7 Things I'm Not Sure Still Exist

NOTE: If you know that any of these things DO still exist, please feel free to share with the rest of the internet.

Aerosol Deodorants - Horrible product. I went through a phase in high school where... I don't know... I thought I was hanging around a lot of 70's locker rooms or something, so I used the aerosol deodorants quite a bit. Then I realized that it sucks to have icy blasts of smell-enhanced air slap you in the pits first thing in the morning. Also, I think they're like napalm for the ozone (I didn't see An Inconvenient Truth but I assume the topic was covered).

Kiwi - Brown and hairy, but a frightening shade of green inside. Plus black seeds. Nah. These things were probably just a myth. There's a Jelly Belly jellybean that's Kiwi flavored, but I think that's just a small lie that covers up The Big Lie. Fruit conspiracies are real, you guys...

Cheri Oteri - She was in every comedy for like three years, then not in anything ever again. She wasn't murdered, was she? Because I'm going to feel really bad if she was killed in a domestic dispute or hit by a stray bullet from a drive-by and I just didn't happen to pick up an Us Weekly that week.

Those really thick Fruit Roll-Up bars that had the lines of "cream" in them - I don't know what they were actually called, but I'll be damned if they weren't some tasty processed corn syrup motherfuckers. Also, remember when Fruit Roll-Up had an "apple" flavor, but it wasn't all bullshit lime green sour explosion whatever? It was brown and it tasted like cider. Those were the best. Now Fruit Roll-Ups are designed to make your mouth turn blue and give kids sugar highs that will last through an entire semester. Fruit Roll-Ups used to be ABOUT something, man...

Boobs - In theory, I know they're still out there... however... it's been a while since I've seen any with my own eyes. I know, I know... internet porn. All I'm saying is you can do a lot of amazing things with special effects. Did y'all know that Pandora isn't real? Those blue freaks are FAKE! James "LIAR" Cameron ain't getting my vote for Best Documentary any more.

Red Dog Beer- The shirts were always more popular than the actual product itself... not to mention the urban legend about how the logo was Batman going down on a chick (don't pretend you don't know what I'm talking about)... but can you still buy this? Could you ever? I bet if anyone would have it, it'd be the ghetto convenience store next to my apartment. They seem to carry all kinds of alcohol, even those that only exist in the fevered imagination of the Wu-Tang Clan.

Clever ways to end a blog post - Because seriously, I got nothin'.

ZFS! Flash Poll: Would You or Wouldn't You?

A) I totally would, especially if he promised to sing to me afterwards.

B) I wouldn't, as I'm scared of the gays. But I would like him to sing for me, and maybe show me nice places to shop. He just seems so put together all the time, like I get the feeling he wakes up smelling good and his pajamas match his slippers and his coffee cup. God, I need a little bit of that in my life. Look at me... I'm wearing a gravy-stained shirt and a pair of shorts that are mostly holes. You can see my balls. I hate my life. Okay... yes... YES... I totally would. I'm so lonely.

C) I loved him on The Wonder Years.

The Greatest Invention Ever

While everyone is busy shitting all over themselves today about the iPad... which, first off, BRAVO for giving yourself a name closely associated with periods, and second, it looks like an 80's cellphone-version of the iPhone, but it costs $11,000 and a slice of your actual soul, why exactly are people getting so hot to death about this... but anyway, while all of America is doing THAT, let's talk about what really is the greatest invention of the last year, or decade, or maybe even ever because it comes with gratis guacamole. Kids, I give you:

The Taco Cabana Enchilada Bowl

Half-eaten, of course, because I couldn't start writing this thing until I'd shoved some of it into my head (any hole will do) and savored its loving warmth and warming love.

Shit, this thing is a work of art. Let me describe it for you, and then tell me if your pants aren't ripped from the boner/your chair isn't now best described as "gooey."

It all starts with one of those taco salad shell-bowl things that have never, not once, been touched by an actual Mexican. They are to Hispanic food what Spaghetti-Os are to the Italians. But that's OKAY. We're not looking for authenticity here. Were that the case, I wouldn't be buying food from a building a shade of pink most associate with Trapper Keepers or Tinkerbell's labia.

So the shell is there all, "bring it on," and into it is poured your standard rice and beans. Cabana's are of good quality, thus it acts as a sturdy foundation upon which to build our dreams.

Here's where it gets apeshit. They start slopping on the toppings with a reckless abandon; chunky pico de gallo, a dollop of sour cream the size of a Cinnabon, a glob of guacamole... you don't even have to ASK for it... it's not a dollar extra, or ANYTHING... it's just there, fresh-looking and eager like a prom date.

Then... oh, my babies... then they take what's already a pretty tasty bowl of food and soccer-style kick it through the uprights of deliciousness: They drop two cheese enchiladas on top of the whole swirling food orgy. Just BLAM and BLAM, right there, soaking in the awesome like a demon getting a suntan from the reflected glory of Satan's balls.

Final step, they melt cheese over the goddamn thing and it's almost more than you can physically handle. It's one orgasm too many, where you feel emotionally exhausted even though you know you'll talk about this day with your friends in a hushed, reverent tone.

And then to eat it... what can one say. It's making out with God, all hot tongue and lip-biting. It's being shot through the very center of your being with an alien light that makes you pure again, virginal, innocent. It's a spicy, savory, neutron bomb that levels your body and makes real life seem impossible, yet within your grasp, all at once.

By that, I mean it makes you want to take a nap so long, it qualifies as a coma. The mess is tasty, but no joke it's like eating an ethnocentric cinder block.

If you live near a Taco Cabana, go eat one of these right now. Seriously. Go. When you eventually get off the toilet (and it'll be a while; bring a book), write me and tell me you don't feel this power and glory too.

NOTE: If you DON'T live near a Taco Cabana... well, sorry. The only options are to move near one, or to learn how to pull the trigger of a shotgun with your toe.

Notes From the First Week of School

NOTE: Isn't it funny how I was all like, "Oh I'm definitely going to keep blogging, I love you and this and everyone, life is a rainbow-colored unicorn's dick," etc, and then I didn't post anything for a week? Remember that??? Yeah, I'm such a scamp.

-Getting up at 7:30am fucking BLOWS. Which is weird, because for three years I had to get up at 6am and it never really phased me. I mean, sure, a lot of it has to do with the vampire hours I currently keep as a waiter in a restaurant that doesn't close until 2am, but still... you'd think I'd be a little more used to the concept of early daylight. And yet... not so much. The last few days that I've had to wrench my body upright at the sound of my alarm... kids, they've just been brutal; a gladiator-esque battle between my resolve to learn (which is represented by a skinny, 90-pound scholar with a pulled hamstring and a wet dishcloth as his only defense) and my desire to just go the fuck back to sleep (which is played by Randall "Tex" Cobb at his Raising Arizona best). So far, that skinny fucker has managed to outwit the lumbering greatness of ol' Tex... but for how long? Can I keep this up? God I'm sleepy...

-My teachers break down like this:

History - A Mexican ex-con who started as a high school dropout and went from getting his GED to earning a PhD in History. That's fucking impressive by anyone's standards. Thus far, he's been a great teacher; very charismatic and interesting. It sucks that he's my first class, because of the aforementioned sleepiness. I feel like, from this guy, I might actually learn something. (though it does beg one question: what the hell is he doing teaching at a community college; dude should be at a real university)

Math - An old man who's kind of a douchebag. I get the feeling he's always been a douchebag, like for his whole life, and how he's just kind of settled into it like a hot tub or a really squishy chair. He's not HORRIBLE, mind you... he explains stuff well enough, I guess... he's just, I don't know, kind of condescending about it. I want to clap his head between two erasers, but not to the point where it keeps me up at night.

Government - Another Mexican guy, this one has two distinct characteristics: He looks exactly like a Hispanic Fisher Stevens, and he has an accent thick enough to stop a bullet. The latter one is the real issue. He knows what he's talking about and he seems like a good teacher, but DAMN... it's really hard to understand the motherfucker. Guess I just have to get used to it or something.

Computers - This class is easily one of the most boring things on the planet, right alongside listening to someone talk about "this crazy dream they had last night" and watching two security guards argue over half of a sandwich. Not helping matters? The teacher, who talksreallyfastlikethis and then, because she knows she talks fast, repeats herself three or four times for every point. THREE OR FOUR TIMES!!! It's a new kind of audio torture soon to be outlawed (but not really) by our government. Also, she looks like an owl and a lizard's greatest mistake.

-I've been starting my day off by eating these protein bars in an effort to not be hungry during class, but to not have to eat a huge, Denny's Grand Slam-style breakfast every morning. They get the job done, which is what's most important, but they taste like chewing on a old gym mat that's been lightly coated in low-grade chocolate manufactured behind the Iron Curtain. Also, they make my pee smell funny. Not asparagus funny, but getting there. They make my pee smell mildly amusing, I guess.

-There's this one girl in my History class who, after only three class periods, has already earned the distinction as The One Whom We'd All Like to Stab In the Eye with a Pen. She's very "Ms. Know-It-All," and it's clearly about to send our teacher back to his prison roots. If anyone gets shanked this year, it's going to be her.

-Total amount of money spent on textbooks: $280. And that's AFTER finding awesome deals. It would have been closer to $450 if I hadn't been a thrifty ninja. People that manufacture and sell textbooks should die painful deaths, possibly involving blood loss via their genitals.

Going Forward

New semester starts today, so I should probably break down for you how the next few months are going to go. I'm nice like that; don't like to leave people all "Wherefore art thou, C-dog?" This, as best as I can see it, is the situation:

-First things first, I am not quitting the blog. Ever again, or at least not for a good, long while. I tried that for a few months and it was kind of miserable. Which is a little bit sad when viewed in a certain light, but I choose to think of it as an artist (ha!) who missed his craft (fart jokes).

-The harsh reality, however, is that I am about to get REALLY busy. I'm taking twelve hours this year... four classes, in other words... and even though they're community college classes, and they're being taught on a campus that's literally highway-adjacent, I'm really not all that smart. Actually, that's not the case; I'm smart enough, I just have issues with motivation and laziness. What I'm trying to say is that the posting, while still regular, is going to be erratically timed and in direct defiance of any sort of pin-downable schedule. For the first few weeks, at least, I'll be flying blind.

-All I ask of you guys is that you don't give up on me. My readership isn't what it once was, back in the good ol' days of NYC and office jobs, but I do want you to know that I value those of you that have stuck around. It's fun to write for you guys. I'm not breaking new ground here or causing publishing giants to wrestle on the floor for a shot at my wares but... well, we have our own fun, I like to think. So just be patient while I try to figure out my crazy-ass schedule. Posting won't stop, but it might get a little wonky.

-Lastly, would you like to hear my current favorite song? I offer it unto you in the name of sharing, caring, and motherfucking swearing. Here now, The Avett Brothers with "I and Love and You."

Just a heads up... I had to disable the ability to comment Anonymously on the ol' blog. While I do enjoy getting yelled at by right-wing crazies, I most definitely DON'T enjoy having to delete the hundreds (well... 30 or 40) spam comments I get every single day. Believe me, it gets old.

So, from now on, you've either got a name and an identity, or you will remain forever silent in the world of ZFS!

Sorry, kiddos! Blame the robots.

Joose: A Journey Into the Heart of Ghetto Beverage Darkness

The word "ghetto" gets thrown around a lot these days, describing everything from a poor part of a particular town (which is mostly the accurate definition) to a sorority girl who's wearing sweats because it's laundry day and she didn't expect to run into any of her friends at the library (this is less accurate; most sorority girls cry if a black person looks at them at Target). However, I feel pretty comfortable in using the term to describe the convenience store that is located next door to my apartment complex. It is GHETTO, from end to end. They sell loosey cigarettes and condoms. They offer Wine-Flavored Swisher Sweets. They sell bootleg DVDs with titles like Crackheads Gone Wild and Miss Best Booty 2007 (they're not even current in their stock of Best Booty competition videos, tsk). And, most importantly, they sell alcoholic beverages like this:



That's right. Joose. A malt liquor so "urban," it's spelled phonetically. I of course had to purchase myself a can. Because what down-market culinary adventurer could pass up a drink that comes adorned with what appears to be rejected Ed Hardy designs, or perhaps that's the alternate cover for Guns N' Roses' seminal album, "Appetite for Destruction?"

Let's take a look at some of the benefits Joose has to offer:



9.9% ALC/Vol - So it's strong. Or at least stronger than a can of beer, say, or even my beloved Steel Reserve. It packs a wallop, which is always appreciated by we drunks on a budget.

Premium - As opposed to what? St. Ides (which is basically distilled hobo pee)? Colt 45 (which makes your hair as greasy as Billy Dee Williams', no one knows why)? King Cobra (which turns your car into a Trans Am and your home into a double-wide)?

Taurine, Ginsing, Caffeine - Ah, nothing like mixing alcohol with stimulants, am I right? I said... AM I RIGHT? I'm sorry, I can't hear you over the frantic racing of my heart!!! My nose is bleeding and the lights are getting brighter...

Natural Flavors - Technically, "butt" is a natural flavor. Just sayin'.

It should also be pointed out that Joose features on its cans a piece of artwork depicting a menacing skull:



I was under the impression that skulls on bottles or cans of liquid meant that the contents were poisonous. Well, they're probably just trying to be all edgy and whatnot. As long as the liquid itself looks okay, I'm sure it's just fine:

Oooookay... It looks like the blood of a creature that comes from beyond the stars. It smells like someone set the mythical game-world of Candyland on fire. Looking at it for too long makes me doubt all the decisions I've ever made in my life, up to and including the purchase of a can of Joose.

But let's get down to what's REALLY important; how does it taste?

Awful. I mean... just... really, really awful. Imagine a Green Apple Jolly Rancher that decided to become a stripper, then ended up getting impregnated by a rubber floor mat from a pimped-out Escalade that got into a lot of wrecks. Joose tastes exactly like their baby; all sticky sweet, but with a mean undercurrent of charred sadness. I've been drinking it the whole time I've been writing this post and... not kidding... I've started to feel worse and worse about myself as I've gone on. This drink literally makes you depressed and, I'll grant the makers of Joose this, fairly tipsy. And hyper. It combines the worst parts of getting drunk with the bad after-effects of a Pixie Stix binge.

After having downed half the can, I'm officially giving up. I think to finish off the whole thing would be crossing a line that can't be uncrossed. I would be turning my back on all that is good and pure in the world. Love, sunshine, the joy of friendship and family... all meaningless words coughed into the ether. Joose allows no happiness. Only a blind, bright green high that consumes, obliterates, and on and on and on.

For real, Joose tastes like licking Willy Wonka's balls. Avoid at all costs, no matter how "ghetto" you're feeling.

Golden Globes or Celebrity Halloween (2010)

Sandra Bullock as...



...a shameless bid to get cast in the next Avatar movie. (she skinned a mythical creature and wore it's pelt around James Cameron)


Drew Barrymore as...



...hospital teaching tool that helps young med students learn how to spot and identify massive body tumors.


Chloe Sevigny as...



...a pretentious jellyfish that goes to award shows ironically.


Mickey Rourke as...



...the bad-guy sheriff in a rock opera western put on by a community theater that comes from a land without a word for "taste."


Nicole Kidman as...



...an antique doll possessed by the Devil that escaped from its Victorian mansion and is about to fuck shit up at a sorority house, circa 1987.


Cher and Christina Aguilera as...



...a million gay asthmatics reaching for their inhalers as the edges of time and space begin to fold in on each other with the clasping of their hands; old self and new self meet as one, ripping the fabric of our world asunder; the darkness is the light, the light is the darkness.


Tracy Morgan as...



...the tour guide to my hopes and dreams.


Kristen Bell as...



...the winner of the Meta Costume of the Night: She's dressed as the wadded-up tissue that was produced by a lonely nerd after masturbating to an all-night Veronica Mars marathon.


Patricia Arquette & Thomas Jane as...

...characters from a hillbilly horror movie come to life and sent out into the world to buy large quantities of meth before peeling the face off a hitchhiker just for fun.

Tina Fey as...

...the least fun lamp shade in the lamp shade store.


Vera Farmiga as...

...a dead-eyed alien that came to Earth to destroy us but fell in love with high fashion and spared us our fate only after being presented with a signed letter from the President allowing her to "go fucking nuts" on Rodeo Drive courtesy of the American people.

Ginnifer Goodwin as...

...the girl from your favorite indie romance who has stepped out of the screen Purple Rose of Cairo-style to poke you in the eye with her umbrella and remind you that no mix tape you could ever make would ever be cool enough for her.


Lea Michelle as...

...the Black Plague.

Christina Hendricks as...

...the reason men will always lose to women in the grand scheme of things, because how are we supposed to compete with THAT? I mean, come the fuck on! She could order you to kill and if she did it in a breathy voice, you'd be smashing out teeth with a tack hammer and trying to figure out what chemicals best melt a human skull, thinking all the while, "I did it, man... I did it for her... God, I want to see her boobs..."

Other People

This came up last night and it's kind of in step with what we've been talking about off and on the past couple of weeks, so I thought I'd share:

We were drinking at this bar in Arlington that I don't really like. It's crowded, everyone seems to be having fun (which is annoying), and it's divided up into six or seven separate rooms, which makes it kind of like getting drunk at the house of some random dude who happens to have several pool tables and a proclivity for inviting over old skanks. Anyway, my buddy Scott and I were discussing the fact that I don't like said bar and he said, paraphrasing...

"You just don't like it because there are people here."

I started to take offense to that, but then I realized that that's actually entirely correct. If the whole place was cleared out and it was just me, I'd be one pleased alcoholic. It's not the place I don't like, it's the fact that the place is filled up with other people. I don't know when that happened; when I became such a hateful, anti-social, semi-agoraphobe. I used to not care about that sort of thing. Suddenly, it's all I care about, or at least to a degree. Maybe it all started when I went back to waiting tables. Dealing with the general public in a service industry capacity will certainly deaden parts of your soul. No question about that.

And I know we've joked about me hating everyone here in the past, but it was really just that... jokes. But to have to brought out in the real world... to make it an actual thing and to realize that I actually do feel that way... I don't know, it was kind of rattling.

I mean, don't get me wrong, it doesn't bother me that much. I like who I am for the most part and I tend to view my outlook on the world as more "cranky old man charming" than "loner slowly growing psychotic locked inside his own mind." Still, though.

Whatever, I guess. It was just kind of a weird moment.

Friday Morning Hodgepodge

I waited on this guy last night who, over the course of five rounds, ordered five different drinks: a pint of Guinness, a gin and tonic, a Makers and Coke, a Long Island Ice Tea, and a vodka and Sprite. This, my friends, is a man who has no idea what he's doing with regards to drinking. Pick one drink (ideally for life, but just for the evening will do) and stick with that motherfucking swill to the bitter goddamn end. I'm sorry, but that's just what's proper. It pisses off your waiter (hi) because he can't anticipate your needs, what with you zigging and zagging all over the place, and... AND... it's going to make you way more drunk and sick than you, you fucking amateur, want to be. Ever heard the phrase, "Never mix, never worry." It's a saying for a reason.

Anyway, it took every ounce of my inner strength to not toss this clown out into the rain. I did fart near his table, though, so... you know... small victories. I'm sure he learned his lesson when his vodka and Sprite tasted like farts.

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

What's sadder?

A) Having an abortion before your wedding

B) A positive AIDS test on your birthday

C) Those horrible ASPCA commercials with the dogs and cats all fucked up and miserable... when that comes on the TV it's a mad fucking scramble to change the channel as fast as I can because if I watch it for more than ten seconds I'm going to find myself trying to pull the trigger of a shotgun with my toe in an effort to repaint my living room wall with my brain.

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

I randomly have tonight off... my first Friday night off in roughly a million, billion years... and I have no idea what to do with myself. I'm thinking I should probably rock out with my cock somewhere (not literally) (okay, maybe literally, let's see how drunk I get), but at the same time there's a part of me... an old, cranky, hateful part... that sort of feels like burrowing into my couch and drinking alone in the dark until I choke to death on my own vomit and/or sorrow.

Eh... I'll probably hit the bars. As much as human contact pisses me off (generally) I'm told that without it, you start to lose your mind. And I mambo dogfish to the banana peels, ya know? Soup!!! SOUP FOR EVERYONE!!!

Titties!!!

Movie Poster A Go-Go

The Crazies



Another horror remake, but it's okay because... well... have you actually seen the original? Not great. Not horrible, mind you; it's got some spiky bits of action, a fun vicious streak, and it's certainly the most vividly colored horror movie Romero ever produced (seriously, it's like he had a marketing deal with Crayola). But really, there's not exactly a classic being desecrated here.

The poster is good, too. I'm a big proponent of farm equipment being used in horror flicks. If someone can figure out how to wield a wheat thresher in a menacing fashion, I'll camp outside the theater a week before opening day. I don't know what it is about farm equipment that I find inherently scary. Maybe it's because the tools themselves imply work, and work is frightening to a person such as myself (lazy to the point where I'm afraid my bones might melt). Or maybe it's because they're usually old and rusty and found in a barn that's stuffed full of dead hitchhikers, the ghosts of dead hitchhikers, and shelf after shelf of canned yams (yams are icky). Either way, big thumbs up to the pitchfork, especially since it's zen gardening up the place with blood.

Oh, and I like the tagline too. "Fear thy neighbor." I currently fear my neighbors... they're meth addicts and will probably burn the building down one day, or at least stab me in the parking lot for drug money... so the sentiment is particularly apt.

Frozen



My first reaction to the plot of this movie... teens trapped overnight on a ski lift during a blizzard... was a hearty eye-roll and a round of scoffing that made me sound like a 19th century barrister. Then I thought about it for a minute. You know what? If I were trapped on a ski lift overnight during a blizzard, it probably WOULD be pretty scary. Especially since I'd have no idea how I got on the ski lift in the first place, seeing as how I don't ski. Ever. A fat man was not meant to travel at such speeds.

I ended up watching the trailer for this and, okay, it looks pretty alright. There's this part where one of the chicks wakes up and realizes that her hand is stuck to the metal safety bar of the ski lift... then she rips it off!!! Pretty intense, especially for those of us who've damaged their tongues in a similar manner because they didn't believe the the rumors when they were 11.

The poster makes this look like Cliffhanger, though. So that's lame. Don't tempt me with evil John Lithgow and not deliver, Frozen. Not cool. (see what I did there)

Wolfman



Eh. As much as I dig the old Universal monster movies, this just doesn't do anything for me. I've never really "gotten" Benicio Del Toro, for one thing, and also werewolves are my least favorite supernatural subject for a movie ever (with the exception of the Jack Nicholson movie Wolf, because it had a scene where Jack Nicholson peed on James Spader, and that's just spectacular).

This poster sucks, too. Part of it's in French... HELLO, This is AMERICA!!!... and it's just a bunch of floating heads hovering over... what? A midnight rave? An alien abduction? The return of Jesus?

Yeah, no thanks. Remake The Creature from the Black Lagoon, and maybe we'll talk.

Sex and the City 2



Good lord. This poster is like having a disco ball shoved up your ass. Which, coincidentally, is something I'd rather do than sit through this movie.

Other things I'd rather do than sit through Sex and the City 2:

-Have a weed-wacker indelicately applied to my scrotum
-Take an invigorating swim in AIDS blood
-Hang out at an abortion clinic on Christmas Eve
-Get thrown in a prison shower wearing a tattered prom dress
-Marry, settle down, and start a family with an angry grizzly bear

Edge of Darkness

I don't like it when they make the posters look like the star of the movie is having a gun fight in a tornado. Why it gotta be all swirly/blurry? It's not dramatic. It just looks like there's a lot of straight-line winds with flung debris.

Anyway, this movie looks okay... kind of like Mystic River, if Sean Penn had decided to just kill a bunch of people instead of mourn in an Oscar-winning fashion. I do like, however one particular line in the trailer. At one point, Ol' Mel growls in voice-over, "Well you had better decide if you're hangin' on the cross, or banging in the nails."

Okay, that's hardcore. Welcome back, Riggs!!! We'll try to keep the Jews out of the audience for you.

Worth Your Valuable Time

I love Vampire Weekend, I do, but I kind of also want to hit them with a rolled-up magazine, or maybe one of my flip-flops. Don't get me wrong, they're talented musicians; one's that are making music that doesn't sound like anything anyone else is doing right now. However, there's a smugness in their songs; a preppy pretension that's sort of like a college sophomore telling you about the plight in Darfur while eating a cranberry scone at the student union.

Keep in mind, I listen to their self-titled debut album at least once every couple of weeks. Still, though, it wouldn't be out of line to say that the band is in need of a moderate ass-kicking.

Anyway, they've got a new album out. Sounds good so far, even if it does represent a further climb up into Graceland-era Paul Simon's butt. At this rate, their next album is going to feature Ladysmith Black Mambazo, a real indigenous tribesman from the Congo wailing on a homemade drum, and a vocal solo by a lion.

Here's the first single off their new album, "Contra." It's called "Horchata" and is about, in my estimation, drinking Horchata in a balaclava. Enjoy!

I'll Feel Like a Dick All Day If I Don't Post Something About Haiti

You've probably already heard about it, but last night Haiti got it's ass handed to it by a 7.0-scale earthquake (that's massive, for all you non-natural disaster enthusiasts). This would be bad enough, but the whole thing is compounded by the fact that Haiti is one of the poorest countries in the world. Basically, there's no money to rebuild or to help their people out or anything. It is, to put it mildly, a world of suck going on over there right at the moment.

So, if you're feeling like tossing a few bucks their way, here's an article from the Huffington Post outlining all the organizations that are set up to direct your money to the places it's needed most:

I'm Helpful.

If you'd rather pretend that this isn't happening; that the world we live in isn't a cruel motherfucker of a planet and that when we die, we all get a high-five from Jesus and a basket full of jumbo Toblerones, here's a link to a video of a sleepy kitten:

HAHAHAHA, Oh, he's SO sleepy!!!

And yes, for the record, I have already donated money myself (to the Red Cross, specifically), which means I get to be as high-and-mighty about it as I please. That's the deeply selfish side benefit of doing good. Hell, for some of you, it might be the MAIN benefit. Either way, send some cash. They need it more than you.

The Cult of C-dog

That's right, bitches!!! Today is the dawning of a new era in holiness. All other religion is false. All other prophets are straight-up poindexters. For it has been written that a fat man would rise up from the ashes (a small, one-bedroom apartment near a Mexican event hall) and come forth to gather, to lead, to teach, to sex up, and to take large monetary contributions from the lowly masses. O, thou forgotten souls... thou miserable and wretched... thou chunky and ill-kempt... thou too cool for school and in need of dance lessons... your time is NOW!!!

It is I, your new Messiah!!! C-DOG!!!

Roll that name around in your mouth for a minute and say it doesn't freshen your breath... and your soul!!!

Let me tell you a little bit about how this is going to work. You might want to take notes, as there will be a quiz at orientation. Those that fail the quiz will be stripped naked and forced to fight out in the parking lot; those that pass will be welcomed into the cult and, as a reward, offered Seven Minutes in Heaven (heaven is the closet in my living room) with yours truly.

Origins

C-dog was once like any other man; a waiter, kind of a drunk, adept at spending long hours watching reruns of Roseanne and eating his considerable weight in ice cream sandwiches. One day, while out for a late-night stroll to the convenience store that illegally sells beer after midnight (as well as loosey cigarettes and foot-fetish pornography), C-dog tripped over a dropped 40oz of St. Ides malt liquor and fell over in a heap on the cold, fairly nasty asphalt. When he came to, he found an angel standing before him. Or, rather it was a tranny dressed as an angel, but it still counts as a sign because... I mean, c'mon. ANGEL! The tranny-angel said unto him, "You have fifty cents; I need to call my landlord." C-dog did in fact have upon his person fifty cents, and he gave it the hulking tranny-angel. "You a sweet thing, sugar," he/she said to C-dog, and tottered off into the steamy, Arlington night.

Oh, and as she walked away, the tranny-angel said, "You should think about starting a cult."

Thy will be done, tranny-angel... thy will be done.

The Eight Commandments of C-dog (because any more than that is getting dangerously close to some copyright infringement issues)

1. C-dog is the Way and the Light. He'd probably liketh very much a sandwich right about now. Go taketh him a sandwich.

2. Pants optional.

3. Any money or goods valued at over fifty dollars ($50) should be given as tithes to C-dog. Maybe wrap them, too. Nothing fancy, but enough to show you care.

4. Cleanliness is no longer next to Godliness. Cleanliness has been replaced by Sluttiness.

5. Don't kill anybody in the name of C-dog. Showing up at court is SUCH a hassle. (wet willies and purple nurples, however, can and should be delivered to thine enemies at will)

6. Farting is hilarious, but if it gets to be a bit ripe in here, he who dealt it must openeth a damn window.

7. Don't touch the ice cream sandwiches in the freezer marked "C-dog." Those are only for C-dog. You couldn't handle them anyway because you're not the Messiah.

8. When someone says, "Let us doeth some shots," you must... you know... doeth some shots. Happy hour is from 5pm-'til-7pm. Nickel wings and dollar drafts on Tuesdays.

The Particulars

-I'll be honest with you, there's been a little bit of trouble securing a compound. Apparently the Realtors won't accept a blessed bag of Funyuns as a down-payment. So, for the time being, we'll have to start the cult in my apartment. Most of you will be crashing on the floor, so bring a sleeping bag. The ones that want it the most, if you catch my drift, can sleep in the Holy Love Bed with me, C-dog. (chicks only) (maybe dudes too... we'll see how crazy the nights gets)

-Three times daily, you will eateth of the Holy Sacrament. This consists of a handful of Cheez-Its, a shot of rotgut bourbon, and a dollop of Reddi-Whip (it was on sale). All other meals are on you (there's a Taco Bueno near my place... er, near The Compound... as well as a Subway sandwich shop).

-Your waking hours will be filled with toil, for toil is the pick axe that breakeths the shackles that bind you to this Earthly life of shittiness. Mostly, your toil will involve running errands for me... mailing my Netflixes, making liquor store runs, some light vacuuming, etc. If you're not toiling, then you should be giving me a rubdown, or at least dancing in a comical manner for my amusement.

-After nightfall, we'll break out the kegs (that you bought as an offering to me) and then The Compound be a-rockin', if you get me!!! When the nightly kegger ends, that's when the sweet, sweet worshiping starts. If you catch my drift. Sex... big time sex!!! There'll be just so much sex, you'll slip on the way to the bathroom due to the amount of "worship" flung all over the damn place. It'll be a wild scene, man! And, you know, totally holy and whatnot.

How To Join

Shit, it ain't brain surgery. If you want to be a part of my cult, just shoot me an email with your name, net worth, an attached nude photo, an essay describing your love for me (C-dog), and your location. If you're holy enough, I'll send you a Google Map with directions to the compound.

Oh, and there's a membership card! Print that bitch out and then you can identify other members and... if the deal goes through... get a nice Bloomin' Onion from your local, participating Outback Steakhouse (don't try to claim said free Aussie-tizer just yet, though, as we're still in negotiations and I don't want to queer the deal):



So there you have it. The Cult of C-dog is open for business!. Come to me, those that seek the answers to the questions that hold within them nothing more than the meaning of our existence. They're most likely in my pants, so start looking there.

Your Family is Awful

I want to extrapolate on something I mentioned yesterday... two things, actually... because I want there to be an understanding between us with regards to how much I hate other people, generally, and your family, specifically.

Let me first say that I don't hate your family, or people, really, as individuals. They all have hopes and dreams and a right to exist just as much as I do (though, granted, they do it much less handsomely). What I mean when I say "I hate people" is that I hate the IDEA of people... the mass of humanity that one has to deal with on a daily basis. Maybe it's because I work in the service industry, where I routinely come into contact with the worst specimens our population has to offer...

To wit: Last night, I waited on an extremely oily dude who was pouring drinks into a prostitute (not kidding) that he had just picked up from, in my estimation, a detox center or some sort of used clothing store that traffics mainly in Spandex. It was a sad scene; who has to get a prostitute drunk first? That totally misses the point of paying for sex.

Anyway, point is, we as a group are awful and I hate us. Which brings to your family.

Here's the thing... I love MY family. They're good people, fun to be around, tolerant of my excesses and lifestyle choices, and they've always been decent (TOO decent) to me. That being the case, I see no need to have another family in my life. So if I'm going to find a girl to settle down with (on the couch, in our sweats, eating frosting from the can with a butter knife), I'd really prefer it if she was an orphan or her whole family was in jail for tax fraud. Or some such, the details aren't important.

Mainly, it has to do with the holidays. I don't want to do your family's weird Christmas shit.

"Every year, Pop Pop and Mee-Maw sing 'Silent Night' and we all gather around them with lit candles and whisper our hopes for the new year into each other's ears."

"We have a White Elephant gift exchange every year and in between rounds, all the kids reenact the birth of the sweet Baby Jesus, but with hilarious raps!"

"We don't give gifts... we just write poems to each other expressing our love, then we read them aloud and the winner gets a wreath."

NO!!! God fucking dammit, no!!! I don't want to do any of that. Ever. It's cheesy and Pop Pop smells like unusual ointments and the only one having a good time is Mee-Maw, and that's because she thinks she's at a WAC dance in 1942. Also... ALSO... your family puts out weird snacks (celery and Italian dressing? curried nuts? is that egg salad or really bad cheese?), the bathroom is uncomfortably close to the main gathering room, and I'm pretty sure your cousins are making out under the mistletoe and no one seems to care!

Please, I just want to hang out with my family... who, for the record, don't do any weird Christmas shit at all... and drink enough liberally-spiked egg nog to make me forget about all the evil in the world for a little while.

I'm not joking about this. One of these days, I'm going to meet a nice girl and we're going to get married and every year, I will pitch a huge fucking fit about having to deal with her family over the holidays. I will be petty and childish about it. I will pout and drink in secret and steal her car keys and try to ruin Christmas for everybody. Soon her family will have a brand new holiday tradition... not inviting me over ever again.

Anyway, now it's out in the open. Ladies, you can't say you weren't warned. (p.s. your family smells)

What I Look For in a Woman: Then & Now

THEN (late teens, early, mid, and early-late 20's)

-A modern-day Annie Hall; someone one wacky and weird, but with a unique perspective on life.

-Inherent beauty like some sort of Italian painting ripped off the wall of a museum; perfection isn't necessarily key, but being within spitting distance would be a major plus.

-Killer CD collection; we should be able to swap life-changing mix tapes back and forth until one of us dies a tragic death set to an obscure Joy Division B-side.

-The sexual appetite of that chick from Species, but without all the chest cavity puncturing.

-An intellect that both challenges and stimulates me; a deep love of trivia is sexier than all the lingerie in every Frederick's of Hollywood franchise across the USA.

-A tolerance for alcohol that rivals my own, if not surpasses it. Think Nicholas Cage in Leaving Las Vegas, but as a foxy lady sans the death wish.

-Sass.

NOW (now)

-No penis.

-Her own place, so I don't have to move anything in my apartment.

-A fondness for splitting a pint of Ben & Jerry's while watching lengthy marathons of TV episodes on DVD.

-A bad relationship with her parents, so I don't have to meet her parents.

-Two arms, two legs, and at least 90% of all fingers and toes (I'm flexible on this one).

-Must be okay with me keeping my shirt on during sex. I don't want to, in the heat of the moment, confuse my boobs with hers. Very embarrassing.

-A preference towards being "the little spoon."

-A relaxed attitude towards farts (she's allowed to fart too; my relationships are a two way street, gas-wise).

-A hatred for other people that matches my own.

ZFS! Poll: Frozen Drinks for Guys

Last night, I had a table of frat-ish guys in their early-to-mid 20's drinking round after round of the fruitiest frozen drinks our humble sports bar has to offer. We're talking strawberry margaritas, this blue thing we've got that looks like if a neon sign took a dump, and one dude even had a pina colada (in the middle of January during a cold snap, no less).

My question to you, my gentle, well-endowed readers, is this:

Guy's drinking frozen drinks in a sports bar:

A) Unacceptable. Drink a damn beer and shot, or your basic booze of choice + one mixer (i.e. Jack & Coke). Those are the only true options for a guy not currently wearing a dress.

B) Who cares? As long as they're getting plowed, what's the difference. To each their own.

C) Alcohol is for sinners!!!

Friday Afternoon Hodgepodge

That's right... the 'podge is back. And there was much rejoicing. Or, rather, a slight flicker of recognition followed by a pang of nausea, finished off with a wave of sleepiness that leaves you half-lidded and drooling onto your keyboard/schmancy mobile device. Sorry I made you ruin your iPhone!!! I will not reimburse you.

(I will let you play with my Droid, though)

("Droid" is what I call my penis)

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I've been putting a lot of serious thought into this whole "starting my own cult" thing and, yeah, I think it's going to happen. Give me a couple of days to iron out the details... securing a compound, writing up the commandments, getting a full-body wax so I'll be ready for the minions (you) to bath me in scented oils... and I'll get back to you on how to join up. There's going to be membership cards!!!

Also, if someone wants to go to the trouble of Photoshopping my face into a picture of Jesus, that would help me out a lot. I've been trying my best with MS Paint, but it looks raggedy and that simply WILL NOT fly when you're trying to convince people that you're the second coming of God's #1 Son.

No hanging-off-the-cross shots, though. We're an upbeat cult and crucifixion is so not on.

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At some point in the past few days, most likely during a drunken stumble to the ghetto convenience store next to my apartment complex, I picked up a large can of something called "Joose." It appears to be a malt beverage of some sort, and one with an ALC/Vol of 9.9%. It looks very... oh... let's call it "ethnic." Anyway, I'm going to be taste testing it later on in the week right here on this very blog. If it's tasty, it may become my cult's holy water (though how it will ever beat the current candidate... bottom-shelf whiskey... is a mystery).

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I've started watching The Wire and it's GOOD, man. Holy crap, is it good. I'm still not quite sold on its Best! Show! Ever! reputation, but... then again... I'm only on the first season. I will say this, though: Dominic West, who plays Det. Jimmy McNulty, has officially knocked Christopher Meloni's Elliot Stabler off the pedestal marked Law Enforcement-Themed Man Crush. I don't want to make gay babies with him or anything, but I do want him to save my life and then take me out for an ice cream sundae. And I want him to feed me that sundae. That's not weird, is it?

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To close out the week, here's a little wistful, British, dance rock for you. It's a band called Bloc Party and the song is, "I Still Remember." It makes me feel like I'm leaving a party in the 80's but I accidentally stumble into a time machine and come through a wormhole twenty years in the future where all my friends have died from overdoses and the baseline global emotion is "the gloomies." But in a good way.

Enjoy!!!

Black Day on Sesame Street

How... how could you? What could he have possibly done to deserve this? He was harmless!!! "C" was for cookie, and that was good enough for him. Oh god, who's going to tell Big Bird? Who, I ask you??? WHO???

I Could Be More Interesting

Ever since I left New York, I've found myself to be really lacking in the "interesting" department. I mean, I'm okay... there are certainly blander people out there... but, I don't know, for so long, living in New York was MY THING, man. I was this fat kid from Arlington, TX, sure, but I lived in the Big Apple, baby, Gotham... The Big Easy... The City of Lights... Funky Town! Er, wait... well, you know what I mean. I was a New Yorker, or at least a facsimile thereof, and that made me interesting (not to other New Yorkers, granted, but to the world at large... particularly the South... who still views NYC as Satan's rumpus room).

Now that I'm back in Arlington, though... eh. I'm an Arlingtonian again and believe me, the world could give a shit. The only time we're in the news is when Jerry Jones does or buys something stupid, and even then it only gets mentioned in a "boy those Texans sure are a bunch of dumb hicks" kind of way. Not flattering.

So, to that end, I've decided that I need to make myself more interesting. I need some pizazz, some sparkle, some goddamn flash all up in here. I took a good hard look at myself this morning, in between my morning dump and my morning post-dump nap, and decided that the three things that COULD be interesting about me are just not going to cut it. For the record, those are:

Beard - I could be That Beard Guy, but when you get right down to it, my beard is not that impressive. It's definitely beardy, but it's no mountain man face rug. ZZ Top be not proud.

Drunkenness - I do drink a lot, but I'm not exactly racking up Hemingway-esque numbers. Plus, I don't know if I want to known exclusively for my ability to do a lot of shots with out peeing on the bar (though that IS a nice skill to have).

Fatness - I think one's fatness only becomes interesting when it gets to the point where TLC (the network, not the R&B group) films a documentary about you. Not sure if I'm ready for that kind of commitment.

So you see, I've got to find SOMETHING. Here's what I've come up with. Feel free to add your own in the comments below. C'mon guys, let's rally together. Let's make me interesting!

Ways to Be More Interesting

Accent - I have a little bit of a North Texas twang, but then again so does everyone else around here. Maybe I could start talking with a sexy Irish brogue, or perhaps an Australian accent. The ladies love those. Of course, if I suddenly started pretending I was from the mean streets of Dublin or the shores of Melbourne, people who already know me... and, thus, know what I sound like... might think I'd started huffing oven cleaner.

Huffing Oven Cleaner - That's not a bad idea, actually. I could be the guy that's always huffing oven cleaner. Hm... then again, that could possibly kill me. Also, what a horrible way to get high. Yeah, on second thought, better pass on that one.

Parrot - Nothing says "interesting" like having a parrot on your shoulder at all times! People would probably want to buy me shots in exchange for some "parrot time." I didn't mean that in a sexual way. Don't be gross. Anyway, now that I think about it, everyone hates the Parrot Guy. Mainly because he always smells like parrot poop.

Serial Killer - Everyone does seem to like that Dexter show. Eh... probably really messy. Plus, most potential victims could probably out run me, as I am slow and unathletic. I do like stabbing things, though... No, no, terrible idea. Prison wouldn't agree with me, as I doubt they allow naps.

Magic - I've always had a soft spot for magic tricks. And, being as how I work in a bar, that shit could really wow a crowd of drunks (drunks are easily fooled by sleight of hand and... if we're being honest... traffic lights). Then again, I am a tubby dude, and tubby dudes that do magic almost never get laid, like to the point where their penis stops believing in God. Then from there it's just a few lonely Friday nights until I start playing World of Warcraft, which would invariably lead to me marrying a 400 German goth named Ula (which is the point of World of Warcraft, right?). I guess all of that would make me kind of interesting, but it'd be the kind of interesting that would make me shoot myself in the face.

Drag Queen - I do look good in heels. However, this is Texas. I think that's still a hanging offense down here.

Cult - Having my own Branch Davidian-style cult could be pretty cool, especially because you get to have a bunch of wives (hello, ladies!!!). Plus... I've always been a fan of stockpiling guns and not paying taxes. And, you know, we're all going to die anyways; having the government shoot fire into my compound would be a pretty fucking sweet way to go out. Yeah... that's it... unless any of you can come up with something better, you can start referring to me as His Holiness, The Master. My cult is going to be so sweet, you guys!!!

Getting Avatarded: Post-Movie Thoughts

NOTE: Part Two of my somewhat-belated coverage of the movie Avatar. For Part One, check the post below this one (too lazy to link!)

Let me get the hard part over with first; I was dead wrong about Avatar. It was WAY better than I thought it was going to be. James Cameron came up to me as the credits were rolling and kicked me in the balls, and I said, "Thank you, sir... thank you."

Now, was it a perfect movie? No. It was pretty damn great, but let's not get crazy. We will, however, break this fucker down like a side beef. Shall we...

The Good

-Hands down, Avatar is the most visually impressive movie I have ever seen. There's no debate there; the things he does with the 3D technology are mind-blowing, across this board. This isn't cheesy "comin' at ya!" effects. It's an immersive experience that makes it feel like a crashing space ship is going to land right on your nuts. The visuals make the movie immense; there's been a lot of talk about how Cameron has created a new, fully rich world in Avatar and, as silly as that sounds... after having seen the damn thing... they're right. The tiniest details are accounted for and it is a pleasure to behold. However, hear me on this... ONLY SEE AVATAR IN 3D. Watching it on a regular screen in plain jane two dimensions is missing the point in a spectacular fashion. I actually feel sorry for people that saw it 2D. I want to give them a hug and bring them warm soup.

No joke, the visuals alone are reason enough to go see Avatar. Even if you hate the movie, you'll still enjoy going "wow" every five minutes.

-The acting in the movie wasn't bad; no "George Lucas, people are just props for my techno-wizardry to shine around" bullshit here. Sigourney Weaver is always great, Giovanni Ribisi... despite playing the exact same character as Paul Reiser in Aliens... is a fun villain, and the guy that plays the crazy head Marine is just hammy enough to make it rooting against him exciting. The real props, though, should go to Zoe Saldana, who plays the lead chick alien. Her performance is entirely digitally enhanced (much like Andy Serkis as Gollum in the LOTR series) and she absolutely fucking nails it. All the sympathy we feel for the plight of the alien race is directly tied to her skill at portraying real emotions under a thick veil of 1's and 0's.

The Not-So-Good

-The plot is essentially the same as Dances With Wolves. No way around it... Military man joins up with the opposition to learn their ways as a means to manipulate them, yet he instead falls in love with their culture... and one of their more shapely women. Thus, he leads the insurrection against what was once his own side. Calvary and Indians, Marines and an alien race... different planets, same world.

-Avatar gets a little heavy handed at times with the whole "this is an allegory for this" thing. Genocide, the way American has treated and still currently treats other countries, our love of military might over heartfelt emotional connections. It's all there and it's all handled with the subtly of a really, really, really, really obvious atom bomb. Also, there's a heavy streak of Earth Mother mysticism running through Avatar that made me feel like I was back working at Whole Foods again. Just try to ignore all the bits about the "energy of the forest" and the "Tree of Souls," or you might accidentally roll your eyes hard enough to give yourself an aneurysm.

-James Cameron knows his way around an action scene better than just about anybody (the final 30 minutes of the flick may be one of the best, most epic battles ever captured on film). HOWEVER, what he totally sucks at? Dialogue. He can build cameras from scratch, but he can't technically write the way people talk. It's just not his bag. All can be forgiven because OOOH, PRETTY, but still.

-The lead actor, Sam Worthington, is a grade-A hunk of Australian beef. Apparently, that's all you need to get super-famous in Hollywood these days, because he really lacks any other appreciable qualities. He's not HORRIBLE or anything, don't get me wrong. He's just kind of the place where charisma goes to lie down for a nap. The story would have been a lot more involving had he been a more energetic, interesting presence.

Wrap-Up, + Candy

So yeah... go see Avatar if you want to get your eyeballs exploded (in a good way). Be warned, though... this is some next-level shit. Movies won't seem the same afterwards.

As for the real important stuff... what candy I ate in the theater... I went for Skittles, which I think I'm finally done with. They were fine as candies go, but I think I'm just burnt out on them. Time to switch back over to Twizzlers for a little while. You heard it here first!

Getting Avatarded: Pre-Movie Thoughts

NOTE: This is Part One of a two-part post concerning the film Avatar, which I will be seeing at 11:15 this morning. This post will cover my thoughts going into said film; part two will contain a review, as well as an in-depth discussion of the candy consumed at the theater and why it was delicious.

Let me be perfectly frank with you good, pleasant-smelling people: Avatar, judging by the previews, looks totally stupid. I know this is a controversial opinion and, it seems, one without much merit given that everyone on the planet has seen and enjoyed the movie except for a few Inuits stuck on an ice flow in Northern Canada, the legally brain dead taking up bed-space in our nation's great hospitals, and myself. Yet, I hold fast to that statement. Have you SEEN the trailer? With the big bird thing? And all the half-naked blue people running around? Those fuckers are what really bug me about Avatar, and here's why: When I see the blue chick rocking a bikini all sexy-tits, it makes me think of one thing and one thing only... James Cameron beating off. What I mean is, Avatar is a labor of love for the dude; he's been making it for, in my estimation, a million billion years (or since Titanic came out, whatever). There are only two things that could keep a person interested in a project that long; the need to pay a large debt back to the mob, or a sexual fetish... say, for ten-foot tall blue chicks... so powerful, it gives you carpal tunnel just thinking about it. Avatar, in my estimation, appears to be a lot of visually busy sci-fi noise that really only exists to cover up a sad, lonely man's desperate attempts at maintaining an erection.

Of course, I could be wrong.

There's every chance that Cameron is just a big ol' nerd with an unholy (and by that, I literally mean "satanic") amount of money at his disposal and this... a three-hour movie about, apparently, violent rain forest conservation... is what we get when we turn someone like that loose.

I guess we'll see. But if James Cameron jizzes on the back of my neck at ANY point during the screening, I'm out.

ADDITIONAL THOUGHTS

-"The plot and characters and acting are all kind of weak, but the visuals, man... THE VISUALS." This is almost as big a turn-off as, "...yeah, but it's got a GREAT soundtrack." You know what else has great visuals? Internet porn. And for that, I don't have to leave my apartment. Or put on pants.

-Junior Mints or Twizzlers? How can I possibly choose between them? Why must life be so fucking hard???

-The real nugget of truth here is that, were Avatar not being shown in 3D, I probably would just wait for video. What can I say, I'm a sucker for that additional dimension. I would like to point out, though, that My Bloody Valentine 3D featured a guy taking a pick-axe to the back of his head, causing his eyeball to be thrust outward towards the audience. It was awesome. Oh, Avatar... do YOU have 3D eyeball stabbings? The answer to that question kind of makes or breaks you in the court of C-dog's Opinion. Just sayin'.

Tour Guidin': My Refrigerator

NOTE: As I've been away for a while, I thought it would be a good idea to start a new feature here at ZFS! that re-introduces you to the man, the myth, the collection of odd smells and stains known simply as... C-dog. To that end, I give you Tour Guidin', a collection of photo tours through various aspects of my existence. Will this be the series of posts that finally scores me that Pulitzer Prize? Or at least a mention on Web Soup? Only time will tell. First up...

My Refrigerator



More depressing than those ASPCA sadness-porn commercials? Teeming with enough bacteria to technically qualify it as "a hot zone?" A repository for loose ketchups and ice-cold human misery? Yes, yes, and oh god I'm so alone. My refrigerator is that of a bachelor, a man living alone and thus unconcerned with having food of any discernible quality at his disposal. Remember that scene in Ghostbusters when Sigourney Weaver finds the Devil Dog in her fridge? My fridge is exactly like that in terms of scariness, but replace the inter-dimensional demons with an abundance of forgotten tacos and mushy tumors that once, long ago, were some sort of fruit (the exact variety has been lost to the sands of time).

Oh, before you ask, that IS a bag from Pier 1 Imports in my fridge. I don't want to talk about it. Let's just say that sometimes, wicker needs to be shown who's boss.

Tour Stop #1 - A Cool Whip Container Full of Homemade Gravy



There is no foodstuff on the planet that looks more like congealed barf than a nice, chunky gravy made with tender, loving care that has been left to solidify, fester, and gain partial sentience in a fridge since Thanksgiving. When I go for a beer, it tries to tell me refrigerator-based gossip (the sticks of butter are slutting it up with the hot sauce). Once, it tried to bum a smoke, then became enraged when I told it that I don't partake in that particular vice. Ever seen enraged gravy? It will chill you to the bone, man. I live in fear of the day that I accidentally knock the gravy off its shelf, letting it loose into the fridge's interior. Then it's only a matter of time before I have a new roommate... a gravy roommate. Sure, I could throw it away, but what if it tries to rob a convenience store? Then I'm to blame. No, best that I keep it in my fridge; that way I can keep an eye on it. (and it can keep an eye on me)

Tour Stop #2 - A 24oz Can of Steel Reserve Malt Liquor



"A large can of immensely crappy beer in your fridge? Excuse me if I don't pass the fuck out on my Victorian fainting couch from the total lack of shock."

I know, I know... and, hey, no need for the sarcasm (nice couch, though; looks comfy). What's significant about this particular sort of beer is that it's the exact same size and brand that I used to drink every night when I was dead-broke and living in the ghetto-iest ghetto in Brooklyn. They were two for $3 back then and, as Steel Reserve has roughly the same alcohol content as a stiff pour of off-brand weed killer, they were my go-to libation of choice just about every night for a good stretch of 2005-2006. What I'm trying to say is, NOTHING HAS CHANGED!!! Even in another city in a state far from the mean streets of Bed-Stuy, I'm STILL drinking cheaply and shittily. And I'm nearly thirty years old!!! Growth is for pussies that doubt their choices, I say.

On an I'm sure completely unrelated note, I'm coughing up blood!

Tour Stop #3 - Batter Blaster!!!



Goddamn right, Batter Blaster!!! It's pancakes in an aerosol can, motherfuckers, can you wrap your hands around that hot, throbbing concept? You just go SPRLUUUURCH into a buttered pan and BLAMMO, you've got so many pancakes to shove in your maw, it's like a three-way with Mrs. Butterworth (three words: maple-flavored lube).

Plus, you can do batter whippets.

Seriously, though, these are totally delicious and easy to make when you're gooned out of your mind on nitrous oxide and and malt liquor and just want some greasy carbs to stick into your face.

Batter Blaster!!! Also an excellent name for your penis!!!

Final Stop - A Mysterious Bag of Meat

I think it's hamburger patties. It might be a human head. I'm not really sure, to be quite honest with you. I black out a lot, and when I wake up, more often than not I'm covered in blood. A lot of blood. I'm afraid to open the baggie because what's in there might have a face. I can't handle having killed again... Oh, god... please... no...

Oh, wait, it IS just hamburger patties. We had a Christmas Eve grill-out, that's right. Whew. By the way, I was just kidding about that "I've killed" thing from earlier. Funny ol' C-dog, just clowning around. Ha ha... heh...

DON'T LOOK IN MY FREEZER!

Fun With Anonymous Commenters

"YOU are a horrible person to be feeding information to people like this. Ugh. People like you have damned our younger generation. JESUS IS GOOD. ALL DAY EVERYDAY(:"

This is in reference to a series of posts I wrote last year about pop culture-themed religious Facebook flair. You remember: It was a scathing attack on organized religion designed to turn our nation's younger generation towards... worst case... Atheism, and... best case... my sweet, dark, lord and master, Satan. Oh, what a wonderful, evil plan it was! Having a little fun at the expense of a Facebook application was just step one in my master plan; next I would have updated my status message to read "The Devil iz awesome, OMG," then I would have tagged all the innocent children in the world in a photograph of myself and Anton LaVey fist-bumping at a black metal concert.

Finally, world domination and the most kick-ass demon orgy this side of the River Styx.

Anyway, the above comment was posted on one of those articles last night and, quite frankly, it warmed my heart. There's nothing out there that can pound-for-pound match the pure entertainment value of a deeply crazy, deeply religious person with their non-sexual, loin-covering undergarments in a twist. So, just for funsies, let's break down my new biggest fan's comment. Perhaps the path to salvation lies within.

YOU are a horrible person - I like how they capitalized the "YOU." They didn't want there to be any doubt as to who they thought was a horrible person. The hell of it is (no pun intended), they're right. I am a horrible person. I took a light-hearted run at Jesus on the Internet!!! Holy shit, is there a cell available at The Hauge? Can I turn myself in personally to Kirk Cameron? Also, one time, I ate a baby. AND I DIDN'T SAY GRACE!!!

to be feeding information to people like this - Okay, let's be real honest here; I write a BLOG. A silly little internet goof-a-thon that is read by a small group of incredibly attractive, like-minded individuals who appreciate the ramblings of the drunk. I'm not exactly holding sway over the masses, here. While I appreciate the implication that I'm some sort of a net-based Anderson Cooper, it just simply is not the case. If I could command any of you to do anything, it would be to bring me a burrito.

Ugh - Your disgust is now palpable, but you should have followed it up with a "Grrrr" or an "Ack!" to really drive your point home.

People like you - Waiters?

have damned our younger generation. - Again, I think you're attaching way too much significance to a few jokes from a series of posts that weren't even that popular to begin with (and are over a year old). If you really want to jump all over something that's "damning our younger generation," why not go after that Jersey Shore abortion that's currently taking a fat dump on the shag carpet of our collective consciousness. It's a show that is literally about the worshiping of golden idols, what with all the rub-on bronzer being used. Go yell at them.

JESUS IS GOOD. ALL DAY EVERYDAY(: - I have it on good authority that Jesus can be a real grouch first thing in the morning, before he's had his holy grail of coffee, so let's cut the "all day everyday" nonsense. I will give you this though: Jesus is good. I have no doubt about that. I'm not a religious man, myself, but I am aware that Jesus was real, was very good at talking to people and making them feel better about themselves, and he caught a bad beat at the very end. That's what you freaky religious types don't get... I got no beef with the man himself. Jesus was, by all accounts, a force for good. The problem we heathens have with religion is PEOPLE LIKE YOU... those of you that feel the need to wield your religion like a baseball bat, smacking down those that disagree with your point of view. That you chose to not give your name in this instance only shows your weakness. I guess the religion bat doesn't come with a matching holier-than-thou shield; the tough-guy armor of anonymity will have to do.

Unusual Toilets: A Pictorial

Creepy, Sexy Mouth Toilets



I can't figure out if the point of these is to pee into giant cartoon lady mouths (which is fetishistic and sad), or if this is some sort of roundabout commentary on the state of The Rolling Stones; i.e. I pee on toilet representations of their logo and from that you can extrapolate my feelings on their music, with the exception of "Sticky Fingers," which we can all agree is an excellent album.

Either way, that's an awful lot of time, effort, and money to put into your deeply disturbing sex issues/rock n' roll critique.

Points for creativity, I guess, but still.

Toilet Candy



Really? I mean, don't get me wrong, eating candy out of a small, pink, plastic toilet is hilarious, especially if you pretend you're eating Barbie's poop (it tastes like sour strawberry!), but I'm a little worried we're sending the wrong message to our nation's children. What business you do in the bathroom is between you and the toilet and the all-seeing Baby Jesus (unless you're a blog writer who enjoys sharing his bodily functions with the entire world when pressed for content... ahem...), and kids need to know that right off the fucking bat. It starts with candy in fake tiny toilets, but then the problem grows. Soon, little Tommy and little Susie are carrying around Ziploc bags of their poo and calling them fashion accessories, like horrifying slap bracelets or Emo backpacks (that's a thing, right?).

We're creating a nation of coprophiliacs and nobody cares!!!

Actually... okay... we're probably not. To be honest, I can't really say that toilet candy has caught on as a trend, per se. I do see them eating a lot of those Altoids, though, and they kind of look like minty urinal cakes. Maybe that's something. I don't know.

False alarm, everybody. The children are safe tonight!

Child-Sized Toilet Costume



If you're interested in buying this for your own kid, search for it at costume stores under its official name: "The Quickest Way to Get Child Protective Services to Visit Your Home."

Alternate Joke: That costume looks like shit.

Open Air Toilets



Speaking as a man who has peed off of subway platforms more times than most homeless Vietnam vets, I cannot tell you how brilliant an idea this is. See, men don't care if we're peeing in public. Sometimes, after several pitchers of cheap American beer, you've just gotta do what comes natural and damn the consequences (which include people looking at your wang and/or accidentally dribbling pee on your loafers). These take all the stress and potential legal ramifications out of the ol' fashioned outdoor pee. They make the walk home bearable. They were clearly invented by a crazy genius superhero who saw a problem and fucking fixed the shit out of it.

For men, anyway. Sorry, ladies!!! Guess you'll have to stick to taking a whiz in your purse.

Toilet Building

Why? Why not!!! If I were given the option of remaining in my crappy little one-bedroom apartment, or getting to crash in a place that was designed to look like a huge version of an artsy crapper, man... c'mon on... no contest! You'd be living IN A TOILET! Your face would hurt from laughing all the goddamn time.

Oooh, and think about how awesome it would be to be sitting on the toilet inside a building-sized toilet!!! Hope you like getting your mind blown every single day!

The downside, though, is that you might get shit on by a passing giant or a Cloverfield monster or some such. But that's the risk you take when you live in the Toilet House.

Also, having sex in the Toilet House automatically counts as a Blumpkin. So add that to the Pro column.