Micro Story

The Dangers of Overindulgence

He wakes up in an alley, lying on top of a pile of garbage bags piled next to a dumpster. There’s vomit all over him. His first thought is that he hopes the vomit is his own. His head is pounding; his stomach feels shredded and scorched. The sun is up, but the direct light has not yet made it between the buildings. The alley is dim and cool.

He stands up, slowly, and with a great expenditure of energy. He wobbles a bit, his legs the unsteadiest thing on the planet at this particular moment. His knees buckle and he leans against the dumpster for support. He thinks to himself, why... why do I keep doing this… acting like this… waking up in an alley… fuck me. His stomach clenches and he dry heaves once, twice, and a final, third time. He rolls his neck around to crack it. He rubs his eyes with the backs of his hands. He checks his pockets and finds his wallet missing. Fuck, he thinks, she's going to be pissed. He manages to stand all the way upright, and then he turns towards the mouth of the alley, to figure out where he is, to find the way home.

Then he hears the noise. A noise everyone has come to know well. A low, grumbling… a growl, almost. One of them is in this alley with him. It’s hungry. And he’s weak. There’s a movement down at the end, where the alley meets the sidewalk. The light from beyond the threshold is blotted out by a rough, man-shaped darkness. The noise again. Longer. Louder.

Cold sweat comes on hard and fast. His stomach takes a lazy roll. He looks around for a weapon and, for a panicked few seconds, finds nothing. Then, there, under the dumpster… a long, thick splinter of wood.; part of a broken mop or broom handle, perhaps. But most importantly, sharp and pointed. He drops to one knee, almost dead weight, and scrambles for it, nearly knocking it out of reach in his haste. But he gets one finger on it, then two, then pulls it into his hand. He stands up, mildly triumphant in his small victory and it... the thing... one of them... is right there. They're moving quicker now, he thinks to himself, and then it is on him, knocking him to the ground.

All the breath is expelled from him in a choked, gagging rush. His vision swims. The growling sounds like an old, rusted chainsaw, but it is nearly drowned out by the wet thudding of his pulse. With what little strength he has left, he scurries back wards using his heels and elbows, making sure not to let go of his weapon. It's his only shot. The thing steps forward, a trail of drool and blood greasing the alley floor in it's wake. Growling... growling...

And then it swoops... rather, it falls forward, teeth gnashing... but to the one upon which the thing is falling, it feels very much like a predatory swoop. He thrusts his splinter of wood upwards, hoping for a clean stab through the skull. As his hands are shaking and the thing is coming fast, he misses badly. The impact from the falling thing, coupled with his poor aim, drive the stake through the thing's solar plexus... all the way through, leaving his arm from the bicep to the hand sticking out from the thing's back like an obscene, poorly crafted puppet show gone horribly wrong. The thing is not fazed by this. It begins to bite.

His arm flaps around, useless. His face is slowly eaten away. Blood spills out and pools around them like slowly rising flood waters. Finally, the thing gets to his throat and it's all over. As the thing is stuck to the man, pinned from within, it is unable to get up, to begin again the search for it's next meal. Weeks later, a roving band of vigilantes spot it's flailing, growling form at the back of the alley. They dispatch it quickly with a shotgun blast to the back of the skull. The man underneath it, mostly picked-clean bones from the chest up, is added to the list of names of bodies yet to be identified. Once this is all over, maybe someone will find time to sort them all out.

Friday Morning Hodgepodge

As a blogger, the arena of politics has never really been my forte. I tend to not pay attention as closely as I should to the things that our government says or does, so, when I do make the occasional civic-minded comment, it usually comes out wrong, or, more accurately, misinformed. And for the record it's not that I'm NOT interested in politics... it's just that I'm usually MORE interested in, say, Iron Chef reruns or a new bottle of rotgut liquor that I bought on sale. Besides, as we've discussed on ZFS! numerous times, I really prefer it when everything is about me and politics, generally, isn't. Oh sure, you could make an argument that it's "about me" in the grand, sweeping sense that we are all one country and a nation united and blah, blah, blah, but... no, sorry... I need a little more specificity in my megalomaniacal ego-stroking. Anyway, all that being the case, I usually think it's best if I ignore politics altogether and just stick to the poop jokes and/or making quasi-humorous comments about pictures of people wearing silly hats.

As this is a bedrock principle of what makes the blog great(ish), I have no intention of changing it, so no worries. However, I did want to buck tradition just this once and say a little something about what happened last night at the Democratic National Convention in Denver, CO.

Barack Obama's speech? Wow. Look, I know I suck at putting matters political into their proper perspective, and I also know that being open and honest about ones feelings on the internet is a losing game that ends in heartache but... kiddos... I was motherfucking MOVED by that man's words. Like, for real... I got choked up in way usually reserved for that part where Rudy sacks the quarterback at the end. Just awesome, to put it mildly. But, as with all things, I'm really going to try to not get too excited. He hasn't won yet, after all, and even if he does... shit, what if he can't back it all up? I *think* he can, but then again I also though Blair Witch 2: Book of Shadows was going to be a monster hit, so, you know...

But I guess we'll see. Even if it all turns out badly, at least for one night, I was inspired enough to pay attention. That's gotta count for something.

NOTE: How funny is it that Barack Obama's name gets flagged by Blogger's spell check function? They MIGHT want to change that. Just sayin'...

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Long weekend coming up and ain't that just fine? Yes... yes it is. Except for the fact that I'm broke. Which means a LOT of time just hanging out in the apartment, watching movies and throwing things at the cat and eating whatever cans of "food" are lurking in the dark corners of our cabinets and aren't too badly dented. We'll probably go for a few walks, too, in an effort to fight off cabin fever like Beowulf battling Grendel, if Grendel were a slow-burning malaise that comes from watching cheap slasher flicks while drinking Georgi Blue vodka at 10am. A tad bit depressing, the whole situation is, but who's fault is that? Hi, right here. I mean I'm working on it, but still.

Eh, whatever. I'll muddle through. It'll be fine. Beats working, I guess. Oh, shit, speaking of... I guess I *could* be spending this time working on my play and/or any of the number of writing projects that I've started, worked on for a fortnight, then abandoned when my attention was snagged by the pressing matter of a King of the Hill mini-marathon on FX. Yeah, I could get some work done on that. I should do that...

But I *do* like not doing anything whatsoever...

Ah, the eternal struggle continues!

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Not for nothing, but Michelle Obama... kinda MILF-y in a modern Clair Huxtable sort of way. Trumps the holy fuck out of Laura Bush, that's for sure. She looks like Jack Nicholson's version of the Joker, but scarier because movies aren't supposed to be all REAL like that. Also, I heard Laura Bush kills drifters and buries the bodies out in the desert under the cover of darkness. Might not be true, but that's what I heard.

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New Mates of State video, for anyone interested. The song is good, Kori Gardner is a babe, the video's got lots of brightly colored balls to keep you interested... what more you want from a Friday morning? Greedy bastards.

"My Only Offer" by Mates of State

A Few Questions Regarding Some Controversial Art

According to a recent Reuters news story, the above sculpture... which, as you can see, depicts a crucified frog holding an egg and a beer mug... has been condemned by the Pope as blasphemous. Herewith, some discussion questions regarding the situation, as well as the object du art itself...

-What, the Pope's got NOTHING better to do than sit around condemning art all day? I mean, shouldn't he be telling the gays where to get off or glossing over stories of handsy priests? At the very least, it seems that his time would be better spent scouring the Vatican yellow pages for a haberdashery with reasonable rates.

-Art? More like FART!!! HA HA HA HAHA HA HAHA HA!!! Goddammit I should write for the New York Motherfucking Times or some shit! So, so talented... anyway, but yeah that's an ugly sculpture. All green and whatever. And the face looks like YOUR MOM HA HA HA HAHA HA HA HA HAHAHA!!!! *SNAP*

-So, does anyone actually know what happens when the Pope condemns something? Like, does it get struck by lightning from Jesus or locked away with the DaVinci Code in a vault somewhere? Or is it really just that the Pope gets all huffy, bangs his Pope-gavel a few times, and that's it? Yeah, I bet it's the last one. Pope all red-faced and stomping around his palace, threatening to hold his breath 'til he turns blue n' junk... he's just cranky because he missed his nap. His Pope-nap.

-Hey! Hey Mr. Frog Guy!!! Why don't you give me some of that beer?!?! C'mon, share ya beer!!! You can keep the egg. But the beer, man... the beer!!! Help a brother out, you warty bastard!

Worth Your Valuable Time

Those fucking maniacs have done it again. This ice cream... dudes... it tastes like a piece of yellow sheet cake with chocolate frosting. Like from your childhood birthday parties, but all cold and creamy and, okay, you don't get any presents but that's just fine... you're an adult now. What would you do with a bunch of GI Joes/Barbies anyway (besides stage the awesomest all-out war/beauty contest on your block, I mean)? But yeah... I think they mugged Duncan Hines for his cake recipe and then busted out their Santeria voodoo magic or whatever the fuck it is they're doing up in Vermont and POOF... pint of ice cream so amazing, your tongue will hop out your mouth and give you a hug.

Try some today!

NOTE: Ben and Jerry better give me some fucking money for this advertising or I'm going up there and punching out their cows. I'll do it, too. Because fuck cows.

2nd NOTE: Not literally fuck cows, as in have sex with them. That's gross.

3rd NOTE: I'd fuck a cow if the price was right. Try me.

Nerds: A Pictorial, Pt. 1

Classic Nerd



Guys like this, you don't see a lot of anymore... rocking some serious nerd pride like it's a twelve-inch cock all decked out in NES peripherals. Dude's got a POWER GLOVE, motherfucker. Pre-teen me is jealous as shit. But outside of the occasional comic book convention and/or a They Might Be Giants show, guys really don't let their freak flag fly so boldly in the year 2008. Kind of a shame actually; we, as a culture, need people like Lord Nintendo up there hanging around to spice up our existence. Just like we need porn stars and the heavily tattooed and those bendy folk in Cirque du Soleil and jam band bassists on acid... the unusual keep our lives interesting. Our planet would be a boring-ass place if everyone just wore khakis and pocket-tees and talked about the current political climate and went to bed at a reasonable hour and ate lots of cereal. Got to mix it up a bit. Otherwise, SNORE.

Modern Nerd



See, you don't know WHAT this dude's all about. Is he a super-genius MIT professor that can talk to computers and travel through time? Or is he the lead singer in a Brooklyn-based, art-rock trio that's taking the concept of "nerd" and jamming it back up our asses with an ironic wink? The pocket full of pens suggests the former, but the proto-grizzle and bland frames point towards a bedroom cluttered with vinyl and guitar picks. So which is it really? Shit, I don't know. I just found the picture on the internet. But that's kind of an answer in and of itself because... nerds today... they are a riddle wrapped in an enigma and rolling in millions of dollars earned off computer games where you beat prostitutes and/or albums that blow your brains out the back of your skull with a musical shotgun forged in a vat of molten awesome.

Medieval Nerds



Look, I enjoy a giant turkey leg and a jousting match as much as the next guy, but... as with everything... there's a line. And once you cross that line, you find yourself in a world where the purchase of a $600 hand-crafted sword is a reasonable expense and you're wearing a CAPE on a regular basis and you're throwing around the words "ye" and "m'lady" like gang signs on the streets of Compton. It's not cute. But what's weird? These medieval nerds? They get chicks. Like, frequently. Chicks that are maybe a little too into Xena: Warrior Princess and novels set in lands that don't exist but... you know... chicks. With vaginas and everything. I don't know... I'm very pro-nerd; love the things they create, love their slavish devotion to hobbyism, love their general fuck-you-societal-norms attitude. For some reason, though, the medieval nerds kinda sorta piss me off. I think it's the faux tough-guy, I'm TOTALLY a knight of the realm posturing that bugs me the most. If you're a nerd, fucking BE A NERD. Don't pretend you're a 12th century dragonslayer named Rothbard. That's just silly, and you're silly by extension.

Fake Nerds



Wow, this guy's really nerdy... with the tape on his glasses and the bow tie... what a total ner-... hey... wait a minute... that's Brad, the senior VP of marketing for a web-based graphic design firm! Oh, Brad... you're such a cut-up!!! Dressing up like a nerd when in reality, you drive a Humvee and only watch Will Ferrell movies and spend a lot of money on Rogain and fantasize about your high school days when you could take members of the Computer Club behind the gym and beat the shit out of them while Coach just laughed and laughed. Now your only weapon is mocking, Brad, and it drives you CRAZY. And... yeah... I know it's just a Halloween costume. Whatever. It's nerdism. I bet Brad's costume next year is black shoe polish and an afro wig and a bucket of KFC. He'll even do a little soft shoe on command. Motherfucking Brad from Marketing. God I hate him.

Girl Nerds

Hot. I mean, yeah, she's not a ten or anything, but... kids... smart chicks are the new babes. Consider this: What would you rather have lying next to you in bed... a girl like this that can carry on a conversation about the metaphysics of the soul and fuck like a demon (all nerdy chicks are wild in the sack; no idea why) or a striking, blond model that smells like cigarettes and talks about the new Fergie album for three and a half hours while you stare at the ceiling hating your dick for getting you into this claustrophobic death trap of a social mess. Don't worry, I'll answer for you... you want the nerdy chick. With her, you end up with a hilarious girlfriend that watches horror movies and sometimes lets you win at chess. With the model, you end up with genital warts and make-up spread all over your bathroom counter like cockroaches in a condemned building. An easy call if ever there was one.

Arbitrary Rulings 17 (Morning Edition)

Waking Up - Because they're pretentious like this, the French have been known to refer to the orgasm as le petite mort, which translates to "the little death." Puh-leeze. Besides that being the Goth-iest thing ever, so much so that as I typed it, Marilyn Manson walked by my cubicle and did that finger-gun thing at me all "Heyyyyy buddy," it's also entirely inaccurate. You know what's really le petite mort? Having to wake up every morning and stare down the long dark hallway of another Tuesday in a string of Tuesdays that are actually a garrote strangling you into a numb oblivion. Um... okay, THAT might actually be the Goth-iest thing ever. Marylin Manson just walked back by with some coffee and was like, "do you want to hang out." But I don't want to hang out with Marylin Manson. I want to drink nineteen cups of coffee until there's more caffeine in my bloodstream than actual blood. I want to wake up, in other words, but I'm so tired and I kinda sorta wish that I was dead. Which proves my point about the whole le petite mort thing. Yep, totally does. Anyway, how cool is it that Marylin Manson works in my office?!?!

Breakfast - Whatever, breakfast. With your specific foods all regimented like an army that, granted, is delicious (bacon) but still. SO not a fan of being told what I can and cannot eat for my first meal of the day. I mean, I guess you could make an argument that lunch and dinner have the same sort of strictures about what can be eaten during their pre-determined meal times... sandwiches are for lunch, say, and pot roast is for dinner... but then along comes a pot roast sandwich all crashing into your theory of what's eaten when like a fireball of destruction covered in onion gravy all hot and running down your chin, oh my god I love pot roast, so tasty in my mouth... anyway... breakfast. Fuck you breakfast. Maybe I want to eat some pot roast at 9am. Maybe I think some shrimp-fried rice would go nicely with the sunrise. Buffalo wings at dawn, motherfucker. And don't even TRY to use the fact that I'm currently eating a Pop Tart as I write this as evidence for your case. You're going DOWN, breakfast. The tyranny of evil men only last so long. Soon, the revolution will come.

Grooming - Because when you roll out of bed, you look like a plane crash into an acid factory but with bad hair and breath like a busted septic tank under a slaughterhouse called "Nasty." You gotta TAME that shit. So you shampoo and you soap off and shave it down and you take a few swipes with the deodorant stick and a spritz or two of cologne and KABLAM, you're a person other people don't gag around. I know how important this is because, yesterday, there was no hot water in my building and I hadn't showered all weekend so I was totally the smelly kid in class, all grimy with the caked-on sweat and body funk and everyone on my floor walked by my desk pointing and holding their noses in an exaggerated fashion screaming "PEW PEW PEW!!!" I nearly died from embarrassment, as well as stankiness. But it's all cool because the hot water was back this morning and now I feel fresh as bouquet of springtime flowers held by a virgin in a white dress on Easter. I mean, I'm a guy so I'm still gross... but I'm clean-gross. Not gross-gross.

Commuting - There's a million websites on the internet devoted to how much riding the subway sucks donkey wang, but you know what...? They're all a bunch liars. Because when you're on the subway, first thing in the morning, all you have to do is stand there and read a book. Or listen to your iPod if you want to... there's no rules on the subway, except for you're not allowed to walk between the cars or take a poop right in the path to the doors (take it off to one side, please). Personally, my morning commute is a wonderland of free time where I can get lost in a fantastical tale of dragons and princesses and heroic knights (homeless people tell the BEST stories if you give them liquor) or I can people-watch (hello, ladies...) or I can put on some kickin' tunes and have myself a little movable dance party that lasts until I have to go to work. Which is sad, because obviously. But it's okay because The Hustle never dies! (if you see me doing The Hustle on the train, feel free to join in... I hate dancing alone)

The Morning News - Quaint, like a handmade rag doll for little Susie or a butter churn for little Susie when she grows up to be a woman of the prairie all Willa Cather-style. Or little Bobby can churn the butter, whatever, not trying to be sexist up in here. Wouldn't kill Bobby to get off his lazy 19th century butt and help out around the farm, to tell you the truth; we've got the harvest coming soon and he's content to just lay there in the tall grass with his penny candy and... uh... wooden ducks... and whatever else kids played with in the pioneer days. Look, I've gotten pretty far afield of my main point, which is that the morning news broadcast is, essentially, a thing of the past. Nobody actually gets up and watches the new anymore, save for my grandparents of course, and they're dead... SEE WHAT I MEAN! The medium of televised news is dying a long, slow death like a hooker in the trunk of a car called "America" and soon... so soon... it's life will be snuffed out for good. It's hard to breathe in car trunks. But yeah... I'd be willing to bet that more people read ZFS! every morning than actually watch the early news broadcast. Which means that, yes, I'm your news now!!! Today's top story: C-dog is spectacular!

The ZFS! Guide To Becoming An Awesome Old Man

It's a fact of life that someday we will all be old. It sucks, because... well obviously. No one WANTS to be a withered sack of wrinkles with trembly hands and food on their chin. No one WANTS to be a burden to their children, unless, of course, you have shitty kids and you think being burden would be a nice "fuck you" for the way they've behaved all their lives. Basically, no one WANTS to get old. Getting old is a bitch, as my grandfather used to say, and then he died. Which only proves his point.

So, what can you do about it? Well, there's three things. You can just take it like a pass-around prison girlfriend; let old age bend you over a rough cot and fuck you until you're wandering around your grandson's house at Christmas time wearing a bathrobe muttering about the "old days" when women couldn't vote and dammit, that was just fine with everybody! Nobody likes old guys like this... for one thing, they usual smell like poo. Not a recommend way to go, but if you're the lazy sort and feel like mild dementia and Depends would be a welcome vacation at the end of your life, then by all means. Or, if you're a fucking pussy who never got laid as a young man, you can be one of those old guys who personally funds the hair plug and fake tan industry... funneling all your hard earned cash into flashy cars and silk shirts and gold chains that hide in your gray thatch of chest hair like a sad egg in a sorrow nest and, of course, Kilimanjaros of high-quality cocaine. Because, and I mean this, that's the ONLY way you're going to get a girl under thirty to touch your horrifying penis. But whatever, you're still YOUNG!!! You're still WITH IT!!! You're vibrant and alive and looking like a complete asshole and your family thinks you're a joke and then you're dead, just like the rest of us, but in your case everyone will be glad because they won't ever again have to hear about your Maserati's horsepower or have to explain to their children why Grandpa's new girlfriend is named "Cinnamon."

So yeah, you could do either of those things. Or, you could just be awesome.

"But HOW, C-dog? How do we achieve our maximum Awesome Old Man potential, of which you've spoken about so eloquently in previous posts?"

No worries, my little lambs... today, ol' C-dog is going to tell you all about it. Now, granted, I am not technically an old man as of yet. As much as I bitch and moan about it, being 28 apparently doesn't count as "elderly," no matter how loudly you scream at the Denny's waitress for not giving you your DESERVED senior's discount. Jerks. But whatever... I have studied Awesome Old Men, I know them inside and out. (not like THAT, you pervs). I know what makes them tick. I know what makes them awesome. And, most importantly, I know exactly how they got that way. So, without further adieu, here's the path one must take to become...AN AWESOME OLD MAN:

Drinking - Doye. It's a simple fact of nature... all Awesome Old Men (AOM) drink. Heavily. Their livers look like those big, poofy sponges hippies buy at Whole Foods. Liquor is the fuel that powers the AOM engine and, baby, that engine needs a fuckload of fuel. But here's the deal... do you like mixed drinks? Mojitos or pina coladas or choc-twirl martinis with a Hershey's Kiss at the bottom? Well fucking get over it. To an AOM, any drink with more than two ingredients is for ballerinas or college professors scared of headaches. If you want to be an AOM, pick one (1) type of booze and only drink that. Whiskey? Fine. Vodka? Sure. Gin? A little high-faluten', but okay. Rum? Eh... you SURE you ain't plannin' on mixing that with pureed strawberries and a dash of coconut milk, Mary? Cutting your liquor of choice with a little seltzer or cola or juice (for the vitamins, if you've got a doctor's appointment coming up) is okay, and of course... if you've had a rough go of it the night before and have been barfing all morning... there's always beer. But no fancy microbrews. It's either cheap and regional, or it's a special occasion Guinness. Your baseline drink, however, should be your liquor of choice, straight. That's it. You're not drinking for the TASTE, right? You're drinking to forget. That's the hard nugget of truth inside every AOM. Accept it, or move aside and let the others take your stool at the bar.

Bars - Speaking of, let's discuss bars and their relationship to the AOM. You should know your local bar or honkytonk or pub or dive better than you know you're own apartment. In fact, if you're vigilant about becoming an AOM, you should find a place that's actually ABOVE an alcohol-serving establishment. That way the stagger home is never something to worry about and you can really focus on getting your liver into shape for your Golden Years. Now, what about type? Your bar of choice should be old, dark, smelly, and a little sad. The predominant color? Brown. The jukebox, if there even is one, should be stocked ONLY with Country & Western music released prior to 1970. Women shouldn't want to come inside. Get used to these kind of places now, though; if you start going to them when you're already old, you're just going to make yourself depressed. You want to hang yourself like that old dude in Shawshank? No.

Oh, and this goes without saying, but I want to be thorough... Clubs? Discos? Any place that looks like it's from the future? You're done with those. These are the kinds of places that breed our Type 2 old men... the gross ones with the hair plugs and the fake tans. Yeah, yeah... you're not old YET, so what's it going to hurt, going to Club Faux or whatever shitty nightclub the cast of Sex and the City farted next last year so it's "in?" You're right... once or twice isn't going to hurt anyone (I guess). But don't make a fucking habit of it, particularly once you turn 35. After that particular birthday landmark, it should only be the seediest places from then on out.

Dancing - That's right... dancing. I know what I just said about nightclubs, and that still holds up, but if you're going to be an AOM, you have to know how to dance. Why? Because that's how you nail cocktail waitresses, or at least it's how you seal the deal. We're talking slow dances here, for when the end of the night rolls around and your old drunken butt suddenly takes on a romantic, barfly light in the eyes of a sad and lonely drink-slinger. Bukowski made his living exploiting this particular phenomenon and so can you. But you've got to be able to cut a rug under the neon beer signs to some long-forgotten jukebox tune. Learn now, so it all looks like old hat when the time comes. Also... be prepared to dance a loose-limbed jig at street fairs and weddings, and if you're black, throw down some old-school breakdancing moves. Hallmarks of the AOM.

Know Stuff - This one's easy: Pick one thing, anything at all, and learn everything there is to know about it. Cars, maybe, or WWII or baseball or 50's doo-wop groups or democratic politics. It doesn't really matter, long as you can talk about it at length until someone buys you a sandwich to shut you up. Personally, I'm going to be walking encyclopedia of horror films by the time I'm old. So pick something else... that's my territory. Also, it would really help your AOM cred if you can take apart machines and put them back together so they work better than when they came off the assembly line. This isn't a requirement, of course (some of us just aren't good with our hands), but repairing old washing machines and souping up window-box air conditioners to produce meat locker temperatures will go a long way towards catapulting you into the AOM Hall of Fame (it's carved in the men's room stall of a bar in North Philly).

Be Hilarious - The most important rule of the AOM, and what will separate you from the average, cranky old fart and/or boring coot with stinky breath. Knowing how to tell a joke, how to spin a fantastic yarn, and how to crack wise like kids playing the dozens will make people want to hang around you, make young people look up to you with reverence, and, most importantly, will make anyone and everyone want to buy you a drink. Which fuels the engine which makes you funnier which gets you more free drinks and so on and so on. That's called the Circle of AOM Life and believe me, you want to be a part of it. Sadly, you kinda sorta have to be born funny, but if you think you're ALMOST there and just need a little work on your timing or whatever, maybe take an improv class or study some old Bill Murray movies. You liver is depending on you.

So there you have it... the road to Awesome Old Man-dom, laid out just for you. Follow these directives and one day you, too, can sit hunched over at a dank bar, sipping some well whiskey from a cracked rocks glass as you tell a hilarious story to the waitress about ol' Boxcar Billy Paine, the finest left-handed knuckleballer ever to grace a pitcher's mound. And when she takes your arm and leads you out on the floor for a slow turn to some mournful Hank Williams, you'll know that truly... TRULY... you are an Awesome Old Man. And if you want to thank me for all this free advice, do so with liquor. As that's the AOM way!

Let's End The Week On This...

Like... um... what? What is this movie even ABOUT? It says it's a "teen-sex-romp-comedy," whatever that is, but what does that have to do with poop? Teen sex and poop, far as I can see it, are mutually exclusive. Unless teens are WAY different now than they were in the mid-90s, back when I was trying to romp with as many girls as humanly possible.

Is the title only there to support the seriously groan-worthy tagline? Or, because of some obscure language in the advertising contracts, did they HAVE to use this badly photoshopped picture of a girl wearing generic "sexy" clothes while holding a plunger? Like, it was REQUIRED of the filmmakers, so they were like, "Well, might as well change the title to reflect the... plunger... thing... I guess... whatever, where's the gravy boat full of cocaine..."

Well, needless to say, I'm going to be tracking down this movie and seeing what all the fuss is about (where Let's Talk Turkey goes, so goes my nation) . If nothing else, I admire their blatant courting of the scatological-humor-appreciators market. Of which I am a member.

Friday Morning Hodgepodge

Fuck me, what a week. I mean, I'll grant you that there are people worse off or more miserable in the world than I am... people who've stepped on a land mine, say, or those that have driven their cars into a flooded ravine filled with rape piranhas (oh, they're a real thing)... but still. Shit has been rough for your ol' pal C-dog. Way rough. Like, Russian toilet paper rough, where it feels like your butthole has been placed on a belt sander made of smashed Coke bottles. Also, the belt sander is on fire. That's been my week, at least on an emotional and psychological level. My mental butthole is scraped raw, in other words.

I know, you're thinking to yourself, "But C-dog, what's the matter? Why are you so tormented and sexy?" Well, to answer the last part first: Good genes combined with pleasant-smelling cologne and enormous testicles. As for the for the first part... well, mainly my problems all stem from a cancerous growth on my life known as My Job. I won't get too specific, just in case this blog is ever uncovered by my employer's Stasi-esque secret police, but let's just say that this job, in the past few months, has gone from an indifferent whatever of a way to pay bills to an eight-hour gauntlet where every Indian in the tribe gets to take a swipe at me with their awful, metaphorical tomahawk. I've survived it thus far... barely... but I'm not sure how much longer that will be the case. They don't stop swinging, after all, and I'm only so quick and so wily.

But whatever... one more day and I'm off the reservation, if I might extend the analogy, at least for a couple of days. And maybe someday soon I'll find myself working a place that isn't like being stabbed to death with your own shattered dreams. Here's hopin'!

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Revisited a movie from my youth, last night... a low-budget slasher movie spoof from the early 80s called Student Bodies (see poster above, doye). It was exactly how I remembered it, just not as funny or entertaining and it seemed about a million billions years too long and if car wrecks were awkward and uncomfortable, it would have been a twenty-car pile up that shuts down the highway and backs traffic up into the next state. Just a weird, weird little flick... I mean, you can see what they set out to do; namely, poke fun at all the Halloween knock-offs that were filling up the multiplexes at the time it was made. And, yeah, I suppose they did that. But the sense of humor is so... off, I guess? There's a shop teacher that's obsessed with horse head bookends. The killer uses an eggplant and a paper clips and chalkboard erasers to kill off the teenagers. Every time there's a clue or a murder, a title card will pop up to make sure you didn't miss it. One of the characters is played by a tall, unimaginably freaky guy listed in the credits only as "The Stick." Just strange... it's one of those movies where you can't decide if it's the stupidest thing you've ever seen or if it's so brilliant, YOU'RE the idiot for not nodding your head in approval then dashing off to write a doctoral thesis based around the theorems it postulates. Student Bodies literally could go either way. Oh, and the whole thing was shot in Texas, because OF COURSE it was. We are the loins from which all bizarre things spring forth.

Anyway, HIGHLY recommend that you check it out for yourself. Certainly beats another night of pretending you care about the Olympics now that Michael Phelps has peaced out.

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Yesterday, in my Awesome Old Men post, stylish and hug-worthy commenter Ross posed the following question: "What can I do to ensure becoming an awesome old man?" Well, Ross, I'm glad you asked. Tune in Monday for the complete ZFS! Guide To Becoming An Awesome Old Man. And if you happen to be one of my female readers (hello, ladies...), please feel free to tune in as well; one day, you'll want to bag yourself an Awesome Old Man and this guide will help you know what to keep an eye out for.

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And I suppose that's it for now. Going to spend the next few hours trying to change my cup of coffee into a bottle of bourbon WITH MY MIND! I think I can do it if I focus real hard and strenuously avoid any and all actual work.

Mesmerizing Video Of A Possible Accidental Death

Seriously... holy shit! It's like, at first you think he's just going to knock the roof down, but then it gets SO MUCH WORSE!!! Wow... dude... hope that guy's okay...

Or whatever. Cool video, though.

Awesome Old Men 5

Jefferson

There's your average, happy-go-lucky type of guy, and then there's Jefferson... a man SO full of love and life, he makes fabled storybook character Pollyanna look like a fifteen year old Goth with diarrhea. Every morning, he's up at 6am and leaning out his apartment widow, singing showtunes at the top of his lungs in a fine, surprisingly strong soprano. That he does so fully nude has caused much consternation to the neighbors... particularly those with weak stomachs (he's 98% wrinkles)... but in the end, they all decided that they'd leave him alone and just vow, for their own sanity, to not look up until at least noon. His voice is THAT good. Following his musical escapades, Jefferson usually tap dances down to the local bar and occupies the third stool from the left until closing time, telling jokes and spinning yarns and farting on command and laughing and laughing and laughing. Oh, and drinking straight grain alcohol from a cracked mason jar. Because without his Everclear, Jefferson gets fucking MEAN.

Scary Stu

Were he not the laziest son of a bitch ever to hear far-off voices echoing around inside his skull, he'd be a serial killer on par with Jack the Ripper, at least as far as the volume of dead hookers is concerned. But, fortunately for everyone, stalking and brutally murdering ladies of the evening is WAY to much work for Scary Stu... he'd rather sit in front of his computer reading conspiracy theories about the Devil and watching slasher flicks off his Netflix Instant account. Oh sure, he thinks, if a hooker HAPPENED to wander into his one-room apartment and there HAPPENED to be a hacksaw and a mallet handy, he SUPPOSES he'd dispatch her in as horrific a manner as humanly possible. As long as he wasn't in the middle of Friday the 13th Part VI: Jason Lives and as long as he'd already eaten his Stouffer's Mac N' Cheese and as long as she'd just lay down and let him do his business and not run all over the place screaming and yelling for the cops. Scary Stu doesn't need that shit.

Percival

Ever seen a barbershop quartet-themed tattoo on an old, fat ass? Want to? Because Percival will drop trou at even the MENTION of the word "tattoo," so proud is he of his butt-displayed ink. And, truthfully, it IS a lovely piece of work, if not a little hard to see due to the amount of wiry, gray hair that blanket's Percival's backside like kudzu vines in a Georgia gully. Very colorful, the tattoo is, and it makes creative use of the crack, which is some detail work I think we can all appreciate. Anyway... Percival loves his barbershop quartet. Not for the music, so much; mainly because they don't give him shit about the way he dresses (he loves stripes, both the pattern and the movie) or the fact that he's got a mustache/beard combo that makes people on LSD's heads explode.

Augie

Augie works nights at a graveyard and is so scared of ghosts, he carries around nineteen flashlights and a book of magic spells with him at all times. Most of the flashlights don't have batteries, of course... Augie's not the brightest of bulbs, no pun intended... and the "book of magic spells" is just an old Betty Crocker cookbook from the 70s that he found on the bus, but still. They make him feel better. And that's really all that matters... you know, whatever keeps him from jetting fear pee all over the tombstones every time a bird shifts it's weight on a branch or he startles himself with a sneaky fart. It's either his collection of talismans or he gets a job as a Wal-Mart greeter, and Augie's not allowed back in Wal-Mart anymore. The fear pee thing again. All over the DVD racks. Lousy terrifying Wal-Mart...

Chan

Nobody fucks with Chan. Ever.

It Came From Chinatown (Webcam Edition)

I think we all saw this coming. My general lack of creativity... a brand, spankin' new cyber-toy that I just discovered but which hasn't been thought of by anyone else outside of thirteen year olds since the late 90s... a tendency to overstock on the odd Asian snack foods, ya know, just in case I want to eat something sorrow-based and unimaginably gross. That's like a lake of gasoline pooling with some spilled nitro-glycerin over crates and crates of dynamite. All it needs is a spark... or, in this case, an aimless night spent twirling around in an office chair in front of a laptop... to send the whole thing sky fucking high. Kids, the inside of my mouth tastes gross, my stomach is doing barrel rolls like a stunt pilot, and my brain is trying to rationalize why I do stuff like this to myself like I'm some sort of masochist or something... that's right, It Came From Chinatown is BACK!

For today, anyway. We'll see how it goes.

So let's get to it, shall we? I give you, with deep regret and sadness in my heart...

This Stuff:



Yeah. No idea. Labeless and menacing, this package of unnamed food (...?) has been siting on my bookshelf for about six months, glaring at me, taunting me like a schoolyard bully, almost daring me to rip open it's shiny, colorful packaging and stuff it in my perma-greasy maw. That I haven't is a testament to my iron constitution; I will not bend to the will of inanimate, nasty snacks. Particularly anonymous ones, as those kind of freak me out. What's worse? There's even a PICTURE of the stuff on the package... there's photographic evidence and I still can't figure out what the hell it is. Freaky stuff, man. Here, take a closer, blurry look:



Okay, the stuff on the left is obviously a pile of peppers (picked by Peter Piper while prodigiously puking, no doubt). From their appearance on the package, we can assume that whatever those fleshy, stringy bits on the right happen to be, they'll probably be spicy. Or, you know, not... half the time, what's on the packaging of Asian snackfoods has little to no relation with what's actually inside. Were there a direct correlation, all their products would taste like happy, cartoon Sumo wrestlers that ride pink hippos to dance parties on the Moon. But yeah... the stuff on the right side of the package... man, I don't know. Kinda scared, actually, in that "am I about to eat something that was once a Chinese dissident who was quietly taken care of by an unfeeling government" sort of way. Not that I'm accusing anyone of anything. I'm not. (please don't kidnap me under the cover of darkness and throw me in a hole where problems disappear, Government of China... was just poking funsies!)

Anyway, let's solve this mystery...



Um, ew. It's fish all right... of some sort. There's that unmistakable farty ocean smell that's halfway between cat food and the deli section of a ghetto grocery store that deals primarily in old meat. I've dealt with food from Chinatown long enough to know that that odor means whatever it is I'm about it eat... yeah, it used to swim. I also want to point out that all these little strips of grodiness being on a little plastic tray kind of creeps me out. Don't know why. I guess maybe it's because, when I think of little plastic trays, I think of horrible, Cronenberg-esque medical experiments like in Dead Ringers or The Fly. I'll grant you that this might just be a "me" thing. Still, it doesn't inspire confidence in the immediate task of eating this crap, nor in my overall life choices that have brought me here.

Here's a closer look at one strip of the... oh, let's call it... fish jerky:



Can't get over how much it resembles dried, human skin. Not that I've seen a LOT of dried, human skin, mind you... no serial killer, me, at least not as far as you can prove... but, dunno, I'm getting a strong Leatherface vibe off this, all the same.

Enough stalling... let's eat:



Chewy to an almost sarcastic degree. Like it's trying to redefine chewy for the new millennium. It's SO chewy, it almost comes all the way around to soft and creamy. Almost. Seriously, I've had Big League Chew that was less elastic. And it is, in fact, spicy. It's not going to give a good plate of buffalo wings a run for their money or anything, nor did it blow out the back of my head like a shotgun suicide of capsaicin glory, but still... you know... there was some heat. But mostly, it just tasted like old, dead fish that someone left in a gym locker with some sweaty towels for a fortnight, although truthfully... and as is so often the case with Asian snacks... not as powerfully so as the smell would suggest. In fact, it was just a tad on the bland side. And believe me, you have work hard to pull off both fishy AND bland. That's like the apex of snacking achievements (or the nadir, depending on your perspective).

Overall, shrugworthy times a million multiplied to the power of meh:



So there ya go... It Came From Chinatown, but with a lower image quality (seriously, some of these are very last known photograph-ish) and a collection of neckties floating in the background, which are there to subconsciously make you think I'm classier than I actually am. Because, trust me, dudes who eat icky shit on camera are not classy. In fact, here's a much more accurate depiction of my reality:

Family sufficiently shamed? Ah good... my work here is done. See y'all next time!!!

New Jobs I'm Considering

Fireman - I think I'd look pretty spiffy all done up in their flame-retardant gear... particularly that long coat all SWOOSH as I run through a burning building clutching a baby that was totally going to catch on fire, had I... A HERO... not been there to save it. But, eh... ultimately, I think if you're a Fireman, you have to carry lots of heavy stuff. And that's a dealbreaker. I mean, babies are one thing. But big, coiled-up hoses and fire hydrants and other, heavier people that are dying of smoke inhalation and third-degree burns? No thanks.

Astronaut - You know that freeze dried ice cream you always got at the science museum? That stuff tastes like a chalky block of sorority girl barf. And, as is my understanding, that's ALL you have to eat when you're in space. Well, that and Tang of course. But Tang is like McDonald's orange drink that's dying from consumption and I'm pretty sure it's actually supposed to be used to kill garden slugs. So, yeah, for entirely gustatory reasons, me being an astronaut isn't going to happen. Also, I don't know how math or science works.

Heart Surgeon - Eeeeeeew. Squishy. But it pays well. If the hospital will let me keep a trash can next to the operating table so I'll have a place to hurl whenever I touch something warm and gloopy, then I'm in.

Millionaire Playboy - I am totally cool with this job. Where can I fill out an application? I've already got a taste for the finer things in life (like NOT buying Malt-O-Meal cereal and generic-brand pickles) and I'm way snobby, too. See, watch... "People with money are FAAAAR superior to people with out money! Dance, servants... DANCE!!!" See. Snobby. So let me in your club, classy millionaires! And hurry; I've got to take a thunderdump!

Brewmaster - I would probably be good at this. But I would also probably drink up all my product and only be able to sell the public pictures of me hungover and crying. They would come in their own frames, of course, and I'd sign them... but... still. Not the same as a delicious, hand-crafted bottle of microbrew. Or some Schlitz that I poured into a few empty long necks because I don't technically know how to make beer (as I am not a magician).

Vigilante - Not a job, technically, but nonetheless... fun! Exciting! You get to sleep in and carry a gun! I'd probably end up avoiding criminals, though (they're mean and might punch me) in favor of bringing down the hammer of justice on people that hit others with their umbrellas on busy sidewalks or talk loudly about movies they've just seen, even though there might be people within earshot that are sensitive to spoilers. I mean, sorry Guy In The Cube Across From Me... not all of us could get tickets to The Dark Knight on the day it opened. Why you gotta ruin it??? Man, I am so going to stab you in an alley. The hammer of justice is swift and surprisingly petty.

Race Car Driver - Remember when this was a slick, coolsy-woolsy profession? All mysterious Italians and zooming around the Autobahn with foxy Eurobabes. Cool sunglasses, silk scarves that didn't look gay, nifty jumpsuits. Now, though... ick. It's all about selling every square inch of car surface over to Geico or Home Depot or M&Ms, and having all your fans be unappealing trailer-dwellers with a lot of shitty kids and credit card debt, and having to spend all your time turning left. Nah, not for me. Unless, of course, you can hook up your iPod to the tape deck inside the car. I think modern day auto racing could do with a little Belle & Sebastian.

High-Level Executive - I would rather jam a Mont Blanc pen in my eyeball. Or take a conference call with every horrific nightmare I've ever had. Or wear a power tie made of ants. Or handle the Johnson account, and by "the Johnson account," I mean a NUCLEAR BOMB!!!

Chef - Er... I'm not much of a cook, to tell you the truth. But, you know, as long as everyone in the restaurant is cool with eating a cheese quesadilla or a grilled cheese sandwich or just a big bowl of microwaved cheese, then, yeah, I guess I could be a chef. Oh, and I could ALSO be a chef like Chef Boyardee. As in, I could be the face of a line of poor-quality canned pasta and/or meat foods. Being appealingly fat is good for sales!

Female Body Inspector - I see these guys walking around all the time, particularly at street fairs and at Wal-Mart, so it can't be that hard a line of work to get into. Plus... eyes? Oh I've got eyes. They're good for inspecting female bodies!

Olympic Events: A Pictorial, Pt. 3

Running



First off, the guy who just won the Gold medal in the 100 meter sprint... his name is Usain Bolt. BOLT! Bit rich, don't you think? What, was Sprinty McRunnerson not available to compete this year? Did Quick Fasterberg have a pulled hammy? I mean, I'm sure Bolt Lightningfeet is fast and everything, but his silly, event-themed name is making a mockery of everything the Olympics stand for; i.e. not having silly, event-themed names. Life shouldn't be like a Warner Bros. cartoon. Anyway, running... it's just okay. The actual races are neat to watch because ZOOOOOM, but all the build up... the standing around, stretching, sipping Gatorade, listening to ex-track stars drone on and on about training regimens and all-carb diets... kind of dull from a TV watcher's perspective. You could get a live feed from the waiting room of a dentist's office and it would be basically the same experience, except for maybe there would be less spandex. Oh, and the starting pistols are cool. I'm thinking of incorporating one into my daily life, matter of fact. Like when I pee or something. Start that shit off with a BANG!

Basketball



I love that our nickname this year is "The Redeem Team." Because "The We'll Try Not Get Our Asses Handed To Us By Argentina Again Team" wouldn't fit on the t-shirts, I guess. Whatever. Seriously, and I mean this, USA Olympic basketball can go fuck itself. Bunch of overpaid millionaire babies with stupid shoes and a lot of ostentatious jewelry. I don't know, I think it's the arrogance that I hate... the whole, we're America, OF COURSE we should take home the Gold medal in basketball because we invented it, doye, and if you invent something you have to be THE BEST at it. Eli Whitney was the best at the cotton gin, ergo, give us the Gold medal NOW, bitches!!! Hate that. Particularly since we've already proven that we're occasionally NOT the best at basketball (see: Argentina in '04). Also... and I guess this isn't technically The Redeem Team's fault or anything, but still... the squeaking of their sneakers on the court drives me totally banana bonkers. It's like a thousand mice in my head doing hits of helium with the Munchkins from The Wizard of Oz.

Water Polo



Easily the worst sport in the Olympics, at least from a spectator's standpoint. Let's see, the athlete's spend most of the game neck-deep in water, so you can barely see them. There's tons and tons of splashing, so what little you CAN see is mostly obscured by flung spume. And then the cameras are up on the ceiling or possibly floating out in the stratosphere, so watching the event is like having nosebleed seats, but in your living room. Were it not for the instant replays, you'd think you were watching a dive team trying to rescue the crew of a capsized fishing boat who all happen to be wearing the STUPIDEST hats known to man. Really, what is UP with those things? They look like if Princess Leia were a plastic robot pool cleaner with no sense of personal shame. I mean, I'm sure they have some sort of function that helps them... ah... do whatever it is that water polo players are supposed to do... but still. Nerds.

Wrestling



Certainly the grab-assiest event in the Olympics. Also the most erotically charged... all that crawling around on the floor, grappling sweaty and adrenaline pumping, muscles straining under intense pressure, seeing that caged-animal look in your opponent's eye and knowing he or she is seeing it back in yours... hot, man. Totally hot. Makes you think those ancient Greeks really knew what was what. It's just too bad you have to wrestle with a member of the same sex. Unless you're in to that sort of thing, that's GOT to be a frustrating experience on par with watching porn with your hands cuffed behind your back. And if you ARE into same-sex throwdowns... dude, way to choose your sport! Like, literally you could not have made a better selection, or at least not until Fucking becomes an offical Olympic sport (give it time). No joke... Boner/Wide-on City!!!

Swimming



I'M YOUR GOD NOW!!!

I Shaved

With a beard, I think I sort of look East Village writer-y, like I've lived over a bar for ten years and probably smell like Old Spice and the cheapest whiskey a stolen ten dollar bill can buy. That sort of image fits well with my idealized, Tom Waits sense of self, even though it's not even true by half. So when I have to shave, because it gets too itchy or I have a job interview or something, it's totally the death of a fantasy. Me without a beard isn't anyone's idea of Bowery cool. My bare-faced self is a pair of chunky-framed glasses away from being a serial killer, but one that is so powerfully dorky, he suffocates his victims with the uncool vapors that waft from his body like the mists of Avalon. Imagine if the dude who shot John Lennon was really into They Might Be Giants, or if John Wayne Gacy wrote a lot of Stargate: Atlantis fan-fiction, or if the BTK Killer was SO into The Fantastic Four, The Fantastic Four came to life and told him to chill because he was creeping them all out. Even Ben Grimm, who's basically just made out of rocks, and do you have ANY idea how hard it is to creep out fucking ROCKS. Way hard, kids... way hard.

Anyway, my point is that all of those guys are me when I shave. Also, it should be noted that without a beard, I look twelve and sad. Like I just got carded at a Denny's or something.

UPDATE: I just realized that I'm wearing the same shirt in the picture above as I am in my profile picture. That's a special kind of blogger-centric tragic that makes plants die and butterflies burst into flames in midair. At least I had the good sense to put my juice box down before I got all crazy with the webcam. BUT STILL.

Micro Story

Reset

It looked exactly like it did on the front of the old NES system... a gray, three dimensional rectangle with the word "Reset" printed on it in a red font... but this one was floating in mid air. It was larger, too, about the size of a baseball card. I didn't know where it came from... I'd been typing in my office, trying to finish a short story about a man who falls in love with a girl from the wrong side of the tracks, and when I leaned back to stretch, it was just... there, hovering above my desk. Eye level. Not a chance I would miss it.

I reached out and touched it... lightly... just to feel if it was real. And it was. It was hot, like a car's hood after a long road trip, and there was a slight vibration to it. It thrummed as if there was an electrical current running through it's mass.

I didn't know what to think. If I had been experiencing madness, then it was complete... I could feel my hallucinations, their residual heat remained on my fingertips. And if it wasn't madness... then... what? Well, I guess then it was a reset button. But for what purpose? I mean, for resetting something, obviously. But... again... what? I stood up and walked around to the other side of my desk, wading through the piles of garbage and dirty clothes that had accumulated during my period of "self-employment." My joblessness, in other, more accurate, words. I was looking for the back of the reset button. However, from the other side, the button did not exist. There was only a slight, shimmery distortion hanging in the air, like the way the world looks through a soap bubble.

The phone rang just then. It was Helena, my wife. We argued, as we always argued. I am no good, says she, and she is a suffocating bitch, says I. But, despite my general lack of goodness, I was to make sure the laundry got done, the kitchen tidied up, a healthy, low-calorie dinner made, by the time she got home. She was calling to remind me of all this; to make sure my writing wasn't getting in the way of my chores. I tell her I won't forget. She says I had better not. I wanted to ask her what the consequences would be if I DID forget... but I didn't. That would have only prolonged the argument and, honestly, the less I have to talk to her, the better. Instead, I slammed down the phone, which didn't make me feel any better about anything.

A reset button? Just hanging there. I stared at it for a long, long time. And then I looked around my filthy office where I spent most of my time pretending to write. Actually, I came here to hide. Then I looked inward, trying to see directly into my miserable, lonely heart. What looked back at me was ugly. Sad. My high school senior photo, on fire, my eighteen-year-old self crying at this vision of what he would become. I made a decision.

A reset button. Just hanging there. I put my whole hand on it. Felt it's heat. Slowly I pushed it in. Everything went white. Then very warm. Then latex covered fingers pulled me out of a wet, dark place. I was slapped and I cried. And now I'm lying here, under a mobile of airplanes and rockets, hungry... so hungry... I'm still aware, though. Still self-aware. I remember the office. I remember the button. Just hanging there. Most importantly, I remember my wife, my life, the path I took. I remember it all.

And now it is time to try again.

Friday Morning Hodgepodge

So, first things firsties, sorry things have been a little light around here this week. I know you expect your beloved C-dog to "ABP" (Always Be Posting) like I'm some sort of totally sexy machine or something. But sometimes... not often, mind you, but SOMETIMES... this old fat-clogged heart of mine just isn't into it. Why? Eh, I don't know. In this case, it's not one particular thing. Got a lot of shit on my mind, guess you could say, and trust me: None of it would make for interesting blog fodder. Remember my whiny birthday post from a couple of weeks ago? Remember how it made you want to stab yourself in the eye with your mom's hot curling iron? Yeah, well, there you go.

But whatever... you guys know me. I never stay down for long. I'm going to keep churning out the Olympics Pictorials for sure, and I'll post whatever else farts into my brain that I think you'd be interested in, and then... soon enough... you'll look around and it will be like I never left at all. And by that I mean, I'll have taken up residence on your couch and eaten all of your Cheez-Its, but, like, metaphorically or whatever.

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One good thing tap-dancing through my life at the moment: I GOTS MY SWEET ASS A NEW COMPUTER!!! Well actually, my folks got it for me, for the aforementioned birthday. It's a laptop, it's totally attractive in a girl-at-the-record-shop kind of way, and... get this... it's got a WEBCAM! Check it out:



Ha! Couldn't you just SHIT??? I can take pictures of myself in my office all fucking day long!!! It's like I've died and gone to narcissist heaven. What's even cooler is that it's this special kind of camera where, if you think really hard about what you love most in the world, it'll show up in the picture imprinted on the shirt you're wearing like fucking outer space magic. Nobel Prize-winning scientists saw my computer the other day and died INSTANTLY from their brains blowing out their skulls and ricocheting into the alley outside our living room. Then a bunch of stray cats ate their brains. It was gross.

But anyway, NEW COMPUTER!

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Fuck man, what else... oh, I think we're going to try to catch that Mirrors flick this weekend. It's either going to be really awesome-nasty, or really lousy-nasty. I mean, I fucking KNOW it will be nasty because it's directed by the same French dude who did Haute Tension and the Hills Have Eyes remake and those movies were like dunking your head into a bucket of slaughterhouse run-off and also the bucket is made from A HUMAN SKULL!!! So yeah, a splattery time, good or otherwise, is in the works. Plus, Kiefer Sutherland. Oh and did you guys see that preview where the chick from Road Trip starts to rip her jaw off??? I nearly peed my pants watching THAT and they cut away before anything even happened. That part's going to fuck me up for life, I can already tell. Because, seriously, ouch.

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Suppose that's it for now. Time to take some more pictures of myself and really focus on my feelings. Maybe have a good cry, then a perhaps a nice, healthy rage dump (because pooping angry is the best kind of pooping, other than pooping drunk) (pooping drunk is only good if you're actually sitting ON the toilet; otherwise, it's a messy heartache). Take care, be good, and I'll post another Olympics thing real fucking soon. Promise on the Baby Jesus.

Olympic Events: A Pictorial, Pt. 2

Diving



I guess it's impressive. I mean, it's just gravity times gymnastics plus water and tiny bathing suits that leave NOTHING to the imagination... nads all smushed together like a melting box of chocolates in a spandex garbage disposal... horrifying... but anyway, yeah, diving is cool. Infinitely more so since Greg Louganis cracked open his melon on the high dive, causing the nation as a whole to spit out it's Doritos all "Holy shit that guy's dead!" It added that element of danger, ya know, or at least it made said element a little more tangible. And I think we can ALL agree that anything is more interesting if there's a chance we might see someone else's blood all over the place and then some screaming in pain and maybe, if we're lucky, a little Theismen-style bone-sticking-out-of-the-leg. Now THAT'S quality television. And by quality, I mean I just threw up everywhere. It was mostly Doritos.

Ping-Pong



Gotta love any event that's equally at home on the world stage of the Olympics AND in your Uncle's basement rec room. Not that there's any connection whatsoever between the two in terms of quality of play. One's all about getting away from the wives for a few hours after the barbecue, smoking some cheap cigars, drinking some cheaper beer, and shooting the shit about Janet from accounting with the cans out to HERE. The other is about being a freaky speedster from China who can locate a little white ball traveling at the speed of sound and hit it with the force of an exploding oil refinery and then do it again and again and AGAIN!!! Fun as shit to watch, though, because it's like drawing a stick figure, then watching some other guy draw a stick figure that comes alive and eats you and all your family. Sure, you're both doing the same thing, but the other dude is performing MAGIC.

Judo



Yeah! KICK HIS ASS!!!

Someone please tell me why this isn't featured in the primetime Olympic broadcasts? Hello, we're AMERICANS! We like watching two dudes beat the snot out of each other. Look at the movies we watch... look at the popularity of Kimbo Slice... hell, even Bob Fucking Barker kicked Adam Sandler's ass! Sure, it was all for laughs, but as a country, we ENJOYED it. Look, I'm not saying that watching Michael Phelps win a million billion Gold medals isn't fun. I'm not saying I don't enjoy seeing the women's gymnastics team fart up the balance beam AND the floor exercises. I'm just saying that it would be nice, in between those events, to see a couple of guys rail on each other like two cabbies in a traffic dispute. C'mon television programmers... feed our insatiable lust for violence!

Gymnastics



And speaking of gymnastics... yeah, I don't know, I can only watch so much of it. Don't get me wrong, the shit done by these chicks (and to a lesser extent, the dudes, as they are not adorable) is nothing short of shit-your-pants amazing. But... see... it stresses me the fuck out. When they come off that vault like POW and they spin around those bars like WHOOSH and they flip around on that beam like SHAZAM, I'm always 100% percent convinced that they're going to fuck up and land on the back of their necks, right where the spinal cord connects to the base of the skull. As much as I may enjoy the occasional ass-whupping and/or diving related head trauma, I'm SO not about a fifteen year old Romanian chick getting paralyzed for life because she was an eensy bit nervous. Makes my stomach hurt, gymnastics, and those of you who CAN watch it are all sick people hoping to see the birth of a quadriplegic. Or, I don't know, maybe you just like the shiny costumes.

Shooting

Hey... whoa... Gold's all yours lady. Sir. Whatever you are... Jesus, just give it the fucking medal, Larry... fuck... please, I've got a family... oh god... OH GOD

(a gunshot rings out in the Beijing night and soon thereafter, a national anthem is played)