Let's End The Week On This Bacon...

At first I was like "Yum," but then I thought about what the guy's hands must have been like after he spent fifteen minutes lacing all that bacon together... all greasy and cold and coated with raw-bacon diseases... and then I started a dry heave that I expect to keep going well into Autumn.




You know what's a bad idea? Getting a tattoo while drunk. You know what's also a bad idea? Getting a tattoo while hungry. They'll ask you, "So what do you want written across you're back? What means so much to you that you want it immortalized forever?" And you'll let your stomach do the talking and suddenly fat guys are mocking you on blogs you've never heard of and your whole life is all about the tattoo you got when you should have just had a BLT.




If you're going to do a couple costume, at least make it interesting. Like, dye your hair black and paint your faces all pale and dress kinda matching goth and tell everyone you're creepy, incestuous siblings that love each other very, very much. For example. Don't just pick something out of a catalogue. That's just lazy. You nerds.

Friday Morning Hodgepodge

Least Pleasant Start To A Morning Ever: So I'm standing in the room that I jokingly refer to as my office (no work has ever been done there, so really it's just a room with a bookshelf and a chair and my closet, but that takes too long to say, ergo, "office") and I'm all bleary-eyed and attempting to dress myself. My mind is in the next galaxy over from this one, past the stars and beyond the moon, and as I pick up my khakis, something rolls off them and onto the floor. Because I'm, as I said, sort of not all there, what's happening doesn't quite register and so, of course, I step on this mystery thing that was once lying on my pants. It's warm. And squishy. And... furry...

It's a mouse. A dead mouse. Freshly killed and bloody and a horror show and I just smooshed it with my bare foot.

Needless to say, I died twice, my brain screaming germaphobic thoughts like a klaxon announcing the end of the world, and I'm pretty sure I shrieked like an old lady in a black-and-white movie that's just discovered a shocking secret. Just awful, this.

I mean I coped and picked it up with a wad of paper towels thick enough to stop a bullet and I tossed it in the alley, but still. Bleak stuff and a bad way to perk yourself up in the AM.

Oh, and I'd also like to point out that I DID NOT go ahead and wear the Khakis of Death, though I thought about it for a second, because I'm just gross like that. But right-headedness prevailed and I wore some jeans instead. Fairly sure nothing died on them, though I guess you never know.

Our cat is a psycho-killer, y'all. For reals.

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One of the great things about finding the person you're going to be with for the rest of your life is that you can completely go nuts with the horrible, disgusting food and not worry about ever being attractive again because... ha ha... you're all in love n' junk and fat doesn't matter WHEN YOU'RE IN LOVE!!!! As is my understanding.

I bring it up because, last night, we had just about the worst thing a person can possibly eat outside of just downing a tub of butter with a spoon. This is what we ate: A take-out container of french fries, covered in melted cheese, sliced steak, sour cream, salsa, guacamole, and chopped lettuce and tomato. That's french fries. Covered in all kinds of wonderful. My heart is beating sluggishly just thinking about it.

To be fair to Girlfriend, she only ate about half of hers, seeing as how she's not a hopeless fat ass like me. This, of course, means that I ate my entire order of Potatoes con Cholesterol PLUS half of hers as well. It's kind of a miracle that I'm up and walking around and stepping on dead mice and not in a body bag in the basement of a hospital where I got taken because my chest exploded in a geyser of grease like Johnny Depp's bed in Nightmare on Elm Street.

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Here's a link to the new song and video from The Fratellis, a band that has been highly praised on this very blog numerous times. Not a hundred percent on board with this one, though. It's not bad or anything... it's just kind of whatever. But I like the group enough to be supportive of even their mediocre-iest offerings.

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Todd said some nice things about me over on his blog. I like it when people say nice things about me. I like Todd. But not just because he said nice things about me. I also like him because the motherfucker can DANCE!!!

Anyway, he said that he thinks I should get a book deal based on the content of ZFS!. I think that's really sweet of him and, aw shucks, I'm just trying to be entertaining and lil' ol' me doesn't deserve any fancy consideration, I'm just happy if everyone else is happy, you know? I'm just regular folks.

Now, all false modesty aside, I would literally kill for a book deal. And not even blink. Publishers, editors, agents... anyone you want to "disappear" or have "a little accident" or get "run over by a car" while they're "in the shower?" I'll take care of it. No problemo, senor. As long as I get a little something for the... ya know... effort, if you catch my drift (a book deal would be nice).

The Ass Pinata

It's... too... beautiful. They should have sent a poet... My thoughts... they can only be expressed... in song....

(deep, rich baritone; tears streaming down face)

Oh, say can you see
by the dawn's early light
What so proudly we hailed
at the twilight's last gleaming?

Whose broad stripes and bright stars
thru the perilous fight,
O'er the ramparts we watched
were so gallantly streaming?

And the rocket's red glare,
the bombs bursting in air,
Gave proof through the night
that our flag was still there.

Oh, say does that star-spangled banner yet wave
O'er the land of the free and the home of the brave?

via Geekologie

Movie Poster A Go-Go

Choke



I was all excited because FINALLY someone has made a movie about the obscure sexual fetish that involves giant men swallowing tiny women, but then I saw that it was from the author of Fight Club so I got bummed because that means the giant man and the tiny women will end up being the same person and that's not part of the fetish AT ALL. Then somebody told me that the movie isn't about that, not even a little bit. And it's like, whatever, movie poster designers. Whatever. Way to get my literal-minded hopes up, sons of bitches.

The Foot Fist Way



When did filmmakers decide it was okay to replace "actually being funny" with "just being ironic." I mean, I have nothing against irony as a general rule... having an ironic detachment from the world is basically the only reason I got laid in college... but when you're making a comedy and it's one you hope people will actually pay money to see, it'd be nice if it actually had a few laughs in it as opposed to just a bunch of moments where the audience collectively goes, "Oh, I see what you're doing there... his glasses are large and his haircut is weird, yet he takes himself seriously. That's... something blah something shrug and shrug." Movies like The Foot Fist Way are what Napoleon Dynamite hath wrought. Then again, I tend to blame all the bad things in the world... tragic floods, the death of loved ones, the never-ending war in Iraq... on the fact that a movie like Napoleon Dynamite exists and is popular, so maybe I'm not being entirely fair. To The Foot Fist Way, I mean. I'm being entirely fair to Napoleon Dynamite. Because it is just awful.

The Informers



I love posters that tell you everything you need to know about the movie that's being advertised, thus saving you the trouble of having to actually check the flick out for yourself. The people of LA are beautiful, polished blanks that are dead and empty on the inside... just like a statue. Also the statue is bright white, just like cocaine, which is basically a supporting character here. Gotcha, on all points. Like, I know it's based on a Bret Easton Ellis novel so DOYE that's what it's about (that's what all his books are about, to one degree or another) but it's totally helpful to have it laid out like that in visual metaphor so obvious, the blind are going, "God, I get it, I get it. Also, where am I? I'm frightened by all the noise!"

Donkey Punch



Hey now!!! What the hell is this little firecracker of a film? All bloody speedboat motor on a stark white background with the bold text title all up in your grill like an angry carjacker! Love it. I'm going to Google this motherfucker and see what's the what. Be right back.

Okay, it's about a bunch of people on a boat and one of them dies, then everyone freaks out and there's in-fighting and junk while they try to figure out what to do. Hm. That's... not as exciting as I'd hoped. Given the title, which is a reference to a mean thing to do in bed, plus the gory motor... I don't know, I was looking for something a little more EXTREEEEEME than a Lifeboat retread that's been mixed up with Very Bad Things. Ah well. Great poster, though.

The Mummy 3

ARRRGGGGHH ARRRRARRRRAARRRRGGHH SCREAMY FACE ARRRRRGH!!! ARRRRRRRRAAAAGH!!!!

Um, sorry. Anyway yeah, why? I mean obviously it's because Brendan Fraser needs to make a house payment or something, but why would a major studio want to get involved? Like, the first Mummy was okay in a rejected-Indiana-Jones-script kind of way, but the sequel sucked ballsack and adding on a third one to the series is kind of like trying to unclog a toilet by filling it with cement. No amount of Jet Li jumping around kicking things will convince me that this is anything other than the product of a favor that an executive owed Brenden Fraser for keeping his mouth shut during a date rape trial.

I'm Not A Music Geek, I'm A 16 Year Old Girl

I would never claim to be the hardcoriest of hardcore music geeks or anything, but... you know... I've worked in record stores and I've half-assedly collected vinyl and I've had long conversations about Sonic Youth and Xiu Xiu and The Fall and Captain Beefheart and all the other bands loved by nerds in thick glasses. I've walked that walk. But I can never truly call myself one amongst their number.

Why? Because more often than not, my favorite song at any given time is something like this:

"Our Song" by Taylor Swift

Now, granted, the video is borderline unwatchable. All candy-colored and nausea-inducing with the cuts and the swoops and the girl all plastic-y looking (which is a shame because I've seen her on talk shows and she's actually quite pretty). But listen to the song, man. It is the best distillation of what it's like to be a teenager in love that I've heard in like a bazillion years. It reminds me of making out after school in parked cars and sneaking out to share a six-pack of beer on a park bench in the middle of the night. It reminds me of youth, beauty, and a time when driving a car with a girl riding shotgun actually meant something amazing and bracingly new was going on.

Mock if you must. But this song is a WABAC machine to happy times.

I Just Walked By Tim Gunn On 6th Avenue

He was dressed immaculately in a dark, pinstriped suit. He was carrying a garment bag (because OBVIOUSLY). I think there were some assistants swarming around him. He was "making it work."

Seeing him in the wild was pretty much the most New York-y thing that's happened to me since I quit the job in the East Village where I routinely had to toss out junkies who were trying to shoot up in the porn section. It was like... Wow, I'm here now experiencing this in the center of the universe or something. Whatever, I'm not that deep. But you know what I mean. It's fun to live in a place where you're as likely to see a celebrity as not.

But yeah... Tim Gunn... pretty neat. And I don't even watch the show. I'd have probably sharted twice if I were actually a fan and not just an appreciator of a sharp-dressed man all ZZ Top style.

Here's A Picture Of Some Official Hello Kitty-Related Business

Discussion Topics

-So apparently the Japanese have named Hello Kitty... an entity, I should point out, that isn't technically real... an official ambassador for their country's tourism industry. This is further proof that something very, very wrong is happening on the other side of the world. If this continues unchecked, soon they'll have Godzilla installed as the Minister of Defense, Akira will be appointed the Head of Transportation, and all three original Iron Chefs will be proclaimed the Triumvirate of Deliciousness, which I guess wouldn't be such a bad thing when you consider all the nifty tricks they do with unusual fish. Oh and I guess they get the tie-breaker vote in Parliament seeing as how they're the only ones that aren't fictional (well sort of). Anyway, I guess my point is... who would like to volunteer to go over there and run some tests on the nation's water supply? Airfare and accommodations are not included; what do I look like, a bank? (no fat jokes, buttface)

-When I was an unruly youth, the Sanrio Store in the Parks Mall in Arlington, TX, was the ultimate test of one's shoplifting ability. Actually, it wasn't that stealing the oddly soft gum or shitty, bright pink school supplies was all that hard. It was the fact that, if caught, you'd be prosecuted to the full extent of the law. The people that ran the Sanrio Store were fucking psychos. Mad with power, protective of their Hello Kitty-emblazoned goods like a mama bear watching over her cubs, and most likely keeping the North Texas coke dealers in new Adidas and track suits... one got the impression that, should the firing squad suddenly become an acceptable punishment for the five-finger discount, the Sanrio Store management team would be the first to arrive at the killing fields with a fresh box of bullets and a smile as wide as their hearts were cold. This, of course, made the challenge of boosting their wares all the more fraught with excitement and danger... catnip to teens, obviously. Happy to say I was never pinched for my (numerous) offenses, though I had friends who went up the river a time or two and thus must forever carry on their permanent records the shame of stealing candy featuring the visage of a cartoon cat.

-There's something about a kimono that makes me think, "You know, if I bought a kimono and told no one and only wore it when Girlfriend was out of the apartment and kept the curtains closed... yeah, I bet that would be really fucking comfortable, particularly if it were made of silk and I was extremely nude." Oh, sorry, I'll give you a minute to vomit profusely and consider suicide (remember: slice up the arm, not across the wrist).

-Dude in the suit up there... that is, according the Yahoo caption, Land, Infrastructure, Transport and Tourism Minister Tetsuzo Fuyushiba. I bet he worked really hard to earn this respected, vaunted position. Like, busted his ass for The Man and got good grades in school and punked out on his family again and again just to get a toe-hold on the steep mountain of Japanese politics and... give the fucker this... he's held on for dear life, gripping said highly-coveted position in his teeth like a Bowie knife, ready to take on all comers in the great bar fight that is international government. That being the case, it's got to be depressing as all hell to find out that part of your job is to pose with a hot, sweaty dude in a foam cat costume and look like you're really enjoying the shit out of the moment. He's probably wishing he'd done more keg stands in college or at least let his hair down and took a night off to play cards with friends or go dancing at a club. This, people, is why I don't work hard at anything ever. I may be unsuccessful at everything, but at least I've enjoyed myself.

To There And Back: Adventures In Urination, Liquor, And Reckless Golf Cart Driving

A large chunk of Girlfriend's family live in Scranton, The Electric City (as you can see from the sign; apparently living in "the electric city" means you get to waste electricity like a Las Vegas casino). They, being nice people, invited us to come down (up?) to their lovely, fancy, large, impressive, makes-the-joint-I-grew-up-in-look-like-a-trailer-out-by-the-dump, house for a sort of impromptu family reunion/80th birthday extravabonanza for their clan's patriarch, Grandpa Joe. We, being the sort whom enjoy the hospitality of others (meaning, we enjoy free food and booze), agreed to come and come, my friends, is exactly what we did.

That's what she said.

Now, the highlights of a trip gone mad!!!

NOTE: Actually, everything went pretty smoothly. In fact, despite some good conversation and an obscene bounty of cooked pork products, the trip was a tad on the dry side. Well, no matter... you kids don't come to ZFS! for the excitement and adventure. That's for other blogs where people, like, "do" stuff or whatever. You kids come here for bodily function-related humor and the cheap laughs provided by same. So in that respect, this trip has got you covered.

-We woke up Saturday morning at 5am and let me just say right now, for the record, that 5am on a Saturday can go fuck itself. With a broken Jack Daniels bottle behind a dumpster in the worst part of downtown Detroit. While crying. It's just sooooo early. Obscenely early. Early-birds look at 5am on a Saturday and go, "What the fuck is THAT? Hold me; I'm scared." But anyway we had to get up well before the buttcrack of dawn and shower and pack and shuffle like zombies down to the subway and ride it out to everyone's favorite bus station, Port Authority; the last place in Manhattan where a person is as likely to get stabbed as not. Shall I paint you a picture with my words? M'kay, here ya go... Port Authority, early on a Saturday morning, is a prison riot of junkies, college students, people who have made a lot of mistakes in life, the homeless, the toothless, the obviously crazy, the crazy but can keep it to themselves (unless provoked), the downtrodden, the sad, the sadder, the saddest, and you're probably going to see some transsexual prostitutes in the mix as well. And the whole place smells like a dirty shoe. And that's only the window dressing. What really makes Port Authority a special experience on par with getting hit by a runaway Fresh Direct truck is the fact that... for reasons unexplained and probably unknown... trying to figure out from which gate your bus departs is like calculus in French and backwards with a gun to your head on fire in a rocket ship pointed at the Sun. All the screens detailing departure times are out of order, all the Greyhound employees are surly and smell of bathtub gin, all your fellow passengers are... well, we discussed them above. Your only recourse is to ask EVERY SINGLE PERSON that crosses your path if they happen to know where the 8:30 bus to Scranton is, then you take the collected data and look for anything that corresponds and then you use the Scientific Method to form a hypothesis about where your gate might actually be located. It's the only travel option available that appears to operate solely by word of mouth and it's enough to make your brain melt and blast out your ears like a busted water main, but hey, it beats airline prices.

-Oh, and the experience of riding on a Greyhound bus: Say you've got a really rippin' head cold and you've been sick for three days and you're not really giving a shit about much of anything and consequently you've got a found-object sculpture of the Rocky Mountains done in used, nasty tissues all around your bed. Suddenly, a friend shows up with hot soup and a couple of new paperbacks for you to read and you're soooo grateful because, OBVIOUSLY, but you're none to keen on having someone see your room look like a snot bomb just went off, killing innocent people with green grossness. So you grab an empty Kleenex box and you stuff and squish and cram every single ick-wad into it as fast as you can, until it's bulging in a way that screams "I Got Ya Health Hazard Right Here, Pal," but that's okay because at least your environment doesn't look scary like a one-bedroom Hot Zone. My point is... That Kleenex box? That's what a Greyhound bus is like. But on the bus, the diseases will talk to you and ask you if they can borrow your cellphone and have no issues with farting while snoring and drooling and getting insaneness all over your new shirt.

-One thing that I like about upper-middle class, Republican-leaning families out in the Pennsylvania 'burbs: Liquor. Lots of liquor. And beer and wine and I think I was offered some high-quality Thai heroin at one point (it's all kind of a blur), but it's mostly all about the liquor. And here's the hilarious part... the whiskey was a particular brand called Old Grand Dad. Which isn't exactly what you'd expect the country club swells to be mixing into Manhattans and guzzling like frat house heroes. This is the brand of cheap, laughable booze that I used to get gooned on after nights of video store labor during the early days of my NYC residence. This is poor-people hooch, a step up from Cabin Still, sure, but not quite the Knob Creek or even the Jack Daniels for which the situation would seemingly call. But anyway when I saw that familiar, ugly, orange label, I felt like I was home. And in case you're wondering... I totally behaved. Paced myself like a motherfucker and thus kept up a steady, charming buzz without tumbling over the edge and vomiting on the dog.

-The dog! They have a four month old golden retriever puppy. How cute? SOOOO cute. Like, to a ridiculous degree. It wouldn't fit in my suitcase, otherwise Girlfriend and I'd have had ourselves a new dog and a whole bunch of family pressing charges.

-The men of the family (a group in which I am inexplicably included; I don't think my children's theater past has come up yet) all went to the golf course to hit a few balls and drink a few beers and drive tiny, motorized cars that balanced on the razor-thin line between twisted-metal destruction and getting us from one hole to another only mildly scarred by the experience. Of course, they let me... the guy who lives in New York and has driven an actual, real-life car only about five times in the last five years... be the guy behind the wheel. More to the terrifying point, they let me drive the cart that also contained the aforementioned Grandpa Joe; an Awesome Old Man who's a bounty of great stories from baseball's golden age, quick with a joke, and is in extremely poor health... like, 90 pounds soaking wet with a heart condition and in a state of physical being that brings to mind eggshells and expensive porcelain and stained glass windows from the 16th century. So we're out in one of the most beautiful, natural (sorta, considering it's a man-made golf course and all) environments I've seen in quite some time... I'll tell you, that Mother Nature can be a real showy bitch when she wants to be, throwing around every shade of green all over the place like so much ticker-tape in the Canyon of Heroes... and I'm driving the world's most fragile man up and down steep inclines and over rocky terrain, all in a vehicle that the Jackass-guys think is none too safe and, well, I think it's safe to say that the stress took at least five good years off my life. Because, make no mistake, the subtext inherent in me driving Grampa Joe was this: You break it, you bought it. And the "it" to which they referenced was unquestionably his funeral.

-And when we got back from said trip, heady from the fact that I hadn't inadvertently killed an old man and unfortunately a bit careless due to the amount of Michelob Ultra coursing in my blood stream, I went into the bathroom and pissed myself. Yep. No way around it. I mean, it was an accident... I didn't think it would be a lively conversation starter or anything like that. What happened was this: I was peeing in the normal fashion (standing, fly undone, wang out, etc) and I was swaying a bit from the beer and not really in total control of my equipment, if you follow me, and then... like the spark that ignited the Hindenburg... I sneezed. And when this sneeze happened, I pitched forward a bit and Lil' C-dog somehow managed to retreat back inside my pants midstream. The flow hit the bang-on dead center of the crotch of my khakis, then it broke into two separate rivers that traced exactly the inseam of both legs. So we're talking a big, dark wet spot, followed by two dark lines winding down the inside of my legs... the familiar topography of shame. And of course, I had no other pair of pants. Because why would I ever need two pairs of pants on a weekend trip? Pass the beer, I'm not drunk yet! Anyway, I cleaned up as best I could with the toilet paper available and then I made a decision. Fortune favors the bold, after all, and so I marched out of the bathroom and headed into the kitchen where the family had gathered for some pre-dinner drinking and good-natured horseplay. I strode in and I sat down immediately in the nearest empty seat, hoping to fuck that I didn't reek of pee. And I didn't move until I was POSITIVE everything was bone dry down there. And no one was ever the wiser. Except for now, of course.

It Came From Chinatown... Goodbye, Farewell, and Amen Edition

Okay, so first thing first, thanks for putting up with me and my bonkers schedule shifting over the last couple of weeks. This has seriously been the most hectic month of May that has ever happened in the history of the everything ever and the fact that I've even been able to blog at all is a minor miracle in and of itself, not to mention proof that I'm pure, uncut awesome imported straight from Bolivia and ready for snorting by the Badass Gods of Badassery, but we all knew that anyway, right? Right??? Did I mention I was in the newspaper?

But anyway, my point is this: Thanks. Now, on to business... the final ICFC! Until we decide to do it again! Which, you never know, could happen at any time! I'm running out of ideas!

Because this is going to be the last of it's kind (for a while), I wanted to do something sort of special. But what? Well, I wasn't too keen on killing an animal or anything like that... we'd tossed around the idea of eating live eels, but I nixed it, not wanting the stink of death all over me... and there was also the issue of neither of us wanting to do just a whole lot work as far as prep and/or cooking was concerned (see: hectic month of May), so... after a fair amount of brainstorming, drinking, more brainstorming while drunk, and finally consulting the fine folks at 1-800-PSYCHIC... we hit upon what can only be described as a Nobel Prize-worthy idea. And it was?

CELEBRITY GUEST!!! Oh shit yeah!!! I mean, I'm a big celebrity now myself, so it makes sense that I should surround myself with others of my kind. And so I made a few calls... reached out to some famous friends and agents and big-shot power players and Hollywood Madames... and I ended up with, if I do say so myself (and I do), quite a coup. Kids, I give you, my new best friend...

JACKIE CHAN!!!



Hey, Jackie Chan! Thanks for agreeing to be on the Season Finale of ICFC. You're truly a man amongst men. And you only cost $1.50! C'mere, you old son of a bitch, give us a cuddle!!!

Jackie Chan just punched me in the mouth. Which I guess I deserved; I get a little "handsy" when I've been drinking. Oh... so much blood... Okay, let's just get on with this... he's looking like he might kick me.

Kiddos, I give you... Jackie Chan Balls:



For serious, I have no idea what these are. None. There's no label... or not one in English, anyway... and the picture on the package shows them only to be vague lumps of white in a bowl. They literally could be anything. And there's every chance that they actually taste like Jackie Chan. Which, hey, maybe he's delicious. I certainly don't know. Yet.

Let's take a look-see at the Jackie Chan Balls in all their glory:



Er... well, that's not really illuminating. Still just lumps of white, but frozen. I'm guessing it's some sort of dumpling, filled with I know not what. Amazing stunts? Drunken boxing? Shrimp? Only one way to find out, I guess. But first, they must be cooked!

But how? Again, no instructions for we non-Chinese. In the end, we decided on boiling. Seemed like the most Jackie Chan-ish thing to do. Or something. Gaze upon the Jackie Chan Balls as they boil:



Admittedly, not that exciting. But neither are most of his movies when he's not all jumping around and kung fu-ing people in the neck. And in this scenario, kung fu-ing people in the neck equals eating the Jackie Chan Balls straight from the pot. Yeah, they're pretty much the same thing.

Hi-YAAAAAA!!!:



Ew. But then, yum! Okay, the outer part... the dough, I guess... is like biting into an eyeball that's wasting away from a broken heart. All squishy and flavorless, all weak-willed and full of sorrow... for some reason, it brings to mind Sylvia Plath with her head in the oven. Or a Victorian fainting couch. Or wilting flowers in a vase full of tears. But... But...

When you get to the center of these downer dumplings, you get...



PEANUT BUTTER!!! Jackie Chan Balls are filled with PEANUT BUTTER!!! Tasty peanut butter, no less. Sweet and a little crunchy, it tastes like your childhood memories of running towards a picnic in a meadow full of all your friends after a Field Day where you won the blue ribbon in the sack race. It's like paging through old photo albums with your Mom... delicious nostalgia wrapped in a blanket of mourning for your lost youth.

Which means the final product of this season's ICFC gets a hearty:



I have to admit, this is not the way I expected to go out. I figured that, at the very least, the thing I ate would try to eat me back. But actually, this is perfect. I should go out on an up note. I've eaten a lot of gross, butt-nasty things in this series... true enough... but that was never my goal. What I set out to do with ICFC was to try new things, hoping that people would follow my example and broaden their own horizons. And by closing this out with something tasty... something that doesn't jump up and down on my gag reflex and make me wish for a bullet to the back of the head... I'm saying that taking a risk with food is totally worth the trouble.

Yep. That was totally my intent. To bring cultural understanding to the masses, that's what I'm all about. I mean, I book deal would have been nice, but whatever.

And so with that, we close the books on ICFC. I hope you've had as much fun as I have. Well, maybe "fun" is stretching it (especially when you consider the durian), but it certainly hasn't been boring.

Gotta give me that.

Say goodbye, JACKIE CHAN!!!!

Little Marcy: The Horror Continues...

See, this is why I don't do research. Sometimes there's just shit out there that you... and by "you" I mean "me"... don't need to find out. Like, for instance, that there's more Little Marcy albums, skulking around, inspiring children to rise up and slaughter their elders as a sacrifice to He Who Walks Behind The Toy Store Rows.

Look... know... fear:

Little Marcy Sings To Toddlers



That kid on the left is scared shitless, and rightly so. At the moment this photograph was taken, she was just beginning to feel the creeping tendrils of Little Marcy's power creep around her brain, choking from it all free will and rational thought. And that candy cane crone on the right... totally Little Marcy's Renfield. She knows well the taste of rats in a jail cell. Little Marcy keeps her around to run errands; pick up tiny dresses, shine her little shoes, pour the blood of the innocent down her throat with a funnel, etc.

Sing With Marcy



Why yes, that is an order. And if you don't, it's a sleigh-ride to hell and your soul in eternal bondage and a sharp blade dragged across your eyeball like in Un Chien Andalou, and that's just for starters. Lets not discuss what happens next. It'll only make you take your own life. Let's just say that it's a much better idea for you to sing. Loudly, and no crying. Everything will be fine. As long as you sing.

Sing-Along With Marcy



You're walking through the woods, lost, your campsite a memory, your companions long since departed for a Motel 6 off the interstate. You're hungry... thirsty... so tired and with sore legs and a mind reeling from the relentless dark. You feel the forest closing in around you, all you can hear is your heartbeat and... then... singing... sweet, lovely singing... children's songs, perhaps... and there, through the trees, a warm glow from a fire and maybe they've got food and shelter and a sleeping bag and thank god, you are saved!!! You enter into a small clearing, into the scene above. Little Marcy turns her head towards you. The singing continues. The Crone beckons. You step forward, no longer in control. You sit by the fire, by the fake, dead-eyed, deer. You eat something from a bowl and it tastes like blood. The singing never stops, never quiets, never... never... not even as The Crone rips the heart from your chest, slicing it up like an apple and feeding it to Little Marcy as she sings... she sings... she sings...

Marcy Sings To Children



The original title, "Marcy Commands Her Army of the Night" was scrapped. Too obvious.

Little Marcy Sings Sabbath Songs

(spoken through a slit windpipe) Oh... sweet... lord... she's learned our holy songs... we are doomed... run... RUN!!!

Pater noster, qui es in caelis, sanctificetur Nomen tuum. Adveniat regnum tuum. Fiat voluntas tua, sicut in caelo et in terra. Panem nostrum quotidianum da nobis hodie, et dimitte nobis debita nostra sicut et nos dimittimus debitoribus nostris. Et ne nos inducas in tentationem, sed libera nos a malo. Pater noster, qui es in caelis, sanctificetur Nomen tuum. Adveniat regnum tuum. Fiat voluntas tua, sicut in caelo et in terra. Panem nostrum quotidianum da nobis hodie, et dimitte nobis debita nostra sicut et nos dimittimus debitoribus nostris. Et ne nos inducas in tentationem, sed libera nos a malo. Pater noster, qui es in caelis, sanctificetur Nomen tuum. Adveniat regnum tuum. Fiat voluntas tua, sicut in caelo et in terra. Panem nostrum quotidianum da nobis hodie, et dimitte nobis debita nostra sicut et nos dimittimus debitoribus nostris. Et ne nos inducas in tentationem, sed libera nos a malo.

Thursday Morning Hodgepodge

And once again we find the ZFS! Master Schedule all mixed up and topsy-turvy and crazy-go-nuts. ICFC is going to appear tomorrow... with a special celebrity guest, I might add... so the weekly edition of what I'm told the cool kids are now calling "The 'Podge" must appear today, a Thursday, which feels a little bit like writing with your wrong hand or putting your pants on backwards because you're still kind of hungover from that housewarming party last night and, man, what was in that punch... kerosene? The answer is yes, by the way: It was kerosene. And Sunny D. But mostly kerosene. And you're probably going to die because that stuff is way toxic, even if it does make for some quality party punch. But that's not the point... the point is that ICFC is tomorrow, "The 'Podge" is today, and we're all united in a giant warm bear hug of light and life and magic stardream wishes and I wonder if there's any more of that punch left...?

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I've been pretty busy the last couple of days, so it's very possible that everyone already knows about this and is going to be all, "Doye, C-dog," but... um... did the greater New York area get lifted up by aliens, swung across America, and dropped all helter skelter in the Pacific Northwest? Because I think that's what happened. I can't think of any other reason why it would be raining so much. The coolness of temperature is appreciated, don't get me wrong... those of us without air conditioners will take what we can get... but still, gray clouds and rain are for winter, when it's perfectly acceptable to curl up in a ball on your living room floor with Leonard Cohen music blaring so loud that your heart shatters into a million pieces of sad and you cry and you cry and you cry and then the cops show up and you have to go live in a special home for a little while, one that doesn't let you keep your shoelaces and only allows you to write letters home with a dull pencil. It wasn't a suicide attempt, people... it was a cry for attention!!! I don't understand why the courts don't get that. Man, I could use some sunshine.

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Oh, so the graduation went fine. It was like three hours and so boring that I may never have insomnia again, but you know... as a far as graduations go... it was fine. Ellen Burstyn, best known to we horror nerds as Regan's mom in The Exorcist, received the honorary doctorate and she gave a nice speech, so that was kind of cool... oh, except for she mentioned, as part of her "look how far we've come" message, that one time she was in Texas and she was told by a redneck that she shouldn't sit next to colored folks. And it's like, great, thanks Ellen Burstyn for calling out my home state at a huge gathering of people. Now I'm glad you didn't win an Oscar for Requiem for a Dream. Whatever, famous lady. Whatever. But anyway, it all went pretty smoothly and Girlfriend is finally officially recognized as having a hot, sexy brain all fuck you style. Bow before her might. I know I certainly do.

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Want to see the creepiest thing ever? Sure you do. Here, have a look-see:



Okay, let me explain to you what's going on here: The doll? She (it?) is the one in control. Maybe she's been sent forth from the bowels of Hell, maybe she's just possessed by the soul of long-dead serial killer... doesn't matter, because regardless she's running the show. She tells the little girl to kill. And, because kids are easily impressionable... particularly when they come from a strict Quaker background and haven't read a lot of Stephen King novels or even seen the movie Child's Play... she does exactly what the doll says. Lots of bloody farm equipment in the family barn, if you follow me. And the mother doesn't believe that the doll's really pulling the strings. Dolls are inanimate objects, after all. No, she just thinks her daughter is evil; a wicked child born under a bad sign and foretold in the scripture as the coming of Satan himself and all that jazz. But, and here's the kicker, she's covering up the murders. Even if Little Suzy is a bloodthirsty maniac, Momma doesn't want her baby taken away from her. So, in the dead of night, she drags the bodies out into the fields and buries them amongst the rows of corn. Not incidentally, the community just had it's best harvest in a hundred years. One hell of a crop, you could say.

That's what's going on in that picture. I don't care if they try to pretend it's some sort of kid's record. It ain't.

Graduation Day

Girlfriend is graduating today from her Masters program and her parents are in town and everything is chaos times stress to the power of three. So needless to say, you might want to look elsewhere for blog-related entertainments on this fine, sunny Wednesday. Unless of course you feel like taking a stroll through the ZFS! archives; there's over a thousand posts there, ya know. At least a few of them have to be worth checking out. Law of averages and all that.

Anyway, so yeah, I'm going to pretty much be out of pocket for the day's remainder, celebrating Girlfriend's awesome achievement. And her general awesomeness as well, let's not forget. Because that's always cause for a party.

Smart chicks are sooooo hot, kiddos. No joke.

See y'all later. Be good!

Question For Music Listeners

Where are we, as a nation, on The Killers?

I've kind of only been vaguely aware of their existence, but then today I ended up listening to this huge playlist of their stuff and... hey, turns out... I'm a fan. Had no idea, but it seems to be the case.

So I guess really my question is: Does this make me a sixteen year old girl? Or does it make me someone who doesn't know "what it's all about?" Or are The Killers one of those bands that's generally accepted by the hips and squares alike, all White Stripes style?

I mean I don't really care one way or the other. Their music has a weird epic-ness to it that makes my invoice inputting seem like something so much more and I appreciate that. I just like to know where I stand from a cultural perspective.

Here’s them doing an awesome version of Dire Straits’ “Romeo & Juliet,” which has always been one of my favorite songs.

And here's their “Smile Like You Mean It," which is also quite nice.

Oh… and for no reason, here’s Mr. Rogers getting weird with a break-dancing twelve year old. He tries to Moonwalk. Seriously.

"The Knife" by Grizzly Bear

#10.4 - Grizzly bear - The Knife
by lablogotheque

If I had a good voice or could play an instrument or had any sort of musical talent whatsoever, this is pretty much what I'd do all the time: Wander the streets (not necessarily Paris, like the kids above, but whatever) and sing and play and let the hipster girls chuck themselves at me like so many thrown darts towards an already battle-scarred barroom board. If you catch my drift.

But whatever. I'm a blogger. Bloggers are about as hip as wet socks on a long day of errands. So instead I'll show you a clip of a cool band being cool in a 50s doo wop sort of way. And then I'll invent time travel and go back to Arlington, TX, 1992 and shove a guitar into the hands of twelve-year-old C-dog and scream, "Practice MOTHERFUCKER" in his ear until he's like the kid version of Jack White and then the photograph will fade out but that's okay because what replaces it will be even better.

Me, in a band, being awesome. And a blogger will write about me and post my clip and he'll wonder, just maybe, if he can figure out where to get a flux capacitor...

I'll be real honest with ya, kiddos... we had about a million things going on last night and, somewhere during the course of these million things, the entire concept of ICFC slipped out the side exit of my brain like a deadbeat skipping out on a check. When I finally did remember that I had yet to eat a gross thing on camera, it was nearly midnight and I was inching ever-closer to sleep. And quite frankly, had I gotten up then and soldiered through, the ICFC product you'd be reading this morning would have been of poor quality. Not that any of the previous ICFC posts have been of a particularly high quality or anything... I think they rank somewhere between a poorly-drawn webtoon about what if animals rode motorcycles and those pamphlets that religious people hand out on the subway that tell you you're going to hell for farting or watching a PG-13 movie.

But we're talking an even lower standard of quality than what's usually represented here and that's just unacceptable. Also I'm very lazy and once I get horizontal, particularly if there's a TV involved, it usually takes nothing less than an approaching Cloverfield monster or a hurricane made of ninja stars and Ebola to get me up n' at 'em.

So there ya go. Sorry. Hope your morning isn't ruined. If your morning is ruined, feel free to tell me all about it in the comments section and maybe I'll try to fix it or something, the best way I know how. By mocking you on the internet.

Oh, and yeah, like the sign says... ICFC: The Season Finale will be on Friday. Because, believe it or not, we've got a million things going on every night this week. Go figure.

Hanging On To Fame, or, "Keep Beating The Horse... It Might Not Be Dead Yet!!!"

Well, as you can imagine, this has been quite an exhilarating day for me... I have found fame. Granted, it is fame at it's weakest and most unprofitable, but that's not the point. The point is this: Now is the time for me to capitalize! To turn this, "Oh... hey... it's that guy" molehill into a mountain of "Oh my god, it's Clinton Davis... eater of Ramen... stander-in of kitchens... handsomest man to ever be fat on the Internet! What's he doing at this fabulous Hollywood party?!?! Besides stuffing his pockets with appetizers, I mean."

This is my shot, kiddos... the one-in-a-million chance that everyone waits for, but so few ever get. And it's mine! ALL MINE!!! My God, I can already taste the power, as well as the mini-quiches and chicken satay kabobs.

So here's my plan:

NOTE: I'm starting to feel kind of dirty, but I *totally* showered this morning. Hm... wonder what that's all about?

Phase 1

- Gather up all the copies of my AM New York that I can get my hands on. Stockpile them. Horde them. I'm going to have to start handing them out as soon as the memory of today's triumph begins to fade. Around Wednesday, or so.

- Get a T-shirt with my cover photo silk-screened on the front AND the back. Never stop wearing it. It may get smelly, but that's the price of fame. Also, I can't afford to have more than one made. Not pulling down any bank off this enterprise as of yet.

- Always be eating Ramen. That's the key here... gotta keep my skills fresh in everyone's mind. I'll probably get sick of eating it all the time, but that's just tough. Maroon 5 gets sick of signing that one crappy song of their's ad nauseum, but I'm sure they're comforted by their millions of dollars and backstage whores with good drug connections. And so too will I be comforted. I assume.

Now, we move into...

Phase 2

- Once I'm established as a fixture of the NYC pop cultural landscape (which I anticipate happening by the end of the week), it's time to put out a rap video. A hit rap video, I should say... nothing too underground or edgy or with too many words. Something with mass appeal. I'm thinking of a song like Lil' Mama's "Lip Gloss," but about eating cheaply and never going outside. In the video, I'll display my natural talent at dancing The Harlem Shake, which is both an awesome display of "moves" as well as funny enough to appear on America's Funniest Home Videos. The whole thing will go over HUGE with the YouTube crowd and I'll soon be popping up regularly on the Internet's best video viewing sites. Viral marketing at it's finest.

- Next, I'll pepper a few personal appearances around the city. Setting up a card table outside a few liquor stores should be all I need to do. Maybe I'll get a megaphone. Oooh, and a clown! It'll be like a street party, but without permits and no music (except for my rap single, of course). And I'll charge for my autograph; $20 a pop. $30 if they want me to make eye contact with them. $40 if they want me to not write swear words on their face with a Sharpie. So going to clean up with this.

Then...

Phase 3

- Now that I've secured a foothold into the industry, it's time for some TV guest spots! Who wants to see C-dog play a grieving husband with nothing left to lose on Law & Order? Every fucking person in the United States, that's who!!! I'll follow that up with a turn on Law & Order: Special Victims Unit as a grieving boyfriend with nothing left to lose, and then maybe I'll take a turn on Law & Order: Criminal Intent as a grieving father with something left to lose (for variety's sake). If there's time in my busy schedule, I'll play a corpse who gets CSIed on CSI: New York. As long as there's lots of flashbacks for me to show off my acting chops. Of which I'm sure I have plenty.

- I bet I can get booked on that Rachael Ray talk show or cooking show or whatever the hell it is that she does. She strikes me as the type that probably wouldn't lock her dressing room door, so stealing her wallet should be a snap. That's at least an extra $60 right there.

- If I really play my cards right, I can score a guest-judge slot on the new season of Project Runway. I know plenty about fashion and shit, so it'll be great. Besides, I'll have been wearing my AM New York cover T-shirt for so long, it'll have reached "icon" status by then.

And finally...

Phase 4

- Movies, movies, movies!!! I'll do some more guest appearances at local movie theaters! I bet I could get people to buy me a ticket, too, what with me being famous and all. Still haven't seen Iron Man yet... hint, hint...

- And after that, I guess I'll just let the fame wave take me where it will. Maybe it'll be a quirky indie comedy with lots of gratuitous nudity, maybe it'll be a reality show where I have to live in a house with a bunch of dancers who are also master chefs. And maybe it'll all burn out in a hellish fireball car crash on the Jersey Turnpike after a night out at the strip clubs.

Doesn't matter, really. Because I'm famous. And that's forever. As is my understanding.

I'm Famous (for being poor)

In a move that surely signals the downfall of the print medium, the NYC-based daily newspaper AM New York has decided, against all reason and logic, to feature my fat self on this morning's cover:



I know, right? Couldn't you just die??? This is sooooo perfect, seeing as how I'm an unapologetic egomaniac who craves attention like a junkie craves junk. I do wish that they'd let me plug ZFS!... throw a little traffic my way and all... but, hey, extremely famous beggars can't be extremely famous choosers. It's all good. I can only assume that people will be so captivated by my smiling face, they'll be forced to Google my name in hopes of finding other pictures of me in my kitchen, eating cheap food.

I trust they won't be disappointed.

In all seriousness, though, this is just about the most ridiculous thing I've ever been a part of. Seeing a variety of commuters carrying a picture of me tucked under their collective arms is the very definition of surreal. I feel like an unattractive, untalented version of George Clooney if, George Clooney were the type to ever eat Ramen. I assume he's not; I think Ramen is poison to famous people.

Which means, I guess, that I can't eat it anymore. Ha! IT'S ALL GONE TO MY HEAD!!!

Oh, and incidentally, my favorite part of the cover... of all of this, really... is what's happening over my left shoulder: If you look close, you can see a picture on the fridge of my friend Michael, who is now flipping off all of New York. God bless'im.

Here's the whole paper in PDF format, should you feel like reading the entire article. Inside, it features another picture of me rocking the Xbox with some beer and chips. My natural habitat, in other words.

Oh, and big ups to my boy Midwesterner for making this all happen. If your commute was ruined by a sudden onslaught of nausea, he's the one to blame.

Let's End The Week On This...

I have no additional comments to add, other than goddamn I wish I lived in a time where the people who employed scare tactics as a way of keeping the general population in lockstep had bananas graphic design skills like the ones displayed above.

Now we just get "The More You Know" ads on NBC and color-coded terror alert charts that mean less than a pocketful of miracles.

Weak sauce, dudes. Lousy modern times...

Friday Morning Hodgepodge

Okay, so I know that insomnia is where you try and try and try but, no matter the methodology (counting sheep, warm milk, chugging NyQuil, a crowbar across the temples), you simply cannot fall asleep. I've got a deeper understanding of that concept than you'll ever know. But my question is this: What do you call it when you fall asleep easily, but then wake up every hour or so and you can't get comfortable because your bed feels like a thousand itchy, warm bricks and the sleep you do get is fitful, dreamless, and like suffocating on an old sweater that's been in an attic for a thousand years and you can taste the stink of age and decay in the back of your throat all night, every night, for about a week? What do you call that? Because that's basically where I'm at right now. And believe me when I say this, kiddos... it ain't exactly fun like a petting zoo of mythical creatures that grant you wishes and frozen yogurt. If this situation is any kind of petting zoo, it's one that's filled with old cats who can't control their bladders and a dog that wheezes like an old-timey car and a dirty cardboard box filled with dead gerbils. And I think we can all agree that that sort of petting zoo isn't fun at all.

Anyway, if you can cut through the thick vegetative growth of my petting zoo metaphor, I think you'll find that I'm very, very sleepy right now and I'm seriously considering taking a nap under my desk until at least 2009.

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I am so making quesadillas tonight. All golden brown and slutty, dripping with cheese like an 80s saxophone solo. God, they're going to be so good. I feel sorry for all of you, what with the not being at my house later on and all.

And that's not an invitation for you to crash our party, mind you. This is an exclusive, invite-only engagement and if you show up, I'm calling the cops. Oh and they'll come... with guns and nightsticks and tasers and at least three bazookas. You want to get your face bazooka-ed off? Nope. So step off my quesadilla, motherfucker. No one has to die tonight.

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Girlfriend and I went to see the brand-new, Broadway musical Cry-Baby, last night. It's based on, obviously, the film of the same name by John Waters, who's trying to make lightning strike in the same place twice a few years after his previous, super-duper successful show, Hairspray, which for some reason I still haven't seen (I mean I've seen the original movie, but I haven't caught the stage show, nor have I seen it's other cinematic incarnation; the one that features the soul-scarring, Travolta-in-fat-drag performance). But Cry-Baby: The Musical... It's a good show. Lightweight, perhaps, but not everything has to be Les Miserables. Lots of singing, some great dance numbers, funny jokes, and a game, peppy cast. All in all, an enjoyable evening at the theater. But here's the thing: Our tickets were free. It's not important how I got them (let's just say there will be some videos released on the internet later this month of which I am not proud). What is important is that we were able to go into this show without any sort of financial burden hanging over heads, demanding that we enjoy this fucking thing seeing as how we'd already shelled out our hard-earned cash.

And that right there is the problem with seeing a Broadway show... and I know this isn't exactly breaking news or anything, but still... they are too goddamned expensive. Example: good seats to see Cry-Baby are $120. That, my friends, is a lot of money for a show that's entertaining, sure, but not what anyone would call a reinvention of the wheel, theatrically speaking.

I guess what I'm saying is this: If you can get free tickets (by any mean necessary, wink, wink!), or if you can get some cheapo, $30 seats... by all means check it out. It's fun. Otherwise, don't worry about it. You'll live.

The California Supreme Court has overturned the ban on gay marriage!!! Kick-ass, truly... this is a huge victory for gay, lesbian, bisexual, and transgendered men and women everywhere, as well as those of us who aren't of said persuasions, but have totally got all their backs in this national bar fight for equal rights.

One step at a time, kiddos.

Got Pride? I Do.

Things You Put In Coffee

Sugar - Acceptable, as long as you're not one of those people that puts enough in your cup to send a diabetic into a stricken, shambling gate down the hallway, his slowly-turning-purple lips desperately trying to form the word, "insulin." I mean, do you really need a sugar rush on top of the caffeine boost? Freddy Krueger isn't going to get you if you fall asleep; that was just a movie. Also, stay away from all the Splendas and the Sweet N' Lows and the Equals and all the other cancerous powders that the government insists are better for you, even though they've got a dumpster full of a dead lab rats that say otherwise. Use the raw, natural stuff that grows on farms. Sure, you'll end up looking like Marlon Brando in his declining years (when he started to resemble a large, poorly-upholstered sofa) but that beats dying from a tumor so large, it has teeth, fingernails, and an undergrad degree from Fresno State.

Nothing - Saying the phrase, "I'll take mine black," makes every other penis in the room shrivel up and hide like a fighter plane is strafing the greater crotch region of it's owner's pants. Coffee, unadorned, tastes like crap. Unless you're getting some sort of fancy-schmancy coffee from Belgium or Italy or Heaven or whatever that's been farted on by virgins and blessed by nine Cardinals and flavored with the tears of the Christ child right before the Wise Men showed up all, "We've got gifts, homes!" That probably tastes okay. But the regular coffee that you get like in offices and car dealerships and airport terminals... put that junk next to a bucket of hot diarrhea and you'd be hard pressed to tell the difference, were it not for the chunks. So if you can drink coffee without anything added to it... well, then... you're officially the boss. Of everything and everyone. What can we do for you, you magnificent son of a bitch?

Milk or Cream - Gross. I mean, I like milk and cream... love what they've done for baked goods and chowders... but they don't belong in any cup of coffee that I'd personally want to be involved with. I mean, you like the taste of burnt milk? Really? Do you also like it when babies get stolen by wolves and Prom Queen's get hacked to death by escaped lunatic circus clowns and whole towns get swallowed up by the Devil because he got hungry one day? Why do you like all these horrible things? Why are you such a horrible person. Every dead serial killer just appeared to me in a fever dream and said, "Yeah, I know, but did you see that guy... he likes milk or cream in his coffee. We're all officially disgusted, and we've eaten drifters." So, like, by all means keep putting milk and cream in your coffee. But know that John Wayne Gacy and Ted Bundy and The Night Stalker and Jeffery Dahmer think you're just awful.

Flavored Syrups - What the fuck is your problem? Coffee isn't supposed to taste like "Vanilla Swirl" or "Snickerdoodle Surprise" or "Mocha Java Cartwheel" or "Mixed Berry Yogurt shoved up the Candy Man's Ass." Coffee, as previously stated, is supposed to taste like hot nastiness. That's the American way! A little sugar, maybe, to take the edge off... some milk, if that's the way you lean (you sick fuck)... But. That. Is. It. None of this "Pomegranate Wing-Wang" or "Frosted Cream Cheese Sex Machine" or "Apple Pie a la Your Mom." That's for little girls, and you're not a little girl anymore, no matter what your Strawberry Shortcake bloomers might lead people to believe. You wear them for comfort, and that's fine. You sissy.

Whiskey - There was a time in my life where putting whiskey in my coffee was the only thing that got me up in the morning. Thankfully I've moved on from those days. Yep, now I wake up, take a hot shower, skip the coffee, and just drink the whisky straight from the bottle while crying under a bridge. Then, after hitting the Off-Track Betting joint, it's on to work! Where I drink whiskey straight from the bottle while crouched under my desk. Don't fucking bother me, I've got knife, man. But yeah, some whiskey in your coffee is a no-sweat way to make your day a tap-dancing miracle of glitter lights and moving sidewalks that whisk you to Happiness Junction, which is a small suburb of Life Is Great-istan. The noon hangovers are no joke, though, so watch out for those.

Nice Day

I don't know what it's like where you are, but sweet baby Jesus on a Razor scooter is it a fucking gorgeous day here in New York.

It's all sunny and cool in the shade and there's a breeze and the asphalt hasn't trapped in all of the sun's heat yet so we're not baking like Toll House Cookies in the industrial oven called Manhattan. It's sooooooo nice, you guys. I mean, doye, the horrible heat is going to show up soon enough and then they'll have to make a Daniel Day-Lewis movie about it called There Will Be Sweat and he'll win an Oscar but it will have melted and then his tears won't be from acting. They'll be real. And we'll all be like, "Thanks Mother Nature, you made a great actor cry like a orphan" and she'll respond by vomiting humidity on us until the world is a sauna and we're walking around like old Russian men in just towels and flip-flops, our collective junk on display like so many wrinkly kiwis.

Or grapefruits... ahem...

Look, my point: Right now, it's lovely outside. I'd like to find a bar with a patio and sit there with beers that never stop coming and a jukebox that plays only the songs I like and maybe some friends to keep my company, but if they couldn't show up, a book would be just fine too. Because guys who read alone at bars are all intellectual and mysterious and not scary nerds addicted to sadness at fucking all, YOU HEAR ME, EVERY GIRL IN AUSTIN, TX DURING 2001???

Whatever, I don't even care, I've got a girlfriend and she's AWESOME.

Anyway, I think this weekend... if the weather holds... I'm going to make a strong effort to think about possibly considering doing something outside, maybe. Like... um... walking? Or sitting on a bench? Or... something...

You know, I've got a lot of Netflix to get through... tell you what, you kids go do some outdoorsy crap and then tell me all about in detail so I can really feel like I was there. 1000 words and please check your spelling. Pictures would be a bonus, particularly if anyone is wearing a bikini. Chicks or dudes, not picky.

Thanks!!!

Unacceptable Uses For Robots

Robots are meant for dealing out cold-eyed death (like in Robocop) and/or being sassy housekeepers (like in The Jetsons). Using them for any other purpose is unacceptable and will only lead to a society like that one in the shitty Will Smith movie where robots are everywhere and then suddenly they're all evil... Six Degrees of Separation, I believe it was. This cannot be. So, to illustrate my point, I've provided below five example of how robots are currently being used in a manner that will ultimately lead to the downfall of our civilization. No need to thank me... unless it's with a large, gold statue. Which you worship. I will also take cash.

Robot Conductor (Symphony)



Giving them control of our music is like handing them the keys to our nation and saying, "Drive, you metal bastards! Drive us straight to hell!!!" You know the first thing they're going to do is ban rock and pop and soul and jazz and replace it all with techno. Because they, themselves, are techno!!! Well, they're techno...logy, which is essentially the same thing. Do you really want to spend the rest of your life listening to "thump, bloop, bleep, ping, blat, thump, bloop, bleep, ping, blat?" I mean, maybe it wouldn't be so bad with a kickin' bass line and some Red Bulls, but still... sometimes you just want to listen to a David Bowie song, but when the robots take over, you won't be able to. They'll kill David Bowie. Because he's awesome and they can't have him leading the revolution.

Surgery Robot



Hey Mr. Robot, why don't you slice open my chest cavity and poke around with your sharp robot fingers and your robot lasers and... oops... it looks like you chopped up all my organs into fresh sashimi and then you ground my spine into a fine powder because, doye, you're a robot and I'm a fucking idiot! C'mon, people... some of these aren't that obvious, granted, but this one's common sense. Give the robots a taste of blood and they're only going to gain sentience that much faster.

Robot Soccer Players



So cute, right? They're all kicking around a ball with painted-on smiles and how could they possibly cause our world to die screaming? Because this is how it starts, people!!! We teach them sports and it's a charming novelty, but then they start to get good at it... first soccer, then basketball, then baseball, then football... hockey, they leave alone (ice is not their friend)... and suddenly, all our major athletes are out of work. Do you want to deal with a down-on-his-luck Alex Rodriguez? A broke and desperate Terrell Owens? A junk-sick and crying Tom Brady? Of course not... and no one's going to pay to see these games. There will be no thrill, no joy in victory, no sorrow in defeat. Just clanking metal and goal after three-pointer after home run after touchdown and on and on and on. Oh, and the world will blow up because of that. Somehow...

Robot Band



Remember what I said about the Robot Conductor? This is "Phase 2." What you can't see is the audience, who are all strapped in with their eyes pinned open Clockwork Orange-style and the music... the techno music... can barely be heard over all the screaming. And the worst thing? The band's only doing techno covers of David Bowie songs. Can you imagine how demoralizing that would be? It's like a slaughterhouse shoved in your ear times a million.

Robot... Um... Jellyfish, I Guess

I don't know what these are. And that scares me. But I have a theory... Somewhere, deep underground, below a mountain in the Rockies, there's a large, cold room with a water tank hooked up to every computer mainframe in the world via a special series of wires bought at Radio Shack on sale. Inside this tank... they sit. And wait. And monitor all the robot conductors and robot surgeons and robot athletes and robot bands and, when the time is right... when the world has been sufficiently saturated with their mechanical brothers... they'll strike. They'll cut the power, the gas, the phones... everything. Our world will be plunged into chaos. Then the robots take over. For good. And as their techno anthem rings in all our ears, these guys will remain in their tank, running the show. They will become the new face of God.

I'm pretty sure that's what these are. Unless they're like some weird Japanese toy or something. Then never mind.