila envelope and sold only blandness wrapped in shrugs. This was the case since forever up until Monday when, for reasons that I'm sure have everything to do with the aforementioned unoticeability of the place, they got... the new sign. No chance in your eyes skimming over Pancho's Authentic Mexican Deli now, by God!!! The sign is huge, for one thing... at least as tall as Manute Bol and and as wide as six William "Refrigerator" Perry clones standing shoulder to shoulder (these 80's sports references brought to you by Wade Boggs Gum; "The Gum That Will Fuck You Up, Man")

But mostly, and this is where the issue at hand comes into play... the new sign is bright. Sarcastically so. Like Jesus has come down from Heaven for a break dancing contest and brought the Sun along with him to bust phat rhymes while he pops and locks. And of course, Pancho's is open until 2am.

Trying to get to sleep is now officially harder than drunk calculus in Japanese riding a unicycle on fire... the sign keeps slapping me in the face and spritzing me with cold water, waking me up and being all, "You're not tired are you? Huh? Huh? Because I was thinkin' we could play some Uno or Boggle or maybe we could just tell each other ghost stories!" And I'm like, "If I owned a bazooka, I would bazooka the holy fuck out of you and not a court in the world would convict me." And then the sign gets it's feelings hurt and sulks... while emitting beams of light that can be seen by astronauts on the space station, mind you... and I feel bad because it's not really his fault that he's like that, but I'm still angry, but I'm also really sleepy, and I'm kind of hungry too, which isn't helping matters.

So you see my predicament? And, yes, I'm sure that some of you are going to point out that I should just close my curtains or roll over on my other side and face away from the window but that's not the point!!! Why should I have to change? The store's the one that's being a total fart about it.

The courts told me that if I firebombed anyone else ever again, it'd be jail for me forever, but I'm really starting to think that firebombing is the only solution here. Unless any of you guys have suggestions that don't involve me changing anything about the way I live my life, whatsoever. Because I'm all ears.

(firebombing!)

I Give Up

Seriously.

The cast includes Jamie Lee-Curtis (who should know better), Cheech Marin (because Chihuahuas are Mexican like him), Drew Barrymore (she's a stupid piece of shit, so obviously she's in this), Placido Domingo (he was tricked into thinking this was a tribute to Pavarotti), and Edward James Olmos (Stand and Deliver was good).

So yeah, that's pretty much it for me. I'm done. With everything; with movies, with society, with trying to write an entertaining blog, with attempting to make meaningful connections with other human beings, with living life in general. This movie, about a talking dog who's apparently a warrior or something in Southern California, has stomped to death the remaining vestiges of my will to carry on.

Whatever, Hollywood. What-motherfucking-ever. I hope you all die.

Arbitrary Rulings 14

Cellphones - Nobody cares about the big meeting you're about to take with Bob and Frank and Ol' Hambone over in marketing, particularly those around you in the elevator. And how are you getting service in here anyway? I can't get more than two bars in a city park three blocks from a Verizon store, much less inside a moving metal box that's been hung by cables deep within a building made of concrete and steel. Your superior cellphone technology mocks me and your life... "look at me, I'm a businessman; I'm so important!!!"... makes me at least twelve different kinds of angry. Stabbing you in the neck with a corkscrew would feel like cozy blankets and a stack of Netflix on a snowy Winter's day.

The Pope - It's his birthday today, and apparently the White House is throwing him a big party since he's here in America and all. That just seems weird to me. Like, is The Pope supposed to go to parties? Shouldn't he be spending his birthday in a small, bare room reading the Bible and praying for world peace or something? It seems a little off that he's going to be swanning around a grand ballroom with Henry Kissinger and a bunch of GOP-hired supermodels. Maybe I'm thinking about this in too much of a Studio 54 sort of way, but all I can see is His Holiness doing The Hustle while the President (clad in a disco cowboy leisure suit) drinks champagne out of Laura Bush's high heel. Then they go blow up a country full of poor people and laugh and laugh and laugh. And the morning finds them at the high school football field, laying back on the hood of a Trans-Am, talking about chicks, man... chicks. Can you dig it?

Falling Down In Public - I stepped in a pothole this morning and totally went down like an imploding casino that's being cleared off the strip to make way for a family-friendly hotel that's "Wild West" themed and more expensive than actual human souls. I kinda messed up my ankle, too, because it turned weird when I fell. The whole thing was pretty unsmooth, but I would have been okay with it had everyone else on the street not turned and went, "Ha ha, fatty go BOOM!!!" all Invasion of the Body Snatchers-style with the big open mouths and the pointing and the shrieking. It was way creepy. And humiliating. And then I got run over by a truck. All in all, not a great way to start the day.

It’s Always Sunny In Philadelphia - Holy shit, why is this show not drowned in Emmys every year? My boy Andrew (of former Cubicle-Mate fame) lent me his DVDs of the first two seasons and told me they were awesome and... after having binged on them as well as the third season on Hulu... now I'm a believer. I can honestly say that there's nothing better than a program about awful, selfish, venal, cruel people treating each other like crap and then, for fun, treating everyone else like crap as well. Praise be to Andrew for turning me on this program... he is the way and the light, the alpha and the omega, the guy who lends me DVDs as if it weren't the greatest thing a dude can do for another dude. I mean, it's like... wow! And ladies, he's totally dreamy!!!

Colin Meloy - He's the lead singer of The Decemberists and he also happens to be my nerdy, singer/songwriter boyfriend. Girlfriend's totally cool with it (or at least I assume she will be once she reads this). Anyway, yeah, just look at him... all playing a song about sweeping romance in an elevator with those glasses and that haircut. Couldn't you just cuddle him until you both died from malnutrition? Well you can't... he's all mine, you son of a bitch. Don't make me cut you. I killed that guy with the cellphone and they say the second time's way easier.

It Came From Chinatown: "I've Got Crabs"

Sometimes, Girlfriend will bring home a product for ICFC and I'll think, "Hey, there's actually a chance that this won't be all that bad. I mean, maybe it will suck, but maybe not... maybe it'll be a taste sensation rocket ship that launches my taste buds to Mars and I'll spend the rest of my days harassing people about expanding their horizons and trying new things under a rainbow of multi-cultural hugs and understanding." Sometimes I think that. And then sometimes, I'll look at the product she brings home and go, "Fuck."

Today, we have a perfect example of the latter situation. More specifically, we have... CANDIED CRABS!!! AAAAAIIIIIEEEEE!!!!



Presented in classic horror movie style, because that's how we roll at the Casa de C-dog y Girlfriend. Now, upon first glance, these appear to be a horrible idea dreamed up by a madman who thinks food should be a punishment. They're little crabs... whole, although most had a claw off or something... and they've been killed somehow and dried and then slathered in a sticky glaze that gives them a sheen like Shaquille O'Neal after the fourth quarter. Fucking why? Why do that to a seafood that's much more suited to a steam bath and a small bowl of melted butter? The mind reels, the stomach churns, my tongue tries to escape down the back of my throat and out my ass. Here's the whole army, brandishing grossness like a soldier's rifle:



I would also like to point out, for the record, that this whole mess of Candied Crabs cost exactly 93 cents. I don't know why that's important, but it seems like the cheapness is a key factor in why it's so very horrible. It's kind of like discovering that a serial killer was boinked by his uncle during his formative years and you're like, "Oh, well it all makes sense now." Knowing that a scoop of Candied Crabs can be yours for pocket change traverses the same plane of logic to the inevitable conclusion: killer of prostitutes/tasting butt-nasty.

Oh, and I should also mention that I'm making that face because they smell like all the dead fish in the world got dumped into a sewer system lined with bricks of Nutrasweet that were spackled together with every dirty diaper thrown away in the last two years. Obviously.

So... on with it, I guess:



Instead of chomping down on it all fuck-you style, I elected (for some reason) to bite the son of a bitch in half:



Both crunchy and chewy... the shell crackles between your teeth like Rice Krispies, and then you reach the dried out innards, which have the consistency of old gum. The flavor is unreal, and layered horrifically with nuance. It's noxiously sweet, for one thing, but blandly so... the glaze that coats it tastes like drinking a pint glass full of boiled sugar and water that's all sludgy, cloying, and thick. And then that combines with the fishiness:

Like a crowbar to the skull, the overwhelming flavors of seafood long past it's prime hit you again and again. It tastes dead and decaying, as if the Creature from the Black Lagoon rose from the grave to give you a Dirty Sanchez. The chewiness and the stickiness causes bits of the Candied Crab to stick in your teeth, forcing you to probe at your molars with your tongue in a desperate effort to dislodge the hateful morsels. This only intensifies the already too-intense, angry flavors. Like rising smoke from a house fire, the taste works it's way upwards and into your sinuses. It catches in your throat. It gags you. You chew and you swallow and you swallow again and every alarm and warning bell goes off in your body. Excuse me sir, would you like to vomit?

I can feel the contents of my stomach marching upwards, but through some intense concentration and the anti-puke skills that I learned long ago during my drinking days, I manage to stem the tide. Barely. It takes a whole can of beer to get rid of the taste, though I have hellish, fish-laced burps for the rest of the night that feel like acid flashbacks in my mouth.

And as I lie in bed, I think to myself, "What the fuck are you doing, dude? Why are you putting yourself through this every week? You're a reasonably intelligent guy who doesn't need to debase and humiliate himself time and time again for the amusement of the internet crowd. You're turning into that guy at frat parties that eats cigarette butts on a dare and everyone laughs at, not with. You're better than this, C-dog. You're not a fucking clown."

Hey, it looks like the crab is picking my nose!!! HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA *SNORT* Heh heh... yes! Comedy gold!

See y'all next time!