Zombie Fights Shark!

2011-09-18T23:42:00.000-04:00

All Hail C-dog

For real this time.

2011-01-27T22:20:00.002-05:00

Carl was asleep and then, in a unit of time heretofore unexplored by science, he was awake, and violently so. His head had been stuffed with barbed wire, cleverly hidden inside glasses of bourbon, and his stomach felt like it died last week and was now a rotten corpse. Falling out of bed, and also throwing up, he landed on the thick carpet of clothes and garbage that covered the actual carpet of his bedroom (the actual carpet of his bedroom was thickly matted with various fluids accumulated throughout the years and it's best not to think of it an hour before or after you've eaten).

He contorted himself into the fetal position and prayed that his roommate would suffer a psychotic break, come into his room, and chop his head off.

This did not happen.

Instead, Carl stayed motionless on the floor for several hours, until he felt like he could move without his eyes exploding or his guts falling out his ass. He sat up, and the room was a tornado or maybe those spinning teacups at Disney World. Or he was inside a dryer... no, one of those carnival rides that pins you to the wall with G-forces. He sat crosslegged, hands keeping his head from detaching from his body and splattering against his Evil Dead poster like a thrown watermelon. After a century or an election cycle or several Olympics had come and gone (or possibly five minutes), Carl made a move towards the vertical. Every bone in his body, now coated in lead or whatever that stuff is that makes Wolverine a badass, cracked and clattered and threatened to break apart. But they held true, as had they always. Good old bones, thought Carl (not really, mostly Carl thought about vomiting again). Thrust upward and standing, the room rotated a bit then settled. It rocked as if sitting in the lap of an old granny out on her porch, then it didn't. Though covered in his own vomit, and caught amid the funhouse gyrations of his usually very stable bedroom, Carl did not vomit again. This, he felt, was a major accomplishment. One worthy of at least a Golden Globe. Maybe a Nobel Peace Prize or something. Something that would look flashy on the mantle.

Carl's mind tended to wander.

He walked out into the apartment and was immediately punched square in the nose by a fist of stench. He doubled over and gagged, but brought up nothing of interest.

God, it reeked.

His eyes watered.

It felt as if a tiny, hateful gnome was spin-kicking his gag reflex.

He stumbled forward into the living room and immediately saw her... a beautiful her... asleep on the couch. She was so very naked. And pale... incredibly pale... her body seemed to give off light like a florescent bulb. Her hair, black, was even blacker by comparison. The encroachment of nighttime on a beautiful day. She had eyes of the bluest skies and if she thought of rain... well, it wasn't anytime recently. She was also not blinking. Or moving. Or breathing. It occurred to Carl that something was very, very wrong.

Carl literally had no concept of what would happen next, so he thought about movies. More specifically, he thought about what happened in movies when a person (such as himself, though played by someone much more handsome), found an unmoving, not-breathing, body of a girl with skin like light and eyes like hair metal lyrics.

He should check her pulse!

So he did.

There wasn't one.

He should see if she was breathing!

He already knew she wasn't, so he didn't bother with that step.

He should...

He... should...

He poured himself a stiff glass of bourbon from the bottle lodged between the couch cushions and sat himself down beside her, absentmindedly playing with her toes as he drank. This was probably it for him, he thought. He assumed he'd get blamed for her death. Hell, he thought, maybe he'd actually caused it. He couldn't, strictly speaking, remember anything that had happened the night before. Or the previous night. Clearly things had gotten out of hand.

He finished his drink and poured himself another.

He turned on the TV and watched an episode of The Fresh Prince of Bel Air, the one where Geoffery's son shows up and steals money from Will. Carl laughed too loudly at the jokes and tried his hardest to not look at the life sentence that lay to his left.

Carl poured himself a third drink. Halfway through said drink, his brain... not the clearest of horizons to begin with... began to fog over. Things got spectacularly calm. He felt as if his body were being lifted up towards the water-stained ceiling and that he would smoosh right through it, as if it were marshmallow fluff. He felt the cool air of outdoors on the parts of his body that weren't crusted with puke. He rose into the atmosphere and into the silence of space. He breathed in the stars and exhaled out planets and galaxies and alien civilizations.

The door being kicked in brought him back to Earth.

The room was filled with people, suddenly, like teleportation was real. There were uniforms that signified various things, and his roommate was in a corner crying and pointing. He raised his glass to toast the new arrivals and someone stuck a gun in his face.

The phrase "you did the right thing" floated across the room, and Carl was fairly certain it wasn't directed at him.

He was pulled up by his collar and spun quickly around. He dropped his glass as his hands were pulled behind him. His wrists were clamped and pinched and he couldn't move his arms. Not that he cared. The fog was creeping back into his head. It was like the hands of Andre the Giant gripping his skull, squeezing, but in a way that conveyed nothing but love. Everything was fine... fuck, so fucking fine. The fog, though, was just a temporary thing. Thought it had just arrived, already it was pulling back, perhaps due to the large man yelling about how he had the right to remain silent right in his ear (the irony was lost on Carl). The hangover was subsiding too. As the sick and the fog drew back, he felt what was left. His baseline emotion. He felt nothing. The biggest nothing ever to exist (or not). Down to his very core, there was a numbness usually associated with mountain climbers dying from hypothermia. The noise of the room collapsed in on itself. Carl's ears heard a fake silence, but it was a silence nonetheless. He looked at the poor girl on his couch. So pretty.

He wished he could remember her name.

2010-10-27T13:54:00.001-04:00

For all your C-dog related needs and wants and desires, go here now:

Acceptable Amusements

Risen from the grave, motherfuckers.

2010-05-27T22:34:00.003-04:00

Seeing as how I haven't published anything meaningful since the end of March, and seeing as how I can't even get my shit together long enough to operate a proper Twitter feed, I think it's about time we go ahead and call it a career.

Yes, as today... well, as of a few months ago when I stopped posting, but officially as of today... ZFS! is done. For real this time.

Seriously, kids, thanks for reading. It's been heaping handfuls of fun, especially back in the day, and getting to know you guys has truly made the fact that ZFS! never netted me a book deal a little easier to swallow. I wish you all happy lives, or at least lives filled with enough booze to make it feel tolerable, if only until the hangover kicks in.

As for me... hell, I've got no clue. School didn't work out, but other things in my life are suddenly going just gangbusters. So who knows? Maybe I'll finally write that novel... maybe I'll be found dead in a ditch, strangled by a circus clown who didn't like my attitude... maybe I'll just dance, dance, DANCE!!!

Whatever happens, I'm sure I'll be fine. Until we meet again... in another life, or on another website lurking moistly in a dark corner of the internet... so long, my friends.

This has been C-dog.

This has been Zombie Fights Shark!

********************************************

Oh, P.S. You can follow me on Facebook if you'd like. THAT, I do keep current, plus it's a good way to find out about any upcoming projects of mine (should you be interested) and also you'll be kept up to date on what sandwiches I'm eating AND how drunk I am at any given time. So feel free to "friend."

2010-04-10T11:36:00.000-04:00

American Idol - Your Awful Top 10

2010-03-25T01:00:00.002-04:00

Anyone who knows anything about how much of a gaywad I am knows that I love American Idol with a passion that's getting a little uncomfortable and may one day find me placed on some sort of list kept by the government. Because this is true, you have to understand how much it pains me to say this: American Idol has been god-awful this year.

I mean just terrible. Here we are at the Top 10 and there's literally ONE contestant... maybe two... that legitimately should be there. And it's not like they eliminated a bunch of awesome people or anything... these remaining contestants are sadly just the best of a bad crop. It's downright disheartening, but I guess not all that surprising, seeing as how this shows been chugging along for nearly ten years. The American talent well is getting pretty goddamned dry.

But anyway, since I did it last year, and because talking about American Idol still makes me both feel warm and fuzzy inside and hate myself, here's your Top 10. For better or worse. Mostly worse.

American Idol - Top 10

Aaron Kelly

Aaron is sixteen, and it's a young sixteen. Like he probably still thinks girls are gross and have cooties. He sings like a Sophomore that just got a supporting part in the high school's production of Anything Goes, yet the judges have decided he's "the next Justin Timberlake," which is only true in the sense that he'll at some point probably get deflowered by a Mouseketeer. There's all sorts of back story with him, too... adoptions and bad parents and once he hid in an attic and read "The Neverending Story"... but it's all too boring to really get worked up over. The only significant moment involving Aaron Kelly this season is when Ellen playfully accused him of copying her hairstyle. Congrats, kid... you just got told you have lesbian hair on national TV. How's fame taste?

Lee DeWyze

Here we have the Idol contestant most likely to sell you weed. He's the bro-iest bro that's ever bro-ed and he has the musical stylings of a Dave Matthews cover band that really wants to move away from Dave Matthews and start covering some REAL shit, like Daughtry or Kings of Leon. There's nothing interesting about him at all, even though he's been declared "a hunk" by several people that have apparently never seen men before. His parents love him, I guess, because there haven't been any heartbreaking montages of him carrying his guitar through an orphanage or whatever.

Oh, and one time he sang that Owl City song "Fireflies" just him and an acoustic guitar and it was so bland my TV had to go take a nap.

Tim Urban

Now HE'S a hunk. All young and floppy-haired and muscled... if I were a seventeen year old girl, I'd let him play with my boobs, all I'm saying. At the same time, there's a STRONG creepy religion vibe coming off of him; they showed his family one time and there's like fifteen brothers and sisters, all genes therein impeccable, and it made my skin crawl like I just discovered an ant infestation. Maybe it's just because I'm currently reading a book about icky Mormon cults, but this dude is TOTALLY (probably) the product of an icky Mormon cult.

Anyway, he sings terribly and he's only still on the show because girls and very, very disturbed older men want to touch his penis. True fact.

Katie Stevens

This is the other sixteen year old, but she's the kind that acts like they're 34 and have a very important job taking business meetings with clients in NoFunsville. She's kind of robotic and she suffers a little bit from an ailment I call "Man Voice," plus she's only marginally talented at singing. Odd, being as how this is a singing competition, but whatever.

Of all the contestants, she's the one that's going to freak out the worst when she gets voted off. You can just see it coming. When she gets critiqued, she appears to be listening intently to what the judges have to say, but you can tell she's just counting down the seconds until she can get back to her dressing room and dig deep cuts into her leg with a razor blade because SHE'S! NOT! GOOD! ENOUGH!

Seriously, when she goes, it's going to be epic. She might punch Ryan Seacrest, which would be like beating up all the world's happiness in the form of a manorexic pixie that can tell you to the SECOND when we're due back from commercial.

Andrew Garcia

Ugh. This guy, I can't even deal with. He has a neck tattoo. A NECK TATTOO. Seriously, he's just the worst and he should have been canned ages ago.

Oh, and I think he was in a gang once or something. I don't know. When he's on, I go to the fridge for a snack, or if I'm not hungry I just stand there out of earshot until I'm sure enough time has passed so that he's not on my TV anymore.

Casey James

Were you a big fan of Jonny Lang back in 1997? Then you'll LOOOOVE Casey James. Because he's basically that, but with longer hair and even less of a personality.

Look, he plays the guitar really well; there's no denying that. But he sings like every band that's ever played Friday nights at Sherlock's Pub here in Arlington, TX (which I realize is a very location-specific reference to make, but I think you catch my drift) and that's just not going to cut it, on this show or as a life choice.

He has also been declared "hunky," but personally I think he looks like he smells like dirty hair.

Didi Benami

Didi has sung so differently every time she's performed, I'm starting to think she's actually a set of identical triplets who are playing an elaborate prank on America. She's just... I mean, she's not BAD, per se. She actually has her moments where it's like, "I see what you did there, and I approve." Her version of Fleetwood Mac's "Rhiannon" was top shelf all the way. But then she does this weird, vibrato thing where it's like she's singing into a fan, and that's where I think Didi totally loses most of us at home.

I feel bad because she seems like a nice person, but she also seems like the sort that would greatly benefit from a strong drink and the admonition to settle the fuck down.

"Big" Mike Lynche

He's roughly nine feet tall and he just became a dad. These are important facts... I mean, they must be, because they've been mentioned every time he's on screen since the beginning of this fiasco. The man has literally been defined by the fact that he's fucking massive... and he is; Ryan looks like one of the more useless (though well-groomed) hobbits next to him... and the fact that he fucked his wife nine months ago.

It's the same thing as Danny Gokey last year being all about his dead wife, but with a happier, less morbid slant.

Anyway, he sings like you'd expect a huge black guy to sing. He uses too much falsetto for my taste (and he's not great at it), but otherwise he's okay.

Siobhan Magnus

I love her a little bit, but only because she's monkey-house crazy. And I mean that in the most positive way possible, I really do. Siobhan (that's pronounced "Shu-VON, btw) has this vibe that reminds me of an art student starting a band with her roommate because they're bored on a Saturday, but then discovering that they're actually the best thing to come out of New York City since Le Tigre. She had a mohawk once... seriously, they showed a picture. It made me want to smash beer bottles and use the pieces to spell out "marry me."

She has a great voice, but she also does this really high-note screechy thing that was impressive once, still okay twice, and now that she's done it three times in a row, we're all kind of worried that that's all she's got. To us, the fans, she was our one shot at Adam Lambert-level weirdness. If she doesn't pull some amazing shit out of the Phantom Zone (or wherever she gets her ideas) pretty damn quick, she's going to be dunzo. America does not tolerate the merely strange. We want fabulousness too.

Crystal Bowersox

This is your next American Idol. Seriously. She's going to win. No one really even has a chance at this point and... given what we've seen thus far... none of the other contestants are even capable of rising to the challenge. It's been said several times by the judges that she's quite simply on another level than her competition... one that's much higher and just flat-out BETTER... and that statement could not be more true.

Her whole deal is that folksy, Melissa Ethridge, Janis and Alanis, lady guitar soul... which frankly I'm kind of over as a concept... but when Bowersox lays it down, it feels all fresh and new, like when you heard "Fast Car" for the first time. She's SO good, it's kind of retarded that we have to have ten more weeks of this show.

The anti-establismentarian in me loves, too, that she's totally a gross hippie, which is so not the product Idol usually tries to sell us. She has dreads and weird teeth and she carries around a sack of "lucky charms;" it's all so Austin, TX that I was thunderstruck to hear that she's from Ohio or some godforsaken place (no offense, Ohio). All of it wraps up nicely into an amazing package that deserves all the fame and fortune she gets off this show. I hope it's tons, because she's really the only one on the big stage keeping things awesome.

No joke, if there's an erosion of common sense and she gets sent home, I'm fucking done with this show. Fucking DONE. Until next year, of course.

The Health Care Bill

2010-03-22T11:04:00.012-04:00

Because I care deeply about the world around me (HAHA, this IS fiction!), I stayed up all night reading the entire Health Care Reform Bill that passed through Congress last night. It was a lot to get through, and I dozed off a few times, and at one point I got distracted by that infomercial where they make a salad in 30 seconds just to shut up an old lady (it's the best thing ever) but... yeah... the whole bill... READ IT. There's some interesting stuff in there, so I thought I'd share what I learned with all of you. You, being the people out there too lazy to read government documents in your spare time. You're so lucky to have me, you know that, right? You're welcome I'm in your life.

(send money)

Finally, a Cure For AIDS!!!: The New Health Care Reform Bill

-Doctors are now required by law to let you use their stethoscopes to listen to your butt.

-All the pills in a given hospital will be laid out in a big bowl by the admittance desk. Go ahead and take what you need. (the blue ones make everything awesome for a little while!)

-If you want cancer because all your friends have cancer and you feel left out, the government will totally give you cancer now.

-You know that one disease where you bleed out of everywhere? Ebola? Man, that's gross. Haha, also diarrhea is gross!!!

-This is really more of a side benefit, but the passing of the Health Care bill combined with the powers of Facebook really helps you figure out who exactly on your Friends List is a right-wing lunatic. Unfriending them means you're a Socialist, but it's the price you pay for not wanting to firebomb your high school every time you log on to check your squash growth on Farmville.

-Heart surgeries are now 2-for-1 with a coupon from the Penny Saver.

-All cast members of ER are now licensed to practice medicine. All cast members of Grey's Anatomy are gaywads.

-There's a part in here that says the Government gets to keep our babies. Hm... guys... we probably should have read all of this thing BEFORE we got it passed...

-Can't find where it's mentioned specifically, but I assume this means that weed is now legal.

-Free cotton swabs for everybody!!!

One of these days I'll post something more substantial, but for now...

2010-03-18T15:57:00.002-04:00

Finally, soap you can fuck. This is quite possibly the saddest product I've ever seen. It's even worse than eating a "personal-sized" pizza (which means "this pizza will not fill the lonely hole inside you, but it does come with a variety of toppings!"). It says it's fun for couples, but no couple is going to use this, ever. When you're with someone, you don't really care if your dick smells. I mean, you DO, obviously, but it's not to the point where you buy special-shaped soaps to really get in there and get that fucker sparkling and new.

You know what the Weener Kleener is like? It's like eating in a restaurant by yourself and knowing that the waitress is being overly friendly because her heart is breaking for you and you've got food on your face but no one there to tell you about it so you're walking around like a mustard-stained freak, bumming out the world. It's EXACTLY like that, but way more creepy because it's also about sex toys and having "private time" in the shower. Buying the Weener Kleener should be automatic grounds for having your name put on a sex offender watchlist.

Jesus Christ Chair, this makes me uncomfortable. If I was over at a friend's and saw one of these in the soap dish, I would stab him to death while sobbing and then I'd burn his house to the ground. The jury would be like, "WHY?" and I'd just say, "Weener Kleener" and they'd be like, "Oh, gotcha, he's free to go and he's a HERO!!!"

Ugh. Soapfuckers. Wrong, wrong, and again, wrong.

NOTE: Sorry I shared this with you and now you're thinking about slitting your wrists. I'm sorry about that. Don't do it. There's still hope. I don't know where it is anymore... not after the Weener Kleener... but I'm sure it's somewhere. Let's find it together.

The Jesus Chair

2010-03-16T13:27:00.002-04:00

"Remember when there was only one set of footprints? It's because you were sitting on me, motherfucker! Get off your lord and savior, fat ass!"

There are now two people in this world that I have to meet: The person that made this chair, and the person that bought it. And make no mistake, I intend to punch both of them in the balls. Because... seriously... who looks at Jesus and thinks furniture? And who then looks at Jesus-based furniture and thinks, "Ya know, my living room DOES need a Texas Chainsaw-style example of my crazy beliefs to creep out my friends and make my family consider taking away my credit cards!"

Stuff like this makes me want to sneak onto a space shuttle disguised as a very large package of freeze-dried ice cream and seek out life on other planets. We're fucked as a people. But you CAN sit on Jesus if you want. So there's that.

Help ZFS! Get Its Groove Back

2010-03-08T03:46:00.003-05:00

Oh yeah, I have a blog. I keep forgetting. It's not that I don't love you or love blogging or have a deep, personal relationship with the Internet (that involves a lot of tongue-kissing) because I do... it's just that... I don't know. Nothing ever seems to HAPPEN anymore. I can't find things to write about because the only things that happen to me are as follows:

-I go to work and either it's really boring, or I deal with hateful customers whom are lucky their food isn't mostly my pubes.

-I go to school and... this semester anyway... do really poorly.

-I drink myself into oblivion like a star imploding in on itself (drunkenly).

And it's kind of just an endless cycle that don't stop, won't stop.

SO... here's an idea that may or may not work. I'm going to turn the creative process over to YOU, the reader. Give me something to work with... a topic, a picture, an idea you'd like to see fleshed out. I'll pick a few and I'll... you know... do something with them. Something WRITERLY! If you like the way I write about stuff (and I gather that a few of you do), then help a brother out. Kick-start the brain flow!!! Because seriously, I got nothing right now!!!

Please help, won't you?

Pop Culture Round Up

2010-02-25T12:30:00.004-05:00

NOTE: I got back from NYC a few days ago and it was an awesome trip full of joy, bitterness, melancholy, and drinking weird Korean liquor out of hollowed-out fruit. So not feeling like talking about anything real right now, so let me nerd all over you with the pop culture ephemera that I've been cramming into my various head holes. Enjoy! Or don't.

TV

The Wire - Okay, so I finally finished watching the whole series. Best show ever? Mostly. It's five seasons and four of them are quite simply some of the most outstanding television I've ever seen in terms of character, narrative, and overall scope. And then there's the fifth season, where the show sort of went off the rails. Not badly; it was still miles better than, say, NCIS: Los Angeles. But it really wasn't up the to standard set by seasons 1-4. However, don't take that like I'm telling you to not watch. WATCH IT. It's a phenomenal show.

C-dog's Rating: Five out of Five Spot-On Bawlmor Accents

Movies

Paranormal Activity - Creepy! I know I'm a little late to this party, but yeah... the hype was fairly accurate. It's a damn unsettling movie, though I wouldn't call it "scary" in the traditional sense. It did a number on me, though, but a large part of that could be because I'm deathly afraid of the paranormal and activities. Combining the two is a recipe for me sleeping with the lights on, clutching in fear the pillow that I pretend is a girlfriend like in The Lonely Guy.

C-dog's Rating: Four out of Five Caspers

The House of the Devil - Also creepy! This is a little indie flick about babysitting and Satan worshipers that was shot last year, but looks like it was made in the 80's. And I don't mean like Wedding Singer, lame Flock of Seagulls haircut jokes 80's... I mean it looks like a horror movie from the 80's, with all the washed-out film stock and fuzzy synth score that that implies. It quite frankly kicked my ass. Be warned, though... it's a teensy bit on the slow side; I consider this a good thing (it builds the tension and lets us get to know the characters), but it might also put some people (ADD pussies) to sleep.

C-dog's Rating: Five out of Five Pentagrams

Crazy Heart - Given all the Oscar buzz that Jeff Bridges has gotten from this thing, I was surprised at how... you know... not good it was. He was great, don't get me wrong... said Oscar is totally in the bag, and deserved... but the movie itself was very mediocre, Lifetime Original-ish, and not really that much about outlaw country (as was my initial understanding). If you saw The Wrestler, it was kind of like that but with less Ram Jams and Marisa Tomei boobage.

C-dog's Rating: Two out of Five Drunk Musicians

Books

Love is a Mixtape by Rob Sheffield - I made the mistake of reading this cover-to-cover on my flight back from New York. It is quite possibly one of the saddest books I've ever read and when I got off the plane, I went straight to a bar and got cop-punching drunk. The book is Sheffield telling the story of how he got married young to an amazing girl who, one day, just DIED. Like, embolism out of nowhere... that kind of death. It deals with him being a widower at 30 and all that, plus it weaves their mutual passion for music (he's a writer for Rolling Stone and Spin) throughout. Seriously excellent book, but man does it make you kind of want to shoot yourself in the face. Highly recommend for those too happy with their lives!!!

C-dog's Rating: Four out of Five Horrible Tragedies

The Catcher in the Rye - Can you believe I made it nearly 30 years as an American male without reading this? I think I've been telling people for years that I'd read it, but that's all bunk. I finally got it done while in NYC, reading it on the subway, which was if we're being honest a bit rich. I felt like "that guy" who'd just moved there and was trying to do New York-y things. If I'd been listening to Velvet Underground on my iPod while reading Catcher in the Rye on the subway, I'm pretty sure I'd have turned into an Empire State Building replica souvenir. Oh, anyway, the book was good; felt very true to life, and it made me want to read more of his stuff (what little is out there).

C-dog's Rating: Five out of Five Crumby Phonies

2010-02-19T10:50:00.003-05:00

Oh yeah, I forgot to mention that I'm in New York all this week on vacation and won't be posting anything until I get back.

Except this.

Which is late and unhelpful and you all just assumed I was dead, didn't you?

You bastards.

2010-02-14T11:57:00.001-05:00

A Rebuttal From Cupid

2010-02-11T18:19:00.001-05:00

What Valentine's Day Means To Me, or, "Fuck You, Cupid!"

2010-02-11T12:27:00.006-05:00

It's that time of year again, where everyone shoves heart-shaped boxes of love up our asses for a few weeks, bludgeoning us over the head with a dead baby Cupid, reminding us that NOW is the time FOR LOVE and if you DON'T HAVE LOVE you are LESS THAN!!! I seriously spend most of February dry-heaving, so close to vomiting but not actually vomiting, white-knuckling it until March. Which is a whole other thing, because I have major issues with St. Patrick's Day too, but that's another post for another time (specifically March).

Anyway, I hate Valentines. I hate it when I'm in a relationship, I hate it when I'm not in a relationship. It is the single worst holiday on the planet with the possible exception of Easter (where we celebrate fictional events with chocolate, though I do like the chocolate part) or that one holiday they have in the Middle East where they all get together and hate our freedom. It's the very necessary-ness of it all that stirs within me so much chalky conversation hearts-flavored bile. The YOU HAVE TO part of it, even though we don't really have to (this isn't one of those countries where they make you join the army or give thanks to large oil paintings of "our fearless leader"). There's a social contract, especially between men and women who are getting freaky all over each other, that on Feb. 14th, the man will put on a tie, the woman a dress, and they will go to an overpriced restaurant and eat expensive food and then have really forced, unpleasant, kinda cold sex even though they don't feel like it (all that rich, pricey food) because it's VALENTINE'S DAY. It has to be memorable or you've failed at the fantasy that life is like it is in the movies/TV/songs by Taylor Swift.

It's just all so gross. And the gifts? God, this is who the holiday is actually for. The people that shit out stuffed animals for 30 cents a pop and sell them for $25 bucks. Have you seen these Vermont Teddy Bear abortions? Hang on, I've got pictures...

It's a "Knight in Shining Armor" Bear. Which is just fucked up because that's a bullshit concept that's sold to little girls who grow up to be women that expect their boyfriends/husbands to be this thing that they're not. Superhuman, fighting metaphorical dragons, etc. The men feel weak when their weakness is exposed... and it ALWAYS is... and the women are heartbroken because they feel like there IS a Knight in Shining Armor out there and they just chose wrong. It's what causes a healthy chunk of the divorce rate and now it's REPRESENTED IN A BEAR. God, you might as well give your significant other a glimpse into her own sad future via a mystical fortune teller or a Magic 8-Ball painted pink (for the holiday).

And then there's this god damned thing...

It's a bandit. Because "you stole my heart, so here's a cheap visual gag to explain that." Plus it's got candy. I don't know, I guess this one isn't as bad as the other one, but still. Thief Bear is only a desperate situation away from Double-Homicide Bear, don't ever forget it.

Look, I know I'm being a bit of a pill here. I know a large part of it comes from the fact that I'm lonely and kind of miserable and living in a town that wish was a city, but... I don't know... I think it's also because I've learned a lot about what it is to really love someone in the last couple of years. REALLY really love them. It's not fake red hearts and it's not buying candy and it's not "I'm your little devil" or a thousand other cutesy sayings.

It's letting someone sob into your shoulder when their mom dies. It's going out to the store to get a bottle of Tylenol because your girl/boyfriend is too hungover to move. It's being so comfortable around each other that farting is a hilarious contest and the sleep grit in your eyes doesn't stop the other one from thinking you're the most attractive thing on the planet. Love is a REAL thing, more so than religion or knowledge or the fact that every kiss begins with Kay (fact: most kisses begin with a third margarita). Love can never be expressed through a pre-fab greeting card; in my life, it never will be. However...

I'll keep your hair out of your face when you're vomiting from the flu.

I'll make you a sandwich when you're too busy studying for your Masters to feed yourself.

I'll keep you warm when the heat stops working. I'm fat, and basically a Tauntaun.

THAT is love. Fuck Valentines Day and everything it stands for. Cheapening love shouldn't be celebrated.

Seven Beastie Boys Lyrics That Do Not Apply to My Life

2010-02-08T14:14:00.004-05:00

"Gotta castle in Brooklyn, that's where I dwell"

This used to be true, at least in the sense that I lived in Brooklyn. I didn't have a castle though; far from it. It was a very modest railroad apartment that I shared with a girlfriend. Sadly, those days are in the wind. As it stands now, I dwell in Arlington, TX; a city that the Beastie Boys have never written about in a rap song.

"Listen all y'all, this is sabotage"

Just not true. I spilled mustard on my nice hoodie because I'm generally a messy eater and, in this particular instance, I was distracted by the television (King of Queens reruns hold up surprisingly well). It would be foolish to think that there was any sort of foul play at large here. Sometimes mustard just falls.

"I did it like this, I did it like that, I did it with a Wiffle Ball bat"

I haven't had sex in a while. Not my longest dry spell, but it's getting up there. And ladies, for the record, if you and I were to make sweet, sweet love, I promise you that I would not bring a piece of children's sporting equipment into the mix. That's just rude and unseemly.

"I like my sugar with coffee and cream"

No thanks. I take my coffee black, though lately I've been drinking a lot more green tea (for the antioxidants).

"We're thrashing hotels like it's going out of style"

I'm actually a very thoughtful and courteous guest when staying at any major hotel/motel chain. I realize that, should I make a mess, someone will have to clean up after me. Leaving them a "thrashed" room would just be wrong. I should mention, for honesty's sake and all, that I did once steal a can of ginger ale from a Sheraton honor bar. Thug life!

"Aw mom, you're just jealous, it's the Beastie Boys"

My mother is not a fan of rap music, even if it happens to be old-school 80's rhymes with a funky-fresh beat that still holds up today. She would much rather listen to George Strait.

"I can always make them smile/From White Castle to the Nile"

When I go to White Castle, it is to get a large sack of burgers for not a lot of money. I am usually not focused on making girls smile. Also, I have never been to Egypt. And truth be told, I don't even LIVE in an area that has White Castles (as previously mentioned), so this whole argument is really an intellectual one rather than anything grounded in reality. Ah, but it's fun to debate, isn't it. Fo shizzle.

Outrage on Park Place

2010-02-05T13:18:00.003-05:00

Parker Brothers, in an effort to be hip, edgy, down with the cool kids, and... apparently... a Phillip K. Dick spank dream come to life, has updated our most beloved of board games, Monopoly. They have taken it from its humble roots... a square, boring game about real estate that ends up hurting more people's feelings than junior high... and turned it into some kind of space-age clusterfuck that even Captain Picard thinks is, "a bit much."

There's no money anymore! You use an ATM card and it's all digital like that's something that's fun. You know what using an ATM card reminds me of? How much money I don't have. At least with the old Monopoly, I could play around with all the different colored money and pretend I was in Europe for an hour. But no... NOOOOO... it has to be all realistic now. All "true" and a better reflection of our society, but in a board game that everyone secretly hates, even though we love it, which makes it basically like a member of our family.

Whatever, sci-fi Monopoly... whatever. You've killed our childhoods dead with your changes. Boardwalk runs forever red with the blood of our souls. You bastards... you heartless bastards...

You Stay Classy, Taco Bell

2010-02-04T12:47:00.003-05:00

When I die, I hope someone can digitally render a mournful Fire Sauce packet in MY honor. Because, really, what better way to express your sorrow than with anthropomorphic condiments? Although personally, I think they should have Photoshopped a grief-stricken burrito throwing itself on top of his casket. Might as well go all the way with it, ya know?

image via The A.V. Club

Anywhere But Here

2010-02-03T16:19:00.005-05:00

It's pouring down rain and gloomier than a Goth with diarrhea today, and in Arlington, TX, that's kind of a double whammy seeing as how Arlington is a town that induces mild depression and vague feelings of unease in its citizens regardless of the weather. It's days like this that make me think about getting my hands on a lot of money... robbing 7-11s comes immediately to mind... and hitting the road like a 60's biker cliche. Born to be wild, or at the very least born to drive for a while until I get sleepy and need a Red Bull. The destination? Anywhere, my man... somewhere exotic, somewhere fun and alive, a place where the action never stops and neither do the bartenders when you accidentally puke into your pint glass.

Of course, before these daydreams take a firm hold on my brain and talk me into doing terribly foolish things (leather pants and a tattoo of my cultural hero, John Daly), I have to take a step back, splash some cold water on my face and my junk, and remind myself that... out there... in the big bad world... things are not all that. Other places, they're a hassle too. Sure Arlington sucks, but at least you've got family here, friends, a job that makes you want to kill yourself with a table saw but still it's A JOB...

Things are never quite as perfect as they seem. That grass isn't greener, it's just glinting in the sun because a hobo peed on it.

With that in mind, and in an effort to talk myself out of buying a Harley (which I would name "Lil' Stinker"), here's a breakdown of supposedly fantastical places and the reasons why they're as soul-deadening as everywhere else. Enjoy!

Earth is a Hell On Earth: A Travelogue

Hawaii

Perception - A tropical paradise where the rum flows out of the bathroom taps and sweet, sweet native girls are ready and willing to hula your dong at a moments notice. The beaches! The wonderful weather! You might meet Lilo AND Stitch!!!

Reality - You really want to see yourself in a bathing suit, you fat sack of taco farts? Well neither do the people of Hawaii, ESPECIALLY the native girls. They're going to go bone a hot surfer while you do a Sudoku puzzle on the beach and get a sunburn so bad it looks like you've been pan-fried. Plus, there are hurricanes, Smoke Monsters, ritual sacrifices, you're allergic to flowers (and they've got A LOT of flowers), real estate costs a million dollars because HELLO it's on an island, and eventually one day whatever volcano is sitting underneath all of that mess is going to blow its top. Try to enjoy your tropical paradise with a natural disaster's worth of hot magma rammed up your ass.

Los Angeles

Perception - You're going to be a star!!!

Reality - You're going to star in a movie that mainly features deep, introspective shots of your anatomy getting worked over by a failed college lacrosse player who the box art will call "Meat-Man Max."

New York

Perception - Oooh, I can be all Beat Poet funky, living in the East Village and putting on plays THAT TELL THE TRUTH, man... yeah or I'll join a band and we'll be big on the underground scene and get a positive mention from Vice Magazine. The hustle and bustle of the Big Apple will sustain me! I'll be at the center of the world, which is exactly where I already am in my own mind. The internal becomes external! I'm a creative soul exploding it's man-cage! I can make it there!!!

Reality - If you want to live in the East Village, one of two things have to happen: You have to pay a not-very-nice Middle Eastern man several thousand dollars every month or get evicted (if not fitted for a cement overcoat and tossed with little ceremony into the East River) OR you'll share a one-bedroom, sixth-floor walk-up with nine other people, four of which are hardcore heroin addicts, two of which are on the run from the law, one of which talks to the lamps, and the other two are friends of friends who will eventually give you HIV and/or steal everything you own (including the fillings out of your teeth). And you won't do anything creative. You'll be too busy working double-shifts at a grocery store, trying to save up enough money to just maybe go out to a bar for one... ONE... beer (which costs $12). You won't be hip. You'll never listen to music for fear of getting robbed on the subway. You'll be cold all the time. And THAT'S when you get bedbugs.

Colorado

Perception - You love skiing and you're darn good at it, too! Time to put those skills to work; ski instructor by day, lover of ski bunnies by night!

Reality - Running those double-black diamonds was punching above your weight, you know that now. Sure didn't see that drop off. You guess they'll probably find your frozen corpse eventually, after the first thaw. Maybe.

Paris

Perception - The romance of it all! So much history and art, it's like living in a textbook on the Renaissance. You'll drink rich coffees at quaint cafes and red wine at bistros, you'll nibble a pain au chocolat as you discuss Victor Hugo with a mysterious stranger who just may be the love of your life. You'll become one of the twinkling lights in a city known for how they shine!

Reality - You don't speak French, you hillbilly, and you've never lived outside your county, much less in a foreign country. Tell me this: What's a Euro? Where are you going to go when that "mysterious stranger" takes your passport while you're showering off his B.O.? And that's enough thing... have you ever smelled the French? It's like an armpit learned a romance language. You'll hate every minute over there and you won't be able to stop thinking about that one Waffle House back home where you and all your friends used to hang out, God, I be they're there RIGHT NOW. You'll force yourself to go out and try to find some modeling work... that's what they do in Paris, right?... and because you're not anorexic and all dead inside (yet), you'll end up in a seedy part of the XVIII Arrondissement where you're told that all models must remove their clothes and get in a van. And that's your introduction to the terrifying world of white slavery. Enjoy your tour of the many brothels around the Baltic Sea!

Award Winning Commentary: Your 2010 Oscar Nominees

2010-02-02T08:54:00.004-05:00

Why they announce the Oscar nominees at the butt crack of dawn every goddamned year, I'll never know. Whatever, though... I'm totally gaybones for "the big announcement," so I'm here, I'm reasonably awake, and let's discuss:

Best Supporting Actress

Penelope Cruz - Nine
Vera Farmiga - Up in the Air
Maggie Gyllenhal - Crazy Heart
Anna Kendrick - Up in the Air
Mo'Nique - Precious

Every time I write Mo'Nique's name, I want to put the apostrophe in a different place. Anyway, this category is pretty much her and then, about eleven miles back, the other nominees. She's had this one locked up since last year's Sundance, so... you know... good for her. Sister is a LOOOONG way from Soul Plane. Also, it bears mentioning that I would like to arrange a big naked pig pile between myself and all these ladies (Mo'Nique included, as C-dog has jungle fever). I'll bring the beer, y'all bring the scented oils and the number of a quality grief counselor! Women find it helpful to talk to someone after sleeping with me...

Best Supporting Actor

Matt Damon - Invictus
Woody Harrelson - The Messenger
Christopher Plummer - The Last Station
Stanley Tucci - The Lovely Bones
Christoph Waltz - Inglorious Basterds

I still think that Matt Damon should have won the Oscar way back in the day for The Talented Mr. Ripley. Very underrated flick, and the dude's never really done anything acting-wise as nimble and exciting since. I mean, he was Jason Bourne and for that he will always smell pleasant and pleasing, but you know what I mean. Anyway, he's not going to win for Invictus because literally no one cares about that movie at all, even Nelson Mandela and it's ABOUT him. Also, rugby is full of toothless Aussies that smell like balls. Big ups to Harrelson and Tucci, though; I like both of them and it's nice to see them get a little industry love (although Harrelson is a bit tiresome with the whole vegan/hippie/let's wrap the world in a hemp poncho thing). The bottom line on this category, though, is Christoph Waltz being the scariest motherfucker in the room in Inglourious Basterds. He's this year's Anton Chigur.

Best Actress

Sandra Bullock - The Blind Side
Hellen Mirren - The Last Station
Carey Mulligan - An Education
Gabourey Sidibe - Precious
Meryl Streep - Julie & Julia

Betting against Meryl Streep in an Oscar race is like betting against the black guy in a boxing match, however I really don't think this is her year (because Julie & Julia sucked nards). Personally, I'd like to see it go to Sidibe, if only because it couldn't have been fun to have your big break come because you look gross and that's what's required for the part. Not that I'm one to talk, of course... if anyone's casting for a feature-length biopic of Fatty Arbuckle, please contact me in the comments section. I'll bring my own Coke bottle! (obscure 1920's scandal joke!) Sandra Bullock will probably win this one though, based on the near-toxic levels of sass that she emitted through most of The Blind Side. Which... okay, technically, I haven't seen, but that's SO not the point. I'm a pretty good judge of things I know nothing about, and I deem her performance... based entirely on the trailer... hammy, bad dye job-ish, and an attempt to pass of moxie as acting. HOWEVER... she was good in Speed and, to a lesser extent, Demolition Man (which is still the greatest Taco Bell commercial ever made), so I'll allow her to win with only a small hissyfit.

Best Actor

Jeff Bridges - Crazy Heart
George Clooney - Up in the Air
Colin Firth - A Single Man
Morgan Freeman - Invictus
Jeremy Renner - The Hurt Locker

The big deal about this category... for me, anyway, which is what this along with everything else is really all about... is Jeremy Renner. I remember watching his performance as our nation's favorite gay cannibal serial killer in Dahmer and thinking, "This kid is going places. As soon as he stops eating that guy." Sure enough, after a detour fighting LL Cool J in S.W.A.T. (it happens), here he is getting his Oscar nomination on like a total swinging dick. The Hurt Locker is an excellent flick, don't get me wrong, but a lot of why it was good was homeboy's performance. He owned, plain as day. But he's not going to win, as Jeff Bridges hasn't EVER won (not even for Starman) and that's a debt Hollywood intends to pay this year. Not that I mind, of course... Jeff Bridges is an old-school bad ass and, from what I hear, he's really fantastic in Crazy Heart. So next year, Renner... next year. The C-dog abides.

Screenplay - Original

The Hurt Locker
Inglourious Basterds
The Messenger
A Serious Man
Up

I've been on a Tarantino kick lately, for whatever reason... Death Proof, by the by, is just a solid fucking picture; it kind of got overshadowed by the whole Grindhouse thing, but it really is one of his best (and, for the record, I am still the only person in the world who thought Kill Bill sucked)... but yeah, it would be cool if Tarantino won for Basterds. He's won before, but he had to share the credit with Roger "I Killed A Guy With My Car" Avery. This one would be all his. And the Coen brothers are always good, too, even though I didn't see this particular one. However, it'll probably be The Hurt Locker because, well, the movie was awesome and awesomeness deserves a bounty of riches. Oh, and P.S., if Up wins I'll be totally pissed; great movie, but that opening sequence was pure, uncut, not-even-trying-to-be-subtle sadness porn and it made me cry like an Italian woman at her husband's funeral. MAKING ME CRY SHOULD NOT BE REWARDED!!!

Screenplay - Adapted

District 9
An Education
In the Loop
Precious
Up in the Air

Wooo!!! District 9!!! That movie just kicked so much ass all over the place, it was like watching Jackie Chan in his prime, back before he decided he was the Asian Buster Keaton (which, for the record, he isn't) and started only making ass-tastic comedies with kids and/or sassy black men. I would love to see it win, but it has NO shot against Up in the Air. Don't get me wrong, I liked Up in the Air quite a bit; it just had more to do with George Clooney's raw charisma and devilish charm than the screenplay. No biggie, though... District 9 getting a nomination here AND for Best Picture is a victory in and of itself for genre fans everywhere.

Director

Kathryn Bigelow - The Hurt Locker
James Cameron - Avatar
Lee Daniels - Precious
Jason Reitman - Up in the Air
Quentin Tarantino - Inglourious Basterds

Again, Tarantino's my boy, so it'd be cool to see Bigelow and Cameron split the vote so much that he sneaks in all back-door style... but that's not going to happen. It's going to be either our first ever lady Best Director (who also directed Point Break, let's not forget) or James Cameron again. Honestly... both would be acceptable. The Hurt Locker is without a doubt the better movie; that's not even an opinion, that's just fact that can be proved on a home computer or with graph paper and a pencil. Avatar, though... James Cameron quite simply directed the shit out of that movie. I mean, when he discovered that the camera he needed for certain scenes didn't exist, he invented it!!! How many of the other nominees can say that? Plus, the movie looked amazing, represented the future of movie-making, the whole "blue aliens" thing wasn't as dorky as we all thought it would be, etc. etc. So I don't know. It'll be one of them, but who's to say which? Although Bigelow did win the DGA award the other night, so... you know... that might be a tip of the hand.

Best Picture

Since they decided to open up the category to ten slots this year, let's look at each movie individually as a way to honor the inaugural "We'll Let Anybody In" class.

Avatar - As I said in my earlier review: Visually the most impressive movie I've ever seen. But visuals alone do not a Best Picture make, or at least they shouldn't. The screenplay specifically, and the plot in general, were pretty sub-par when you get right down to it; you'll notice its lack of a nomination in that category. But it DID make a kajillion dollars and even made desperately sad people suicidal for a hot minute, so... a big maybe for Avatar. By all means, though, firehose this bad boy with technical Oscars. It does deserve them.

The Blind Side - Really? I mean, like I said, I didn't technically see it or anything, but I also don't need to drink a gallon of Karo syrup blended with melted cream cheese frosting to know it's going to give me diabetes so severe that both my feet will explode. While I'm sure watching The Blind Side makes one feel good and warm n' fuzzy and like they've helped out "the ethnics" for a little bit, it really probably doesn't deserve the Best Picture Nominee title. That kind of cornpone should be happy with raking in the cash and that's it. Also, the Ravens flamed out in the playoffs, so HAW HAW.

District 9 - WHEEEEEE!!! My nerd boner dreams involve this pulling the from-nowhere upset and beating everyone and becoming President, but that's nothing but a wish farted out the ass of a magical trickster leprechaun, so never mind.

An Education - Didn't see it, don't care.

The Hurt Locker - Seems like the momentum is swinging its way, so I'd say this is your best bet for a win. As far as all the nominated movies go, this was my 2nd favorite...

Inglourious Basterds - ...And this was my 1st. Tarantino created a new, classic epic, and he did it all without sacrificing his own unique style and vision. A masterpiece, truly, and one that will stand the test of time better than anything else on this list.

Precious - Didn't see it; looks depressing. Will probably see it before the Oscars broadcast, though.

A Serious Man - I'm usually the first in line to see pretty much anything the Coen brothers put out, but I'm fairly certain this didn't play in Arlington, TX on account of it being too "jewey" for our North Texan palates. I'll catch it on DVD.

Up - Great movie, no doubt, but if a Pixar flick was going to win the big prize, it should have been Wall-E. That was some next-level shit.

Up in the Air - Depressingly modern and of-the-moment, I think everyone thought this was a lock for a while. Then they realized that other movies happened and they didn't have to settle for merely "very good." Which is not to take away from Up in the Air; it's a small movie with a lot of deep-running emotions and it deserves the love it gets. When you put it next to Avatar, The Hurt Locker, and, Inglourious Basterds, though, it kinda gets blown off the screen.

7 Things I'm Not Sure Still Exist

2010-01-29T14:00:00.005-05:00

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?

2010-01-28T23:23:00.002-05:00

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

2010-01-27T14:18:00.005-05:00

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

2010-01-26T22:26:00.002-05:00

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

2010-01-20T01:34:00.003-05:00

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."

2010-01-19T11:26:00.003-05:00

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

2010-01-19T02:05:00.006-05:00

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)

2010-01-18T10:56:00.006-05:00

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

2010-01-16T14:05:00.003-05:00

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

2010-01-15T11:41:00.003-05:00

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

2010-01-14T12:25:00.003-05:00

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

2010-01-13T16:23:00.004-05:00

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

2010-01-13T11:13:00.006-05:00

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

2010-01-12T01:42:00.009-05:00

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

2010-01-11T13:13:00.005-05:00

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

2010-01-10T13:26:00.002-05:00

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

2010-01-09T12:59:00.005-05:00

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

2010-01-08T14:50:00.002-05:00

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

2010-01-08T12:09:00.003-05:00

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

2010-01-07T09:49:00.003-05:00

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

2010-01-06T17:13:00.003-05:00

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

2010-01-06T09:24:00.004-05:00

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

2010-01-05T00:01:00.000-05:00

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

2010-01-04T12:24:00.002-05:00

"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

2010-01-03T02:27:00.000-05:00

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.

Is That a Real Thing???

2010-01-02T15:48:00.002-05:00

I mean, what are the qualifications? What do you have to do to win? Is there a talent competition? God, so many questions...

I do know this, though: I want very badly to be the head judge. IFYAKNOWWHATIMEAN!!!

Hangover Bank

2010-01-02T12:04:00.006-05:00

If my hangover was a Smiths album, it would be "Louder Than Bombs." Seriously... it feels like someone cracked open the top of my skull and started a dog fighting ring in there. It hurts, I tell ya!!!

Me having said hangover however did lead me this morning to an interesting discovery: You know where it's kind of awesome to be hungover? The bank. No foolin'! It's really quiet and kind of chilly; the only constant sound is the soft "flit-flit" of money being counted and the tellers all talk in low, soothing tones. It's sort of like a womb, if your mother was a branch of JP Morgan Chase. The one thing that sucks though is that they won't let you lay your head down on the faux-marble counter, despite the fact that it would feel super-amazing. Gets them all riled up, like it's an act of aggression or something. Please. You can barely keep your eyes open and it's taking all the internal fortitude you've got to not barf in the deposit slip cubby. But they don't get that... the old security guard starts waving his gun around and then the sirens go off and one of those fake packets of money filled with blue paint explodes all over you and the next thing you know, you're sprinting down the street with your arms full of twenty dollar bills being chased by Arlington's finest SWAT team (a guy named Duane and his dog, Pooter).

Anyway, what I'm trying to tell you is that I robbed a bank this morning. I need a hideout!!! Also some Tylenol, because getting shot at by the cops is so NOT good for a hangover.

Mission Statement

2010-01-01T18:33:00.002-05:00

I have to be at work in about twenty minutes, but I did want to take half a second to wish everybody out there... all seven of my readers, the lonely spam robots, and the misguided Googlers who got to ZFS! by searching "fat pooping ABBA fans"... a truly happy new year.

2009 has been, for the most part, a long wallow in personal unhappiness; a cataloging of everything that has gone wrong, constantly, to the point where I kind of want to time travel back to the first of last year and start kicking my ass straight through until this weekend.

2010 is going to be different. It's not going to be an easy year, by any stretch... I'll be taking more hours at school than I have yet tackled, I'll still be working full time, and as we get closer to the loaded gun that is August 6th... the day I turn 30... my internal psyche will probably get moodier and more morose than a just-fired Hot Topic employee.

HOWEVER... the theme for 2010 is "Stay Positive, Motherfucker." I'll tattoo it on my fucking forehead if I have to.

How that all plays out, plus so much more, is all ahead for ZFS! This blog isn't going anywhere. Fuck that.

The new era of ZFS! starts now. Hang on to your dicks.

2010-01-01T10:02:00.000-05:00

2009: A Year of Suck

2009-12-31T12:38:00.003-05:00

Holy shit, was 2009 a punch in the dick. Here's a list of all the things that went wrong this year. For me personally, I mean... the rest of the country can go fuck right off.

NOTE: I get that things could have been so much worse for me. I didn't get AIDS from my prison cellmate after a night of "aggressive cuddles," nor was my entire family wiped out by the militant army of a psychotic jungle dictator (or whatever is happening in Darfur; I don't really follow the news). All I'm saying is that this has been a shitty year and I want to whine about it on the Internet. Join me, won't you?

I left NYC - This one really stung. I liked my life in New York City. I had a funky-colored apartment and a cool girlfriend and a job that was... not satisfying, exactly... but was at least lifestyle-sustaining. Then it all went to hell. Job went bye-bye, the economy shit all over our collective nice linens, the relationship changed into a much more complicated and not internet-shareworthy situation, and then I just flat fucking ran out of money. So it was back to Texas with my fat, white ass. I cannot tell you how much I miss New York. Particularly when I get a craving for a salami sandwich at 2am. Granted, I could just keep salami and some hard rolls around my apartment so I could make myself one when the need arises, but that's SOOOOO not the point. Oh, and I also miss all my friends that I barely talk to anymore because I'm lazy with correspondence. That too.

I hurt both my ankles in two separate, equally stupid accidents - Other than a broken arm when I was ten and a couple of corneal scratches (also due to my own stupidity), my life has been relatively free of serious injury. I mean, it's not like I'm out there diving into rugby scrums or regularly calling bouncers "pantywaists" or anything, but still... shit does happens, but until this year said shit very rarely happened to me. 2009 found me first falling off a ladder, landing squarely on my left ankle and giving it a severe fucking up. Then the year witnessed me tripping off a curb and doing exactly the same thing to my RIGHT ankle. So now I've got two bad joints supporting all 300 pounds of my unappealing frame for the rest of my life. It's only a matter of time before they both just give up on me and I'm forced to spend the remainder of my days suing the local bars for not having doors big enough to accommodate my Rascal.

I got a shitty job - I'm currently working at a terrible sports bar run by idiots that caters to the worst of humanity who tip 10% (if that) and it all makes me think of that Talking Heads lyric, "Oh my god, how did I get here?" Except when I say it, I'm not wearing an oversized suit and being all post-modern awesome like David Byrne. No, when I say it, I'm sobbing into an order of buffalo wings and trying to tamp down the urge to defecate into the chili that's going out to the asshole redneck who SNAPPED HIS FINGERS as a way of alerting me to his obese daughter's desperate need for another in a long line of Shirley Temples. It is convenient to work in a place that features a well-stocked bar... I'll give you that one... but that's a double-edge sword that often cuts the wrong way. Right across my liver. Speaking of which...

I started drinking heavily again - We've had a lot of fun on ZFS! with regards to my love of the booze, but a lot of it was just a bunch of jokey-jokes trumped up for comedic effect. These days, those jokes are a lot less funny. The fact of the matter is this: Arlington, TX is a motherfucking depressing town. I love it... it's my hometown... but nonetheless, it's a sucking chest wound of blandness. Don't get me wrong, it's a great place to raise a family and all that, but being here as a single man... one who's lived in Austin, LA, and New York... Arlington, to say the least, is found to be lacking. So, to combat the feeling of being crushed to death by large, beige rocks, I've been drinking more and more. Healthy! Coping is my speciality! My liver looks like a dead possum!

I've gained a bunch of weight - Arlington has a lot of fast food options, many of which are open late. When I'm not drinking my feelings, I tend to eat them. That's what we call a recipe for disaster, or at least a recipe for a fat ass and a huge, swingin' gut. The obvious question is: Why don't you show a little self-control and stop eating Crunchwraps and cheeseburgers all the goddamned time, tubby? My only response to that is... well... I don't HAVE any self-control. So there.

ZFS! died - Still not sure what happened with that, or what I'm going to do about it. It does make me sad, though. I've really enjoyed writing this blog the last few years and I think you guys enjoyed reading it, too. I'm trying to figure out if I want to keep going with ZFS!, or if I maybe want to start a NEW blog... something a little more reflective of my life as it is right now. See, the thing is this.... ZFS!, to me, has come to represent a time in my life that ended this year. I'm no longer the sassy NY-based wiseacre that made lists of which pants were the worst. I'm now a guy who's trying to put his life back together, and that in my mind doesn't really jibe with the ZFS! ethos. Or maybe I'm just being a pussy about it (a distinct possibility). Anyway, I'll keep you guys... whoever is left out there... posted as to what comes next. Whatever the case, I do know one thing: 2010 has got to better than 2009. A low bar to clear, but nonetheless.

Micro Story

2009-12-30T17:43:00.007-05:00

He & She

He sat around his parents living room, drinking, nursing a busted ankle, but mostly thinking of her. He thought of her always, drinking or not.

She was the girl he noticed too late... years too late, to be specific. She had been in love with him when they were in high school. He was the star of all the shows; a theater stud, if you can conceive of such a thing. She was in the band, played the trombone, and had the perma-chapped lips and anemic social life to prove it. They crossed paths through mutual friends... band geeks that also worked crew for drama club productions, or similar relationships. She thought he was funny, and he was. He thought she was quiet (which she was), if he though of her at all, which was seldom.

They graduated. She watched him walk across the stage with an ache in her heart that felt like an infected tooth. He smiled so brightly, hoisting his diploma over his head and making silly faces at someone in the audience. When she walked across the stage, her parents clapped politely, as did a few friends. Just another name called out in a long list.

He went off to Los Angeles, to Chicago for a time, and then to New York. He sought out fame like it would cure his diseases, but the seeking out only made his diseases worse. His need for attention, for approval, for love of any kind took him to some dark places with darker rooms, where he participated in deeds darker still. He drank to forget. He did drugs to take him away. He consumed vice and accomplished nothing.

She left for Austin and got involved with computers. She had a knack for them; she could speak their language and, as such, they opened up their world to her. The high-tech world watched her fix what was broken, communicate with that which was mute, and they threw themselves at her feet. She invested in lip balm and got a haircut that she had seen in a magazine. It suited her. After a long stretch of ravenously consuming new bands, more and more, seeking out the obscure, she found herself well-versed in the independent music scene. She lost weight. Men pretended to tie their shoes while studying her face, which was lovely, unhidden behind a trombone for years now. She became what she for so long was not.

He lived a wild, messy life. But then the money ran out. Carrying nothing more than a few suitcases of clothes and books, along with an invisible Uhaul of shame and regret, he moved back home. His parents told him he looked pale. He found that he didn't know how to talk to them anymore. He spent a lot of nights in his childhood bedroom, drinking bottles of vodka, cataloging each and every wrong turn, missed opportunity, and outright fuck-up he had accumulated as an adult. The vodka barely got him buzzed anymore. He felt sick all the time. He constantly thought about death; wished that a meteor would strike the Earth, snuff him and all of existence out for eternity. He longed for an empty blackness, but hadn't the courage to end his own life.

She met a man. The one she had been looking for all her life. He also loved computers, and he loved the CDs of her favorite music that she made for him. He taught her about baseball and she cooked him meals that he wanted to eat for the rest of his life. On a pleasant night, under a tree strung with white Christmas lights, he got down on one knee, hands shaking, and she cried so hard that for a second he thought he had broken her heart. They set a date. Everyone they knew was overjoyed at the news. A better couple, there never was.

He was awoken from a drunken stupor by his father, who held in his hands the obituary section of the Fort Worth Star Telegram. There was an entry circled. His father dropped it on the bed and walked out of the room, saying nothing else. He picked up the paper and discovered that Shane Ackerman... one of the guys who ran lights for all the shows in High School... was dead.

Her mother called her. Did she remember that nice boy, Shane? The one with the hair that played the tuba? Yes, she did, she said, making coffee and thinking about eggs versus just a bowl of cereal with regards to arriving at her job on time. Her mother told her that Shane Ackerman was dead. The coffee brewed, sat on it's warming plate, and eventually the machine did as it was programmed and shut itself off. The coffee grew cold as she leaned against the kitchen counter, thinking of death.

Nine years after they both crossed the graduation stage on a hot, Texas afternoon, they found themselves at the funeral of one of Shane Ackerman, who had drowned in a lake. A tragedy, the kind of death that makes no sense to anyone save for those that have already given up on the idea of God. Everyone it seemed was crying. A few were even sobbing. An older woman... Shane's mother, presumably... was actually wailing. It was an ugly funeral; the kind that no one ever wants to attend.

She went because she and Shane had been close in High School. Both outcasts, they had bonded... along with a couple of other like-minded individuals... over horror movies and a general desire to not go through their teenage years alone. Drunk on stolen wine coolers, she had been Shane's first kiss (though he was not hers). When Shane realized a year later that he was gay, she was sure for months that she had kissed him wrong and shut down a part of his brain forever. They had lost touch, as is often the case with friendships that are forged out of desperation. She thought of him occasionally, when she ran across a Friday the 13th movie on cable, but otherwise... he was part of a past she had overcome. He was proof of what she once was.

He went to Shane's funeral because he had nothing better to do that day, and he thought there might be free food. He and Shane weren't all that close. They occupied roughly the same space at the same time, and really nothing more.

The funeral was long and awful. There was no free food.

He ran into her in the gravel lot outside the church, where their cars were parked nose to nose. She smiled in recognition and he, in his greatest mental feat in months, managed to pick her name out of his brain in time for natural greeting. She noticed right away how much weight he had gained, how unkempt he looked, how...

He noticed right away how everything about her was different. Wow, he thought. Sometimes they grow up right.

She couldn't remember exactly what she had found so charming. She thought about her fiancé.

He remembered mid-sentence that she had been in love with him. She had worshiped him, right? He remembered someone telling him that. He made a joke about her playing the trombone and she laughed only to be polite.

He wanted to fuck her. He hadn't had sex in months and months. Her hair looked like it smelled amazing. She mentioned a band he hadn't heard of. He told her that he lived in New York, in the cool part of town, and then he had to go back and correct himself. Used to. But not anymore.

The economy, he said, and he shrugged.

Bummer, she said. She thought it wise not to ask about his acting career. She could see the answer in his cheap tie and smell it in the alcohol on his breath. He gave her his number and she pretended to put it in her cellphone, again, to be polite. He tried to get her to come with him to a bar on Division, one where he was friendly with the bartender (not true) and where the drinks would be half-price. She had to get back to Austin, she said.

She was getting married in a few weeks. So much to do.

Great, he said. Fuck, he thought.

She drove off with a wave and he kicked the bumper of his car with all the force he could manage. The bumper remained unblemished. His ankle twisted and began to swell. He managed to drive himself back to his parent's house, and he sagged on to the couch. His parents went out... Date Night, they said, laughing to themselves. He hobbled to his fathers liquor cabinet and pulled out the last bottle of vodka, very cheap stuff, practically paint thinner.

He sat around his parents living room, drinking, nursing a busted ankle, but mostly thinking of her.

Things only got worse for him.

She lived a happy life, one that she deserved. She never thought of him again.

He thought of her always.

"There are Listed Buildings" by Los Campesinos!

2009-10-28T15:23:00.005-04:00

If you're like me... brutally handsome, fueled by rage, currently nude... then there's nothing you enjoy more than a fizzy, ray-of-sunlight, pop song. Next to liquor, of course. Liquor will always be our first love. I mean, who are we kidding??? Buncha drunks.

But anyway, toe-tappin', poppy, indie rock makes you feel for three minutes like the weight of the world isn't resting directly on your windpipe. It's a bright piece of minty chewing gum after five cups of bitter, black coffee. It's aural penetration with a unicorn's dick.

So... give this song a listen then...

Don't you feel better about everything? The hate in your heart is, at best, now lukewarm. Why, I bet if a shambling homeless gentlemen were to saunter across your path, you wouldn't even have the urge to drag him into the nearest stairwell and beat him to death with a cinder block! Hell, you might give the ol' fella a shiny quarter and tell him in a jolly voice, "the coffee's on me tonight, Scruffy!"

Yes, he would probably turn on you, ripping at your face with his filthy street fingers, biting at your pulse points because the homeless can smell blood, but still. The point is, Los Campesinos! makes music for happier days. Isn't it great? Yeah... it's pretty great.

P.S. Sorry you gotten eaten by a hobo. Them's the breaks.

Five Halloween Costumes That Absolutely Will Not Get You Laid

2009-10-27T16:54:00.009-04:00

NOTE: All of these costumes are available at the much-hated douche factory known as Ricky's Party Supply. However, do not ever, ever buy these costumes.

Lunch Meat

Before you go selecting a Halloween costume all willy-nilly... particularly one that involves a "hilarious" play on words so noxious it causes birth defects in unborn babies... you really need to think about the kind of associations it will bring up in the minds of women. Example: You're dressed as processed lunch meat... meat, in the context of a sexy Halloween party, equals your dong... processed lunch meat smells like a chemical plant trying to fart out a pig... ergo, your dong smells like something women would run away from and possibly spray with mace, not something they would let near their "area." So buying this costume essentially makes you the guy at the party with a smelly penis, whether it's true or not.

(p.s. if you buy this costume, chances are you have a smelly penis anyway; not saying that IS the case, just saying it's probably true)

Biblical Character

You know what gets women hot? Religion. Specifically dudes from New Testament times that knew Jesus personally and stoned women to death for having periods (or whatever). Oh yeah... tell me about the Christ child, baby... oooh... that gets me hot... now tell me about how all females should be subservient to men.... Eh, I guess it doesn't really matter, as there is no one... NO ONE... stupid enough to wear a religion-themed Halloween costume to a proper party anyway. Having a good time and the concept of religion are like flavored body oil and holy water. These costumes (and there were several to choose from) are strictly for those that attend Church functions on Halloween and it's a pretty good bet no one's getting laid at those anyways, so I guess go fucking nuts. Be Joseph, be Malachi, be goddamn Moses and get your tablets on if that's your pleasure. Just don't expect to be getting biblical with anyone, if you catch my meaning.

The Shocker

Oh, c'mon. Even the worst-case-scenario frat guy, with his backwards fitted ball cap and Tapout shirt and Teva sports sandals soaked in Milwaukee's Best, would take one look at this costume and declare it "a bit much, brah." Girls see this and think, I could try to sleep with him, but I'm not sure if I'm necessarily in the mood to bang a guy who's basically threatening me with anal penetration from the get-go. I mean, maybe I'd be down with it if he used some subtlety and a few shots of Wild Irish Rose, but... so blatant with the "this is the part that goes in your butt, tee hee,"... yeah, I think I'll tag out with the sexy fireman instead. Long after the party is over, the guy dressed as The Shocker can be heard saying to passers-by, "No, get it... it's The Shocker, man... my WHOLE BODY is the... hey... GET IT?"

Yes, guy dressed as The Shocker, we get it. You, however, will get nothing, forever and ever.

Guy Caught Out on a Windy Day

What are you, a lazy French mime? Do you really want to spend then entire party "walking against the wind" to make your costume's scant visual joke work? Unless you happen to be amongst a large group of conceptual artists that are dressed up variously as "girl walking up stairs," and, "guy waiting in line to buy a copy of Art Forum from an Israeli bodega clerk," and, "man's inhumanity to man as defined by the strict Brechtian logic inherent in, but not exclusively germane to, his earlier plays," then I think you're going to get several hours of blank stares and a lot of not-pussy.

Geppetto

Oooookay, let me get this straight: You scoured the length and breadth of popular culture, took into consideration all that was available to you in terms of Superhero costumes and wish-fulfilment outfits (your Cowboys and Astronauts and hunky Policemen, etc.) and the best thing you could come up with... your absolute ideal costume... was MOTHERFUCKIN' GEPPETTO FROM PINOCCHIO???

"Yeah, this year I'm really feeling like an old Italian puppet maker who longs for a child of his own. That's what my heart wants on Halloween, dudes."

Listen to me and listen well... Girls will see, and ONLY see, a creepy old man pedophile that wants to fuck boy puppets that he built to his exact anatomical specifications. They won't see sweet, innocent Disney purity and love. They will only see your dick, covered in splinters.

No. Just no. If you really want to dress up as Geppetto, do it at home, away from people, where the entire population of a party won't snap on you so hard you'll shit your pants every morning when you wake up and realize that you're still you.

In the Event of My Death...

2009-10-26T14:38:00.003-04:00

When you wake up as many times as I have covered in a slick, clammy mixture of barfed-up liquor and Cheez-Its, your head pressed to the base of the toilet because it's so wonderfully cool, your limbs contorted against the bathroom walls and the tub like a Cirque du Soleil dancer run over by a city bus, you begin to think long and hard about your own death. It could happen to any of us, after all, and the odds only go up the more the shots of tequila tell you that the best way to avoid arrest is to headbutt the police officer in the cock.

So, with that in mind, and assuming that I could be killed at any minute by means natural (my liver exploding like a zeppelin made of bourbon) or unnatural (a bouncer twisting my head all the way around until it pops off my body like a champagne cork), I feel it would be in my best interest to write down my last wishes as a matter of public record.

Should any of you loyal, though severely neglected readers see a news story about your ol' buddy C-dog tragically meeting his maker (most likely nude from the waist down), you'll now know exactly how I want the Long Goodbye to go.

Without further adieu...

In the Event of My Death...: The Last Wishes of C-dog

-Originally, I had planned on being an organ donor because saving lives after your dead is kind of awesome and noble in a Spawn/Ghost Rider sort of way. However, it is not at all hilarious. So, instead, I'd like for one of you to remove all my organs and bake them into some sort of savory pie. Then, invite all my closest friends over for a "mourning session." Serve them the pie, but don't tell them about the extra-special ingredient (me). After the pie is gone, reveal the big surprise: Tell them they just ate me. HA!!! It will literally be the funniest thing ever. You might want to put a few tarps down, because people will probably vomit. From laughing too hard, not because I wasn't delicious. Trust me, I am goddamn delicious.

-The parts of me that don't go into the joke pie, I want burned. And I don't mean cremated... I want someone to build a big funeral pyre like the fucking Vikings used to do. Torch my shit on that and let everyone be warmed by my awesome death fire. Play some Swedish black metal to set the mood. Then whoever doesn't have to work the next day should band together and lay siege to a neighboring village.

-There should be two funerals; one that's normal, and one that's normal except for there are Slip N' Slides.

-Gather together all the women with whom I have been "intimate." Make them fight to the death. The winner gets to be burned with me on the funeral pyre! Or, if she's not into that, she gets a $20 gift card from Applebee's.

-Pick one homeless guy and give him all my stuff. Tell him he is King of the Homeless. This should infuriate the other homeless people, but they'll be too drunk or strung out on hard street drugs to do anything about it. Long live His Majesty Stinky Carl, King of the Homeless!!! May his glory reign until his death from tuberculosis and/or his gangrenous leg!!!

-Find someone who you deem "better than me." Like, a businessman or a well-to-do shop owner or something. Kill him. NOBODY IS BETTER THAN C-DOG, EVEN IN DEATH!!!

-Last but not least, as the embers of the funeral pyre begin to smolder, as one lucky lady emerges from the Ring of Battle covered in blood and ready to claim her gift card, as His Majesty Stinky Carl attends his crowning ceremony (it's behind a check-cashing joint), I want everyone who has ever known me... via the internet or from actual human contact... to just get fucking hammered in my name. With each shot, toast to my memory. Salt each beer with a single teardrop cried out just for me. Drink, drink, my people... for your days have gotten a little darker now that C-dog has passed on.

-Or, you know, send a funeral wreath or something. Those are good too.

Early Morning Dispatch (With Hot Fudge!)

2009-09-24T04:31:00.005-04:00

So... I've just spent a large chunk of the late-evening/early morning (depending on how you want to look at it) drinking 16oz cans of Bud Ice and eating Smucker's Microwavable Hot Fudge Topping directly out of the squeeze bottle with a plastic butter knife.

There's not really any story here... just wanted to check in with the few readers I have left that aren't spam robots or people who arrived here accidentally after Googling "shitting ladies." It's been awhile since I actually let you all know what's going on in my life.

Anyway, I'm drinking a lot and eating dessert toppings with plasticware at 3:30 in the AM. That's kind of where I'm at.

How about you guys? What's new? Anyone dead I should know about? Anyone give birth to a baby? And if so, is the baby deformed in some sort of cool way? Like webbed feet or it's got a tail? Because a picture of said deformity would probably make me laugh my ass off, provided it was sent to me via email.

I would also appreciate nude pictures of you or your loved ones sent via email.

Bank information, too.

NOTE: I don't want to see any wangs!

2ND NOTE: Okay, maybe some wangs, but only if they're well lit and there's some stage make-up involved.

Blogging while drunk is fun, though, right? Want some hot fudge? I like sharing.

Friday Night

2009-09-23T05:23:00.001-04:00

You're welcome...

VMAs or Celebrity Halloween?

2009-09-14T02:25:00.009-04:00

Lady Gaga as...

...the craziest relative from the side of your family that's fictional and Victorian and part bird.

Joe Perry & Katy Perry as...

...a recently unearthed Greek myth about a glam rock skeleton that turned the wide-eyed town virgin into a spandex whore. Side Note: Are they related? Not because their last names are the same, but because they're both gross in exactly the same way, like a used condom in a nightclub urinal?

Leighton Meester as...

...a magical 70's disco ball that comes alive when you sprinkle it with cocaine.

Kanye West & Amber Rose as...

...a five year old dressing up like what he thinks "coolness" might be and his imaginary robot buddy that sometimes touches him in his area even though the very thought of it makes his stuffed animals barf.

Taylor Swift as...

...a shimmer angel that puts all your bad moods in a box and throws them into a lake, then you have a picnic lunch of snuggles and kisses that mean something. P.S. She smells like a flower that bakes sugar cookies.

Janet Jackson as...

...the newly-christened "crazy one."

Jack Black as...

...the exact moment in time when the whole world got over Jack Black.

Madonna as...

...your Mom's divorced friend who heard about the concept of being "a cougar" from a TV show and went fucking nuts at Filene's Basement because, well, being a cougar doesn't mean you can't still shop at a place with good deals on outerwear.

Pink as...

...a masculine Troll doll wearing the floor mat from my 1992 Jeep Wrangler.

Lady Gaga... again... as...

...a joke, right? A big fucking joke on all of America, like a female Andy Kaufman or something? Because if she's a real thing that's really like this, we need to shut down the TVs and the radios and turn the Internet off and move out into the forest where we can harvest the land for the next fifty years or so. A few decades of hard labor will whip the Lower East Side art student crazy right out of anyone. It's hard to dress like a scream queen Phyllis Diller when you're trying to get the cabbage harvest in before sundown, as that's when the wolves come...

2009-09-01T18:14:00.001-04:00

This Beer Tastes Like Ass

2009-08-27T22:01:00.002-04:00

There is no reason for a product in this day and age to be named "Bootie Beer." That is just bad marketing strapped to a rocket and shot into outer space. What, are the creators five years old and Belgian? Was this designed by aliens that watch a lot of mid-90s Jamie Foxx movies?

For shame, Bootie Beer... for shame.

NOTE: If it was the only thing available, I'd totally still drink it. I have a serious problem with alcohol!

Searching for Meaning in Bathroom Graffiti

2009-08-26T11:41:00.001-04:00

I stumbled on to some confounding graffiti the other night while drowning my myriad sorrows in a local bar called J. Gilligan's. I thought maybe you smart, with-it kids could help me suss out its meaning, if there's a meaning to be had at all. So... um... here it is:

Possible Meaning #1 - Maybe the author means it like, "I'll get you Dorothy, and your little dog, too!" Perhaps there's some sort of Supervillian running around Arlington, TX that goes by the moniker, "Pussyface," and maybe his arch-nemesis just happened to be pooping in the bathroom of J. Gilligan's and thought, hey, if Pussyface ever came in here to unload some brewskis, it would totally fucking blow his mind to see that I've been here too and that I was thinking about how I'd get him one of these days. Suffice to say, Pussyface's arch-nemesis had had a few brewskis of his own. And... yeah... I guess it could be the other way around. Maybe Pussyface is the hero and he had just foiled a Supervillian's dastardly deed (at J. Gilligan's, which I guess would amount to stealing someones Irish nachos and/or knocking over a pitcher of Miller Light) and as said agent of evil escaped into the night, he took a few seconds to pop into the men's room and scrawl out his final taunt. Why he wouldn't just scream it as he peeled out of the parking lot is a mystery, but I guess it does get kinda loud in there, especially on karaoke night.

Possible Meaning #2 - Maybe the author means it like, "Hey man, I'll get you some crack if you want to smoke lots of crack but don't know where to get the crack." But something tells me there's probably not a hard street drug out there called, "Pussyface." Just doesn't sound right. So the only logical conclusion one can arrive at is that there's a breed of mutants here in Arlington, TX that have vaginas on their faces and they cater to a very specific crowd of fetishists who enjoy fucking them on the down-low, which is why the suppliers can only communicate with the tricks via graffiti in the bathrooms of low-rent bars. Very Clive Barker, but with shots served in Dixie cups and an overwhelming feeling of sadness. Yeah, that's probably it.

Possible Meaning #3 - Some drunk guy wandered in with a Bic and thought it would be funny to write the phrase, "I'll get u pussyface" on the wall while he pissed on his Adidas and thought about how the waitress calling him "hon" probably means she wants to bang.

No, wait... that's ridiculous...

Things We're All Done With

2009-08-15T11:17:00.003-04:00

NOTE: As I'm sure you've noticed, there is WAY too much stuff in the world. It's not like it was even two decades ago, when there was only just some stuff and we could all breathe and move around and it was all good. Now, it's like trying to wade through a city dump, fucking always. So I did some research (haha, not really) and came up with six things we can totally get rid of. You're welcome.

The Martini - There was a time when the martini was this classy thing that you had to sport a monocle to drink properly, but now it's about a bunch of Sour Apple bullshit and fake tans and trying to impress deeply stupid girls who see the world only as a series of dollar signs. Plus, does anyone actually like martinis? I'll answer for us all... no. No one actually likes them. They taste like industrial floor cleaner served in a glass that was CLEARLY meant as a prank on all waiters. And speaking of waiters, when you order a martini specifically the way you want it... stirred, up, extra-dirty, with three olives, and just a kiss of vermouth... your waiter is watching your face slow turn from that of a human into a farting butthole that doesn't know what it's talking about. And that makes it all the more likely that your martini will at some point between the bar and your table have a waiter's ball sack dunked in it.

Haircuts - Such a hassle. Everything about them just reeks of a bad time, from the making small talk with a Vietnamese refugee who hates you, to having sharp objects flying around your ears, to getting little hairs down your collar so you feel like you're going to implode from itchiness. All of it just sucks. Sure, you might look a little neater, a little more "put together," but really... c'mon... it's 2009. Who gives a shit about looking nice anymore? This isn't Mad Men. We collectively are so over that metrosexual crap, it's like it was all just a reality show from a different time, a different place, when Carson Kressleys roamed the Earth. What's in now is letting your hair grow like nature intended. Sure we'll eventually end up in some sort of Clan of the Cave Bear world, or at the very least it'll be like Haight-Ashbury in the 60's, but that's okay too. Anything is better than having to drive to a haircut place and sit covered in a tarp and get a haircut. That is the worst.

Jeremy Piven - I don't know what happened. He used to be pretty great. PCU, am I right? So funny. Maybe it was the whole "dropped out of a Broadway show because I ate too much sushi" thing, but whatever the reason, he's now just totally unacceptable. Have you seen the trailer for that new movie, The Goods? It makes me want to punch through a bank of lockers like a football player that just got cut from the team because he flunked math. Also, that show Entourage is like cancer. It wasn't very funny when it first started, but now... several million years later... it's 30 minutes of the worst parts of humanity, every week. Watching all the prison rape on Oz all at once would be easier to take than even five minutes of Entourage. It's like Los Angeles kicking you square in the nuts, but in your brain.

Lying - What the fuck ever happened to just being honest about stuff? Why all the lies, man? If you're an undercover cop, just SAY you're an undercover cop and I'll walk away quietly like I was just coming up to ask the time. There's no need to make me run through a bunch of backyards and dive headlong into the bed of a pickup truck stopped at a light just because I happen to like the smooth, mellow flavors of high-grade Indonesian heroin. Just be straightforward with me, man. Also, if you're a dude dressed up like a fancy lady, wear a name tag that says so. It sucks pouring Pina Coladas into you all night only to be confronted by an angry dong at the finish line. That's a sorrow that takes five years off your life.

Babies - I know we have to make babies to propagate the species, but at the same time, who gives a shit? The world's going to end in 2012 anyways (The History Channel and John Cusack say so), so let's maybe just buy a global crate of condoms and fuck without reproducing for a few years. Because babies... though cute and adorable and an expression of your love in human form... are also smelly, loud, and they make it so you can't go to the movies or out to eat without everyone in the vicinity hating your stupid breeder guts (see: smelly, loud). Getting rid of babies would also cut out the tiny, ironic shirts that hipster parents slap on their kid because it's one more thing they can use as a billboard to let the world know how clever and smart they are. That would be a wonderful bonus.

TV Shows About Cops/Lawyers/Doctors - Everything that can possible be said about those subjects has now officially been said and that will hold true until forever. Unless you're going to do something really kooky with the concept... a cop that's also a sofa bed, or a lawyer that tours the world as part of the E Street Band, or a doctor that only treats leprechauns... then just fucking stop. Try some original ideas, for fucks sake! It's not that hard! Here... here's three original ideas that you can have for free: 1) A homeless guy has adventures with a Pegasus that's all in his mind (it's like a modern day Calvin & Hobbes)... 2) A chef opens a restaurant on the site of a horrible mass murder and has to fight off ghosts AND the nightly dinner rush. Wackiness ensues and also people get their faces ripped off by supernatural beings... 3) A circus clown tries every week to convince the local townspeople that he's not a serial killer. He is actually a serial killer and he kills all the townspeople every week. The last half hour of the show is him laughing hysterically in full make-up while cleaning the blood off his clown shoes. (I just freaked myself out a little)

Creepy Products Available at Your Local Pharmacy

2009-08-12T21:02:00.004-04:00

Zim's Crack Creme

Yeah, I get it. It's for cracked, dry skin. Which, by the way, ew. What are you, a komodo dragon? Do you come from a future world where the ozone layer is a myth and everyone fights the mutated sand people in the 150 degree heat while an evil overlord hoards the water? You leathery fuck.

But anyway, why call it "crack creme?" Sure it will stick out in the consumer's mind, but so will packing a cereal box full to the brim with live, pissed off spiders from the Congo and you don't see the good people at Lucky Charms doing THAT, do you? Because with "crack creme," you've got two options, neither of which are the thing it actually is. One, it's stuff you rub on your butt crack, which makes people think about butt cracks and only like 2% of all the butt cracks in the world are anything anyone would want to think about. Why play the odds that your product is going to make people think of, say, John Goodman's butt crack as opposed to Alexis Bledel's? Or two, it's a creme designed for crack addicts to rub on their lips when they get all burned from sucking on hot crack pipes all day. And thinking about crack addicts is a gigantic bummer, so much so that it's literally all you can do to not slit your wrists with your car keys right there in the pharmacy.

Also, this stuff was invented by a guy named Zim? From outer space? Or really Swedish? Either way, no thanks.

Mothers Friend

Can't you just see a lonely, 40ish guy with a carefully maintained side-part and a sweater vest carrying this with both hands as he slowly ascends a flight of stairs up to a dank room where his best friend in the whole world... his Mom... sits in a floral print nightgown slowly dying of tuberculosis? "Howard... bring me my Mothers Friend... oh please, Howard... (coughs for two minutes)... my skin is so dry and stretched and the 1970's box design will soothe my tired eyes as I wonder why you never married... also, what happened to all the neighborhood cats, Howard... why do I hear you crying late at night... oh yes, rub the Mothers Friend into my swollen belly... you're mama's little angel, Howard... why have you brought the carving knife out of the kitchen... why... why are you in my wedding dress... HOWARD, NO!!!"

Booty Goo

Oh, c'mon! You cannot call a product "Booty Goo" like it's this adorable thing about babies not AT ALL connected with hasty man-on-man encounters in a park bathroom. Do you think suburban stay-at-home parents have never watched Queer as Folk? No one is charmed by this, thinking, "oh for my precious baby's little tushy! How fun!" Everyone that sees this... from 18 year old mom's who got pregnant at a frat party to 90 year old priests just passing through the post-natal care aisle on the way to the rack where they hold the new canes... takes one look and goes, "well it's nice that the rough hustlers who hang out down by the docks have a new product to keep the wear n' tear to a minimum." Also, putting a baby on the tube basically qualifies you for a visit from the To Catch a Predator crew. Enjoy life in prison, Booty Goo ad execs! Make sure you bring lots of Booty Goo!

Eat Me

2009-08-07T00:01:00.001-04:00

WHAT NOW, MOTHERFUCKERS?!?!

That's right! I got my own salsa up in here. TEXAS salsa, it should be noted, because I'm from Texas and I live in Texas and when you slit open my Texas veins, out pours a rich, hearty slurry of tomatoes and onion and jalapeno and garlic known as SALSA!!! So when you buy my salsa, know that you are drinking of my blood, much like Jesus.

I AM JESUS TO YOU NOW, BUT MUCHO CALIENTE!!!

Clint's Texas Salsa is spicy, my bitches. So very spicy. Eat one chip-ful and you'll think, "My, but there is some flavorful heat in this tasty salsa." Eat another chip-ful AND YOUR HEAD WILL EXPLODE!!! KER-SPLOOSH!!! Brains and salsa mixed together and splattered on the wall like a toddler's flung dinner.

Satan himself said my salsa made his butthole hurt for a week! It's true, prove it's not, you can't because you don't have Satan's cellphone number. I AM IN LEAGUE WITH SATAN AND HE LOVES MY SALSA!!!

My salsa retails for $6.66 because it is devilish!

BE WARNED: Only buy one jar of my salsa at a time. If you buy two jars, you will be arrested by the police for carrying a deadly weapon with intent to make nachos. Buy three jars and you will be thrown in a secret jail by the CIA because you're now a TERRORIST!!!

MY SALSA HATES AMERICA AND FREEDOM!!!

Clint's Texas Salsa... it will steal your motherfucking soul!!!"

That's our new slogan. It's 100% factual. My salsa is supernatural, you fucking freak. The secret ingredient IS FROM BEYOND THE GRAVE!!! The other secret ingredient is love.

Enjoy, won't you? (no, you won't... you'll be dead from salsawesomeness!)

Warning: Melancholy Birthday Post Ahead

2009-08-06T01:29:00.001-04:00

So today is my birthday. 29 years of not dying, but not exactly living either. Oh sure, I've had fun... I've partied quite hardy, I've loved and been loved back, I've lived in some of the most exciting cities the United States has to offer, I've been to a few foreign lands where, at one point, I'm pretty sure I ate part of a horse... but... the thing is... I don't feel like I've DONE anything.

I feel like, in general, my 20's have been a waste. Of money, of talent, of brain cells, of a liver that will be able to function properly well into my golden years, etc. It's just all slipped through my fingers like so many Skittles when you're trying to eat Skittles after a hard night's drinking and your hands are shaking so bad it's like they invented earthquakes. You can't hold on to those multi-colored bastards when your hands are shaking like that! But they're so delicious and after most of a bottle of cheap tequila, nothing sounds better than a sweet rainbow of flavor punching you in the mouth... oh man... I would slit a blind man's throat for some Skittles right now...

Anyway, I feel like shit is slip-slidin' away, to paraphrase Paul Simon, and with this... my 29th year on Earth... it is time to throw on the motherfucking breaks. Or at least get some shit accomplished, because I'm pretty sure you can't technically stop yourself from aging. Not without a lot of plastic surgery and that shit can get expensive. Plus I don't want to look like a happy burn victim or like I'm always dressed up as Katherine Helmond from Brazil.

So here's the list I've been working on... shit I want to do and see and accomplish before I turn 30 and burst into flames like vampires do.

My 20's Are Almost Over - A Bucket List

NOTE: Sorry for using the lame pop culture-y phrase "bucket list." I know it's weak sauce, but it's an easily recognizable shorthand for what I'm talking about, even if it DOES make us all think of supposedly wacky Jack Nicholson vehicles.

-I want to get out of Arlington, TX for at least a week and just hit the road. I want to end up in some small town on the border and meet a half-Mexican girl who works in a bar and is in trouble with the law. I want to buy here a couple of drinks. Then I want to beg her to take me to her grandmother's house where her grandmother will then make me real tacos, like from the old country. Old Mexican ladies make the BEST tacos.

-Maybe I could stop being such a fat ass this year. I mean, it's not super likely that it's going to happen... it's hard to get motivated to work out when you have nothing in your life but school and work and the unending void of loneliness that fills up most of your garage apartment, but... you know... it could happen. I could do a push-up every now and then.

-I'd like to start a writing project (that isn't a blog post!) and actually finish it. I have so many ideas cage-fighting in my brain right now... a few of them actually decent... it seems a shame that at least one of them hasn't been let out into the cold light of day. I don't expect to get famous or anything... this is just for myself, to show me that I can finish something creative.

-Oh who am I kidding, I'd like to get really, really famous from my writing. Or not from my writing... if I can grab a few minutes of precious, precious fame by getting punched in the nuts by an old grandma on YouTube, well then, so be it. My ego looks like a shriveled jack-o-lantern left on the porch of some guy's house after he died in a tragic Halloween-related stabbing. It needs some fluffin' and pumpin'.

-I'd like to be smooth with the ladies, even if it's only for like five minutes. I think I could get a lot of traction in five minutes. Of course, after the five minutes I'd go back to trying to impress them with my magic trick, or by making sarcastic comments about the spinach dip, or by clamming up and getting all scowly after five drinks so they think I'm half a tard. But for those five minutes... man... I would be smoother than a black guy!

-It would be really cool to ride in a helicopter. This isn't a life-changing event or anything, but I still think it would be neat. ZOOOM!!! Is what I would say if they let me ride in a helicopter. Oh, and I should preface this by saying that I *do not* want said helicopter to be a CareFlight air-lifting me to a hospital after a terrible car accident. I mean a fun helicopter ride where you get to sing songs with the pilot and then land on the roof of a Jack in the Box and go down a ladder to a room where they serve you tacos.

-Maybe laying off the tacos in general wouldn't be so bad and idea. I'm always so greasy...

-I guess really I just want to find my happy. Whatever that happy happens to be. If anyone knows where happiness hangs out, please feel free to let me know. Oh, and it's not at the bottom of a bottle, or embedded in the code of streaming internet porn. I've checked those places and have come up empty every time.

Movie Poster A Go-Go

2009-08-05T02:05:00.003-04:00

Avatar

I don't know, dudes... James Cameron doesn't make a movie since the Clinton Administration and the first image we get of it screams, basically, "we bought a lot of blue make-up on sale at this one make-up distribution center that was going out of business... so... hope you like blue chicks..." And don't get me wrong, I love blue chicks. They spice shit up nicely in the bedroom (blue boobs turn your horniness into a question mark, but in a good way). It's just that if Cameron is going to wait a million years to put out his next "masterpiece," it better have a lot more going for it than an obscure sexual kink. Also, what's an avatar? I feel like I know this... it has something to do with computers or something... but I really don't want to look it up. Oh wait, doesn't AIM have avatars? Motherfucker, if this is a movie about instant messaging with blue chicks, I am so out. I can do that on my internet at home for a monthly fee.

The Final Destination

Why are all the teens in these movies so pretty? Guys AND girls. They're just all really good looking individuals and that is SOOOOO not how it is in real life. There's no acne that defies all Oxy-cution, there's no crippling social phobias or back-braces or weird hair because they let their grandma cut their hair and now their hair looks like a limp mop that shows off a premature bald spot. Anyway, so death is coming back and throwing cars at Aeropostale catalogue models. Good for him, I guess. It is in 3D, though, and as I'm a big fan of all three dimensions (as well as the 5th Dimension, but that has no bearing on this discussion), I will probably see this. Have you seen the preview? That scene in the car wash looks kind of bonkers.

Oh, nearly forgot to mention... their faces reflected in the puddle are scary skull faces. That's creepy. If I looked into a puddle and saw a skull face over my real face, I'd have to use the puddle water to clean myself off. Fear pooping is real, you guys. So very real...

The Vampire's Assistant

Apparently it's a "saga." Heh... okay... sure you are. The Vampire's Assistant, followed by The Vampire's Cable Repair Guy, and The Vampire's Roomate's Brother Who's Sleeping On The Couch Right Now While He Looks For A Place, and finally, of course, The Vampire's Sleazy Attempt To Cash In On The Twilight Phenomenon. You know this movie is going to be like the inside of a Hot Topic's ass and holy shit do we not need another one of those farting on to screens nationwide. I would go see it, however, if it was actually about a nice college student named Mitch who ran errands for a vampire during the day. Picked up his capes at the dry cleaners, arranged to have some coffin polish delivered, organized the vampire's Fresh Direct orders, etc. THAT would be interesting. And the theaters wouldn't be filled with thousands of 14 year old girls going through simultaneous puberty, either.

Prince of Persia: The Sands of Time

I know it's not fair to assume that all of Jake Gyllenhaal's movies are totally gaybones JUST because he was in Brokeback Mountain... but... dude shows up in the poster wearing all the fetish-y leather and rocking a sword that looks suspiciously like a bendy wang... well... hey, whatever my man... do you and your "sands of time." Which I assume is code for something. YOU know what I'm talking about. Cleveland Steamer or something...

Jennifer's Body

You know, I was into Megan Fox at first... but then someone pointed out to me that in certain lights she sort of looks like a Filipino lady-boy. Now that's all I can think about when I see her. So, Megan, if you're listening, you're just going to have to get so very naked and prove to us all that you're not a herm. Get on that. Make Amanda Seyfreid undress you... oooh... yeah...

Oh, and the movie looks fine I guess. Horror, but funny. AND it's from Diablo Cody, so I guess I won't be understanding half of what's being said because I'm not so hip with the slang. I still say "homeboy" unironically to black guys and then demand a high five. And you know what? They give it to me because I am straight up STREET. Thug life!!!

A Nightmare on Elm Street

You'd think I would be totally pissed about this, given my past history of hating "reimaginings" and, well, I sorta am. But I'm also sorta not because I like that they cast looks-like-a-child-killing-monster-anyway Oscar nominee Jackie Earle Haley as Freddy. A bold choice. So I'm reserving judgement. Maybe they got their shit in one sack on this one. Besides, I'm way to busy right now being pissed about this...

Fame

You motherfuckers. If you hurt Fame I will beat you to death with one of my old tap shoes. This is one of my favorite movies of all time... for reasons too Gyllenhaal to get into publicly... and if there's not a sensitive kid with a red afro and the ghost of Gene Anthony Ray and a song called, not kidding, "Hot Lunch," then what is the FUCKING POINT of making this movie again? Also, they have to have a creepy topless scene or it doesn't work. And there needs to be dancing on cabs! Ugh, they should have just let me direct this. I would have done a shot-for-shot remake of the original like Gus Van Zant's Psycho and then I'd have burned the master print because THE ORIGINAL WAS PERFECT THE FIRST TIME!!! YOU HEAR ME, HOLLYWOOD???

(sobbing)

FAME! I WANT TO LIVE FOREEEEVEEER!!! I WANT TO LEARN HOW TO FLY!!! HIGH!!!

2009-08-03T11:33:00.003-04:00

Last night, my grandmother lost her long, slow battle with Alzheimer's. Though it was ugly and mean, we are fortunate that she was spared some of the truly horrible shit that comes even further down that particular road. She was one hell of a lady and she will be... and has been... sorely missed by all that know her.

For more info on Alzheimer's, or to donate to the cause that is currently trying to kick its ass, please click here.

Mildly Amusing Waiter Story

2009-08-01T11:48:00.002-04:00

So last night I had a 20-top come in and, as per usual when I get a large group of people in my section, I asked them what they were celebrating. Birthday, big softball win, etc. Turns out, one of their close friends had just died.

Oh... okay... well, can get anyone something from the bar...?

NOTE: It should be pointed out that, despite me shitting all over their tragedy, they did tip very decently. Wished they'd all been wearing black though.

Abe Lincoln Disapproves of My Late Night Eating Habits

2009-07-31T11:11:00.007-04:00

The drive-thru of a Whataburger, 3am

Abe Lincoln: Four score and seven... hold up... are we at Whataburger?

Me: Er... yes.

Abe Lincoln: But C-dog, it's 3am. Eating greasy fast food this late at night is so bad for your health. Don't you want to grow up big and strong like me, Abe Lincoln?

Me: Were you big and strong? I mean I know you cured slavery with your death ray, but weren't you just tall and kind of sickly. I think I saw that on The History Channel.

Abe Lincoln: The History Channel is full of lies! They ran a documentary last week about how George Washington was the greatest president of all time! My skinny cock he was. HE HAD SLAVES!!! I didn't have slaves. I freed the slaves.

Me: With your death ray, I know.

Abe Lincoln: God damn right with my death ray. Fucking George Washington. Thinks he's so great because he's on the quarter. The penny is just fine!

Me: Penny is pretty cool, dude, I agree.

Abe Lincoln: It's made of copper!

Me: I don't think that's right.

Abe Lincoln: Don't argue with the greatest president of all time, you fat piece of human garbage.

Me: You're pretty mean, Abe Lincoln.

Abe Lincoln: You don't get on the penny by playing nice, C-dog. You gotta slit a lot of throats to have your face slapped on that motherfucker.

Me: Well... look... I'm going to go ahead and order... you hungry?

Abe Lincoln: Now that you mention it, I could really assassinate a hot apple pie...

Me: Too soon, Abe Lincoln... too soon...

Still Life with Fat Ass

2009-07-26T16:34:00.003-04:00

NOTE: The pizza represents man's inhumanity to man, while the Bud Ice speaks to our deep, inner-longing to purchase that what gets us drunk at a reasonable price. The Reese's Peanut Butter Cups do not represent anything; they are merely delicious.

Screaming Junior High Death Eagle of Death

2009-07-20T23:50:00.006-04:00

This terrifying fucker was painted on one wall of the junior high gym where my stepbrother was playing a basketball game. Like... I get why it's there... the school's mascot is the eagle, clearly, and this is meant to be all, "We're big and strong and will tear you apart with our razor-sharp talons, GO TEAM," but c'mon. There's fronting for the sake of school spirit and then there's the kind of overkill that leaves both teams too scared to come out of their respective locker rooms. The must have to constantly be mopping up the fear-pee during regular season matches.

And I had taken on a few strong margaritas before I rolled up to the gym, so you can imagine how intense the whole experience was for me. This scary-ass bird combined with the squeaking of all those sneakers on a hardwood floor. Living nightmare, man. I could barely hold the camera straight, my hands were shaking so bad.

That might have been from the booze, though.

Nah, it was the eagle. That thing wanted to kill me bad, I could tell.

NOTE: The horror was mitigated slightly by the fact that the eagle has a clock where his eagle dong should be. His eagle dong let me know when I could get the fuck out of there! Thanks, eagle dong!!!

I Am Artsy

2009-07-18T18:27:00.002-04:00

Holy shit, I created some art! I was just fucking around with the spork that came with my Taco Bueno nachos and then all of a sudden... BLAMMO! Art all up in here like MoMA took a dump in my sad little apartment. Check it out:

Spork Will Eat Itself

Doesn't that just say everything there is to say about the human condition? Doesn't it make you question the bedrock ideas and beliefs that you've used as the foundation upon which you've built the very essence of yourself? Doesn't it kinda make you want to touch yourself down there in your area?

Yeah, it totally does all of those things. I'm so good at making art, you guys! I am going to take over the art world like a motherfucking Stormtrooper army on steroids and Red Bull. Today, Arlington, TX... tomorrow, the world!!!

Anyway, I'm selling this piece of art for $10,000 or a case of medium quality beer and a container of Tabasco-flavored Slim Jims. Let the bidding war commence!!!

The Dawning of a New Era in ZFS! Entertainments

2009-07-17T11:54:00.003-04:00

Oh my god, you guys...

Why the fuck didn't any of you tell me that working AND going to school was like getting gangbanged by a bunch of mean tornadoes in a rocket ship screaming towards the Sun? I've never... literally NEVER... been this busy in my entire life. Granted, for most the last ten years I've done everything in my power to avoid any kind of responsibility and, in doing so, have basically laid around drunk in a fart cloud for a decade, but still... BUT STILL.

As I've mentioned before, this busyness has precluded any sort of blogging. However, the winds of change are a-blowin' here in Arlington, TX. See, the thing is this:

I got a new phone.

A fancy fucking new phone all shiny like a robot right before it destroys a major metropolis. It does tricks, yo. It sends emails and has a touch screen and Tetris and it brings me fresh linens when I soil mine in the opium den and it makes a mean PB&J. But the BEST part about my new phone is that it's also a digital camera. And I can email those pictures directly to this blog! Or, you know, basically.

Soooooo... suddenly, it just got a whole lot sexier up in here! At least with regards to my ability to update ZFS! in a more timely fashion. There is, quite frankly, nothing particularly sexy about me or my situation this morning. My room, for one thing, might not smell great. Also, I'm wearing a pair of XXL running shorts that appear to be stained with last night's BBQ sauce. Not a metaphor. When I throw down on some ribs, the sauce be flyin'. Am I right, ladies???

Anyway, so yeah. I'm going to start taking pictures of things and posting them here and we can all have a big gut laugh together. Also, I've missed you guys. Not blogging has been totally gaybones.

But enough about me. Let's get a photographin'...

For the inaugural pic, I thought about taking a picture of a Texas flag waving stoically in the breeze, or maybe a high-quality shot of my ball sack, but in the end I decided to go all left-field on your asses and present you with this:

My Creepy Care Bear Bank

This is my creepy Care Bear bank. It's on a shelf in my room right now and it has about twenty dollars worth of nickles crammed up its butt. You can tell by the expression on its little fuzzy face that is NOT happy about the situation. When the moon is full, I'm pretty sure I can hear it climb down from its perch, jinglin' and janglin', searching for a serrated knife it can use to slice my Achilles tendons so I'll collapse like an imploding casino and then it can go to work on my face. Yeah, I'm pretty sure that's what happens. Creepy fucking Care Bear bank. And why has it stolen my remote?!?!

Yeah, so there's that. Blogging to recommence at a semi-regular pace, henceforth. It has been too long away and, let's be honest, the world needs me right now. I am happiness. I am the way and the light. I am... C-DOG.

Well I guess we're gonna have to take control

(all on our own)

If it's up to us, we've got to take it home

(all on our own)

Just What The Hell Are You Trying To Pull Here, Doritos?

2009-06-30T18:14:00.002-04:00

The above packet was in my bag of Nacho Cheese Doritos. Apparently, you're supposed to dump the powdered buffalo sauce on your chips and shake it up, creating... I guess... some sort of weird, snack food hybrid that has heretofore only been the dream of a madman. Wing sauce and nacho cheese? Isn't that against God? I'm pretty sure the baby Jesus would not approve of the Nachuffalo, particularly if he has a problem with food that is dayglo like a Trapper Keeper.

But whatever, Doritos has never hurt me before. Well, except for that one time where I ate a bag of Cool Ranch chips and then washed it down with enough Jack Daniels to embalm a midget (photographic evidence exists of this night on the internet; my family is so full of shame). The resulting barf is even today a painful memory. Then again, I guess Doritos wasn't strictly at fault during this particular incident.

Anyway, the buffalo flavor powder is extremely intense. When I opened it, a poofy cloud of the stuff went up my nose. It was kind of like snorting vinegar out of Satan's butthole, but less fun. What wasn't coating my sinuses, I poured onto the nacho chips. I shook up the bag to get an even coating. The shaking bag sounded like a very poorly made maraca, so I did a very poorly conceived and borderline offensive ethnic dance. I am very sorry, Mexicans.

I ate a chip. It was not tasty. Doritos are pretty heavily seasoned as is, so adding a crapload MORE seasoning kind of moves the snacking experience into the area of diminishing returns. The taste in my mouth right now is like if Dow Chemicals suddenly got into the appetizer business. It is gross and I bet when I poop later, it's going to hurt.

Thanks a whole fucking lot, Doritos. You've hurt my tongue, my nasal passages, my colon, and my feelings. Why do you have to be this way? Why do you have to try to be more than what you are, which is delicious nacho cheese-flavored chips? I don't want a tarted up whore! I want a snack food to snuggle up with!!!

I'm so sad right now, you guys. So very sad...

The Men of Booze

2009-06-24T15:32:00.005-04:00

Hey kids...

Last week, we had an essay assigned to us where we were allowed to cast off the oppressive stuffiness of academia and "be funny... you know... if you want to." So I made an attempt at being funny. Thought you guys might want to read what I came up with. Please, do enjoy.

Oh, the assignment was this... just so you know what I was shooting for: write an essay that compares and contrasts three types of men or women in the dating scene. In addition, create a process analysis of how a typical date with one of said types would go.

Anyhoo, here 'tis:

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

The Men of Booze

As you go about your life, you will inevitably come face to face with the sultry, exciting prospect of dating a member of the opposite sex (or same sex, if that's your pleasure). At this juncture, you must make a choice that essentially boils down to this... and here I'm paraphrasing Hamlet... to date or not to date. That is the question, and it is one whose answers lead down two very specific paths. If you choose NOT to date, for example, then... well... you're going to have a lot of free time on your hands. Maybe you'll want to look into buying many, many cats. Oh, and get used to the idea of dying alone! (the cats will probably eat you after you've died)

However, if you choose TO date... to grab life by the throat and give it a good, old fashioned throttle... then you must also open yourself up to a plethora of additional choices. Namely, you must choose who, exactly, you would like to date. The varieties of men and women out there are endless, after all, and most are ridiculously dull, or socially awkward, or just downright unpleasant to be around both in terms of attitude and general odor. Yes, if you're going to wade through that mass of discordant personalities and horrifyingly inept grooming habits, you're going to need a lot of help from an old friend. No, not your old college roommate or your best buddy from work, or even your dear, old Dad... I'm talking about ALCOHOL! The social lubricant that turns all bad dates into, at the very least, a hazy blur of candlelit dinners and fistfights with the homeless.

To that end, I'd like to take you on a brief tour of three types of men that you might encounter in your average dating scene, as viewed through the prism of man's favorite vice (that isn't directly related to naked body parts). They all have their perks, but I think you'll see which one of them truly knows how to show a girl (or boy) a good time. Without further adieu, I give you... The Men of Booze.

The Abstainer

The Abstainer doesn't drink. In fact, alcohol has never touched his lips, except at Church back when they used real wine for Communion (and even then he was lobbying hard for grape juice). He lives cleanly, he lives correctly, and he is about as much fun as a tax seminar held at a slower pace for those in the audience that are bad at math. Of course, this might be what you are into. Maybe the velocity of this world of ours has thrown you into such a tizzy that the thought of a man with the overall demeanor of weak tea sounds all kinds of appealing. And if that's the case, then... by all means... hang out around the library (The Abstainer likes books about gardening), or your local government (The Abstainer always attends town hall meetings), or any recreation center that happens to be hosting a tax seminar ( The Abstainer LOVES tax seminars and, it should be noted, is excellent at math).

Keep in mind, however, that The Abstainer's disdain for alcohol can be extrapolated outwards to his feelings regarding all forms of fun. Dancing? The Abstainer is against it (think John Lithgow in Footloose). Gambling? No, no... not for The Abstainer. And, most damning of all... sex before marriage? Perish the thought! What would Jesus think? No, if you decide to (chastely, respectfully) date The Abstainer, be prepared for a hug that lasts longer than ten seconds to count as “third base.”

So, perhaps The Abstainer isn't quite what you're looking for. You've got womanly needs, after all. That being the case, maybe I can interest you in...

The Moderate

Why yes, The Moderate WILL have a beer with dinner! Perhaps he'll have two. But no more than that, as he has an important meeting in the morning and wouldn't want a slight headache to get in the way of him doing as good a job as is required to not get canned. Unlike our unpleasantly pious friend, The Abstainer, The Moderate is a little more loose. He is freer, more prone to taking the occasional chance, he is... not wild, exactly, but certainly a lot more likely to wake up nude on the balcony of an acquaintance's apartment after the Super Bowl than is The Abstainer.

Dating The Moderate is an amazingly average experience, one quite often highlighted in the films of Nora Ephron. Unlike The Abstainer, The Moderate is not opposed to taking you out for a little dancing at a club that doesn't play too much hip-hop. He'll take you on a weekend getaway to Atlantic City (he'll have a set limit of money he's willing to lose, but that's because he's responsible). And, worry not... The Moderate is a modern man, not held down by biblical pressures or outdated societal concepts of moral decency. If it's been six or more dates and you both have explicitly agreed not to file harassment charges the next day, well then... he'll open a bottle of wine, turn on an appropriately mood-setting Teddy Pendergrass CD, and then you and he will have some very decent, pre-marital sex.

But maybe this, too, sounds a little staid. It's not boring exactly... hell, at least there's booze... but The Moderate does seem a few shades more vanilla than you'd personally enjoy. So be it... please, step into the dark side...

The Drinker

Have you ever watched a man drink a fifth of Jack Daniels, then try to navigate a paddle boat around the fountain inside a mall? Have you ever seen a six-pack of beer disappear so quickly, you'd swear that the Earth hit a wrinkle in time? Have you ever met... The Drinker? He is the inverse of The Abstainer; he is what The Moderate becomes after he loses his job and the two drinks with dinner become three, then five, then a keg. He will show you a panoply of sin so jaw-dropping in it's length and breadth, it would make Satan himself cough awkwardly, fumble with his keys, then excuse himself to attend a just-remember urgent meeting about “Hell and his minions and stuff.”

To fully illustrate the type of man we're dealing with in The Drinker, let me break down a typical date of you... call it a process analysis, if you will, or call it a glimpse into madness. Either way, this is how it would happen.

First, The Drinker would roll out of bed and immediately roll into a bottle of whatever was on sale from the liquor store's bottom shelf. Having gotten himself “in the right frame of mind” for a date, he'd set about stumbling from his efficiency apartment in the bad part of town all the way to your front door (it goes without saying that The Drinker lost his license YEARS ago).

At your place, he'd ask if you would mind terribly if he used your bathroom. Be sure to have something to read nearby, as The Drinker will fall asleep in there for at least three hours. Once he has awoken, he'll have a terrible thirst for booze that must be quenched. Thus, your first date with The Drinker will begin at a bar. A horrible, horrible bar... one that features at least two old men, crying. You'll sit in whichever booth is the cleanest (relatively speaking) and you'll tell The Drinker about yourself... your hopes, your dreams, your aspirations for the future. The Drinker, in turn, will tell you about this one time where he got really messed up on grain alcohol and head-butted a dumpster behind a 7-11. The Drinker will smile at you. You'll smile at The Drinker. He'll barf. You'll politely look away while he barfs, then you will help him to the door before the bartender can come around with a sawed-off length of pool cue.

Next stop, the dance floor! Or the ER, if you can't get The Drinker to open his eyes. But barring that... dance floor! The Drinker, in spite of all the booze (or perhaps because of it), dances brilliantly. He's like a Soul Train cast member made entirely of rubber and a distinct lack of shame. Of course, all this movement will inevitably lead to more barfing, but if you are squeamish around 80 proof barf, then you are already barking up the wrong tree as far as The Drinker is concerned.

After the dry heaves have stopped, you will find yourself at the part of the evening that is solely the domain of The Drinker. The Abstainer has been in bed for five hours. The Moderate might still be up, but he's at home watching late-night poker on cable. The Drinker, on the other hand, is having you watch out for the cops while he tries to break open the front gate of an abandoned mini-golf course on the outskirts of town.

When all is said and done... when dawn's first light begins to break over the rusted, graffitied windmill on the 11th hole... as you lay naked next to his loudly snoring form, both of you wrapped in what was once the Astroturf from a putting green, you'll come to a realization. Your head is killing you.

But later, when the hangover has worn off and you have had the opportunity to piece together the evening by establishing a time line via the receipts in your pocket, you'll think back to the evening you had with The Drinker and realize that... while he may not be perfect... The Moderate is SO the way to go. That Drinker guy is out of his mind!

Finally, you will head to the free clinic for a blood test, nervous of course, but glad to be a part of the wonderful world of dating. Who's next?

The End (For Now)

2009-06-10T02:08:00.005-04:00

I'm sure you handsome, well-shod readers have probably noticed a distinct lack of posts around these here parts as of late. I'm sure, as well, that you all have probably been weeping long into the night, hitting the Refresh button at the ZFS! homepage, desperately praying for new content to magically appear and end your self-soiling misery. Sorry about that. Also, take a shower... you smell like you died taking a dump.

But anyway, blogging has been kinda sorta non-existent these last couple of weeks and... well... kiddos, I have some bad news... brace yourselves... maybe put a tarp down or grab a well-crafted bucket to sorrow-puke into...

Kids, the non-existent blogging is here to stay. For a while, anyway.

As some of you may know, I started school last month. I'm only taking one class, but it's an accelerated English Comp course (something I need to graduate) and it is, quite frankly, kicking my ass. In a good way, of course. By that I mean, I'm really fucking busy, fucking always. So many assignments, so many quizzes to study for, so many apples to polish, etc.

It's crazy days over here. So, while I'm NOT announcing the end of ZFS!, I am letting y'all know that there's going to be very little happening here for the foreseeable future. Just the way it goes, I'm afraid. Believe me, I miss writing junk for you kids, but I have to stay focused if I want to get my degree while Obama is still in office (as is my understanding, in doing so I will receive a package of free-range, uncut hope). So take a long, refreshing drink from the discount bottle of your choice and know that I'm thinking of you as I tippity-type away on my 1,000th paper. Ah, the glamorous academic lifestyle...

So, until we meet again, my loves, know that this... this thing we've had here together... it has meant the world to me. I say that without an ounce of irony in my heart. Take care, and I will be back amongst the blogging community before you know it.

-C

SUGGESTED ENTERTAINMENTS IN C-DOG'S ABSENCE

-Any CD by a band called Okkervil River. I used to work (albeit briefly) with the front man! They are killer late night drunken sorrow music.

-The first season of Heroes. It kicks ass! Don't watch anything after that, though. Pretend it got cancelled.

-Read the novel "Off Season" by Jack Ketchum. It will fuck you up in deep, profound ways for WEEKS.

-Visit the post office and learn how mail is sorted! Steal some mail.

-Go see Drag Me To Hell if you haven't already. Fuck, see it twice. Support Quality Horror!!!

MTV Movie Awards or Celebrity Halloween?

2009-06-01T01:05:00.000-04:00

Jonah Hill as...

...a job applicant desperately praying that his resume and charming personality will make up for the fact that he's clearly too fat for his pants to handle both his gut AND tucking in.

Megan Fox as...

... En Vogue's smash hit, "My Lovin' (You're Never Gonna Get It)."

Miranda Cosgrove as...

...a black hole made of tackiness swallowing whole a shipment of Bedazzler refills.

Christian Siriano as...

...a negative stereotype.

Two cast members from Twilight as...

...that cool couple from down the hall that always knew about the hot bands months before anyone else, threw parties where Johnny Depp would make a surprise visit, and who you used to envy until the guy died of a heroin overdose and the girl moved back to Iowa to work at a Dollar General and have her dead boyfriend's baby.

Vanessa Hudgens as...

...an bag of wet hair that fell into an Orange Julius on it's way to get tested for Hepatitis.

Zachary Quinto as...

...not your average substitute teacher. He's the cooool sub who let's you call him Greg and talks about Thai food like he invented it yesterday.

Ryan Reynolds and Sandra Bullock as...

...a small, white placard that reads, "We are far to old for this MTV shit, but we have a movie to promote, so... you know... come see The Proposal, opening June 19th!"

Rumer Willis as...

...a stained-glass window with a jawline that could withstand a punch from Sugar Shane Mosely.

Cameron Diaz as...

...Heath Ledger as "The Joker."

2009-05-27T13:30:00.002-04:00

NOTE: At 8pm tonight, I will begin my first day (night) of school in about ten years. It's exciting! Also terrifying because, obviously, what if I fuck it all up and my family frowns at me in a disapproving manner as I tailspin into a fiery oblivion? What if THAT happens??? That would suck. Eh... it will probably be fine. Fingers crossed!

2ND NOTE: Also, I'm scared of bullies!

Memorializin'

2009-05-25T06:35:00.003-04:00

Guys and Gals of Our Nation's Armed Forces...

We're supposed to remember you good folks today, but I bet a lot of people will forget. Beaches and backyard cook-outs can be really distracting... especially if there's beer... so I guess you can't really blame them. Besides, who likes thinking about war and death on a three-day weekend?

Me... I do. So, to that end, let me say this:

Sorry you all have to be out in the shitty desert with a bunch of people trying to kill you and whatnot. That sucks. But, seriously, thanks for doing it so I don't have to. I am doughy and weak and basically a vagina who's only contribution to society is a working knowledge of horror film minutia. If it were up to me to defend this country, we'd all be speaking German by now.

Are we still fighting the Germans? I don't really watch the news, as the news is so rarely ever porn.

Anyway, again, thanks for taking one (many) for the team (me). At least you get cool guns.

-C

P.S. If you let me shoot one of your guns at a paper target, or even at a political prisoner, that would be SO awesome. I'm a pretty good shot on Halo. I think the principles are basically the same.

P.P.S. What with being in the desert and all, do you find that a lot of sand gets in your butthole? Just curious.

NOTE: When World War III happens, remember who was nice enough to say pleasant things about you on the internet even though I totally didn't have to. Really, I was going to post something about how farts are hilarious, but then I decided at the last minute to give a shout out to the military. So... you know... save me first when the bombs start falling. I will make it worth your while. *wink*

My Plans For Austin

2009-05-21T23:21:00.002-04:00

NOTE: I'm heading down to Austin for a couple of days... a little mini-vacation, if you will, before classes start up for the summer semester. I thought it would be fun for you to take a look at all the exciting things I've got planned for my trip. Enjoy, and hey, try to not to be TOO jealous! Ah, I'm just funnin'...

-Eat a lot of barbecue, because they kill things and cook them up right in this part of the world. Beef, usually, but sometimes... if it's late and you know the right place... you can get some drifter. The house buys a round if you get a piece where you can still make out his tattoo.

-There's this one building that looks all shiny and new and like a glass monument to capitalism. It offends me. I'm going to chop it down with my Ax of Righteousness. Okay, I don't actually have an Ax of Righteousness, nor do I have the drive and determination to chop down I building. I am going to pee on it, though. Well, I'm going to think about it while I pee. I'm scared of building security!

-I think I'll try to find a little league team that's in last place and assume the role of their coach. I'll teach them the fundamentals of the game, help them see that no matter what, they'll always be winners in my book, and then we'll win the league championship! And THAT'S when I score with all the player's moms. Mmm... steamin' up the mini-van windows. Roomy jeans tossed off every which-a-way!

-Perhaps I'll take in a show, or at the very least make a spectacle of myself.

-Hoping to organize a dance battle amongst the local homeless population. Third Prize: a gin bottle filled with kerosene. Second Prize: a new stabbin' knife made from an old, rusty license plate and the handle of a broom. First Prize: they get to sleep in a box that's not filled with their own poop. New box!!!

-The circus is in town this weekend, so I'm going to go to the circus and get drunk with a clown. Drunk clowns are hilarious! And so sad because they're dying from liver disease. The makeup they wear hides their pain and also their jaundice. I'm going to spray seltzer down my pants!

-Maybe I'll take in a few classes at the University of Texas. Applied Physics and Introduction to the Kiln are mindblowing after a handful of mushrooms. Not the psychedelic kind, though. Portobello. The farts they produce cause hallucinations that will tear your fucking soul apart. Tasty, too!

-I'm going to take a walking tour of all my ex-girlfriends, either apologizing to those that deserve it, or stealing canned goods from the ones that were mean to me. I am going to be rich with pumpkin pie filling and hominy, yo!

-You know those Japanese places where you can eat sushi off a naked lady? I'm going to do that, but with beer pong.

-Most of all, though, I'm going to keep Austin weird, as per the slogan. And with me going bottomless from the waist down... believe me, kiddos, it's going to get plenty weird.

The American Idol Finale

2009-05-20T00:22:00.008-04:00

People I know... good friends of mine, people I've drunk beers with... are all like, American Idol sucks and if you watch it, you're contributing to the downfall of our country's intelligence and we have standards and NPR and one day I won't even OWN a television, what a glorious time that will be.

Well listen, despite the fact that we're otherwise cool and you generally smell nice, seriously, shut the fuck up about American Idol and how it's awful.

We KNOW it's awful. That's the not the point. The point is, because it's awful, it's also amazing. And not in a "so bad it's good" kinda way; that shit is for The Biggest Loser. It's awful because it's a perfect mirror of our nation's psyche, fucking ALWAYS.

Look at tonight... Adam Lambert, who has a voice like a neutron bomb, but is "weird" and "makes us think about gays" and "wears make-up like a GIRL, OMG," did not win though he was clearly the more talented of the final two. Who did win? Kris Allen, who's got a very nice voice and is very talented, but is an aw-shucks sort of fellow who wears a lot of plaid and probably snuggles better than anyone you've ever met. The guy is practically MADE of snuggles. He doesn't even fuck... he only makes love, then writes a song about it.

So OF COURSE he's going to win in a head-to-head competition with Mr. Tragically Delicious Dark Music of the Theater's Mournful Soul. Kris Allen is safety and strong arms... Adam Lambert is a shower of shrieking sparks and a pass-around tray of amyl nitrates.

And don't get me wrong, I'm a fan of BOTH. I thought, for once, America got it right... the final two, you couldn't really make a bad call. But I do think Kris winning writes large what is still... FUCKING STILL... on America's mind; i.e. we're still sort of scared that the gays will make us gay with their gay power.

Then again, I'm not actually gay, so I guess I really shouldn't speak for them re: the shit they have to deal with. Besides, maybe they all voted for Kris because he's totally dreamy and Adam, talented though he is, got to be a bit much sometimes.

Anyway, so that's THAT part of the finale. Let's do a quick rundown of the Super Special Celebrity Guests:

Queen Latifa - I liked her in Chicago, but then I haven't really cared for her since. Also, what the fuck was she wearing tonight? A skin-tight leotard with all the zippers in the world? Why do that? If you're a big lady, go blowsy, or sassy-tits like Aretha. Don't call attention to where you're round. The song she sang with Lil Rounds was eh. C-

Jason Mraz - Much as I think him and his hats are all, collectively, a bag of douches, I really like that "I'm Yours" song, to a stalker-ish degree. Also, doesn't it feel like that song of his, "The Remedy," was released back in like 1993? Why is that. It's only been around like six years or something. Weird. "Mraz" must be a dead language word for "time warp." B-

Keith Urban - Who gives a shit. I spent most of his duet with Kris hitting the queso and trying to remember whether or not he was Australian, because otherwise how would he have met Nicole Kidman. It doesn't make sense any other way. D

Cyndi Lauper - God, I love her. When parents think of their kid going off to be "artsy," she is the kind of girl they picture their son or daughter eventually dating, with the weird hair and the clothes from hell's thrift store and an accent so thick it could crack blocks of toffee. Bless her heart for embodying that all these years. I urge you to pick up "She's So Unusual" from back in the 80's. There weren't many better albums from that decade. A+

The Black-Eyed Peas - Fuck them and the meth lab that shat them out. They smell like balls and they run down the back of your throat like cocaine snorted off a "We Are the World" cassette single. Everything about them is like multi-ethnic lit cigarettes in your eye. Even their backup dancers won't show their faces. F-

Lionel Ritchie - Hey look, Lionel Ritchie is still around. C+

Steve Martin - Anyone who's ever bought one of his comedy albums knows that he's all about the banjo, and that by the by is awesome, but him being here was totally a "I'd like to sell some albums" move. And there's nothing wrong with that; dude's Steve Martin. He can do as he pleases. It just sucks that he got stuck performing with Meagan Joy and Michael Sarver, the two worst voices in the Top Ten this year. B+

KISS - Haha, whoa... that was big and loud and shiny and everything at once on a stage not built for so much old man rock fury. They're getting a little long in the tooth to be sporting the classic makeup... it's really defining their wrinkles so they look like Halloween masks... but how can you argue with "Detroit Rock City," "Rock & Roll All Night," AND Adam Lambert in wire-frame shoulder pads singing "Beth" like he just thought of it just now and YOU'RE his Beth for all eternity? A-

Rod Stewart - Points for busting out "Maggie May," which is a genius song no matter what your opinion of Rod the Bod is, and some more points for that wicked jacket, but... wow... the voice ain't what it used to be, huh? Sounding a little creaky these days, my man. Still got the moves, though. Or at least a joints-and-back-friendly approximation of same. B-

Queen - Well, as much of Queen as you're going to get without a Ouija board. Brian May is alright, but nobody... not on the stage tonight, or in the world today (with the possible exception of Mika)... can touch Freddie Mercury. That buck-toothed bastard had it going ON, always. But anyway, what's left of Queen showed up and Kris and Adam sang with them and it was okay, I guess. Kris was kind of punching above his weight with the high notes, but who cares. C+

The Show as a Whole: C'mon, there's not even an argument here... A+, all the way, because it delivered what it was supposed to deliver, pipin' hot and freshly baked. It might be the end of the world or whatever, but man is it a tasty descent into the darkness.

Snack Food Jesus

2009-05-18T18:47:00.003-04:00

For all you evangelicals out there who've been sitting around your sad, dustless living rooms, tapping your watches, and asking of no one in particular, "When is that Jesus going to return to Earth from outer space or wherever and ease my suffering with his holy touch which may or may not include a back rub... when, I ask... WHEN," it looks like we finally have your answer.

He's back! Like, right now... he's maxin' and relaxin' in the corporeal world! Kind of a good news/bad news situation, though. Yes, he hath returneth to us and we are his angels now and he brought t-shirts from Heaven for everybody. Unfortunately, he kind of botched the math for his return trajectory and ended up coming back as... well... see for yourself:

That's right. Jesus is a Cheeto. Which is actually okay, if for no other reason that it's going to make the whole "eat of my body" thing a whole lot more delicious.

Oh but seriously, so yeah some crazy lady found the above Cheeto while stuffing fistfuls of the things into her gaping maw and now she's being covered by CNN because this is TOTALLY NEWSWORTHY. And guess where this spectacular prophet of a woman lives??? No, go on... I insist... take a wild, flailing stab in the dark.

Did you guess Texas? Did Texas spring immediately to mind because it's the first place you think of whenever you hear about appallingly religious people with mental imbalances so acute, they walk at a 45 degree angle?

Well you're right! The Cheeto Jesus WAS found in Texas. How sad for me because I live here now.

As for the actual look of the thing: Apparently Jesus was a zombie. See how the arms are outstretched? Much like a zombie's arms would be as he grasped for brains? Also, it appears that Cheeto Jesus is wearing a dress. No judgements, of course, but I think a lot of people... particularly down here in the Bible Belt... are going to take issue with the radical notion that the Lord's kid was a crossdresser.

It should also be noted that there's no historical evidence suggesting that Jesus was a violent color of orange.

Anyway, so people are still seeing religious iconography in unusual places. And I imagine they will continue to do so as long as major media outlets continue to treat them as if they're NOT candidates for ever-increasing doses of lithium. Meanwhile, a bunch of people died because they don't have enough food and AIDS is still all over the place and war and horror and Ryan Seacrest.

But by all means keep watching the snack food aisle, my babies. Perhaps the Virgin Mary will burst forth from a Pringles can in time for Memorial Day and we can all go to the beach knowing we are loved. Something about the Virgin Mary makes me think Sour Cream & Onion, so watch those cans particularly close.

I Am Handling The Apocalypse Much Better Than You

2009-05-18T11:24:00.004-04:00

Dear Beth-

Hey, I know it's been a long time since you and I talked. I mean, you made it pretty clear that our relationship was over, though I still say setting my apartment building on fire was overstating your point a little bit. So many people died... they didn't have to die... I swear to you I returned your Water-Pik and your roommate stole it!

But I guess it doesn't really matter, considering what happened a few months ago. The Apocalypse. Crazy, right? All the bombs and the radiation from the bombs and, because OF COURSE, the radiation-based mutants. Oh, speaking of... you remember Jimmy from down at the video store? He's some kind of rat-thing now. Still working at the video store, but now the video store is a place where the radiation mutants go to purchase human organs to eat. I think Jimmy is the assistant manager, but I'm not sure; I was too busy wildly firing a shotgun into the bloated, gnashing mouth/belly of what was once a traffic cop (I think) to check his name tag.

Anyway... so I guess you're wondering why I'm writing you this letter. And you're probably also wondering why it's written on a parchment of human skin and inked in the blood of the innocent. Well, Beth, here's the deal... since the Apocalypse happened, I've kind of... blossomed, as it were. Come into my own. I saw my moment and I seized it, I guess you could say.

I am now the conquering tyrant of Demilitarized Zone 8H!!! That's right, your old boyfriend is powerful as all get out!!! Surprised? You're thinking to yourself, "Could the same asthmatic man I cruelly dumped for a surfer really now be the ax-wielding warlord that's quite literally carved out a kingdom amidst the horrors of The End Times?"

The answer is YES! To tell you the truth, I'm not even sure how it happened. When the bombs fell, I sorta just freaked out. Started killing a lot of people, collecting weapons, enslaving the weak and building an army... that sort of thing. Before I knew it, I was sitting on a throne made of skulls, watching three severely mutated Taco Bell employees fight each other with homemade broadswords. It's been a hell of a ride, let me tell you.

Which I guess brings me to the point of this letter. One of my minions saw you down in DM Zone 4Q the other day... it said you were shitting in a bucket and crying and that it looked like all your teeth had been knocked out (guess you won't be needing that Water-Pik after all, ha ha). The surfer was nowhere to be found. Hearing all this made me a little sad... we had some great times, after all. But in the end, it just made me realize that I'm over you, Beth. I am strong now. I am my own man.

And clearly I am handling the Apocalypse much better than you. What's the old saying; living well is the greatest revenge of all? I don't know about that... ripping out the spines of those who've wronged you is surprisingly satisfying. But what the hey... just this once, we'll give the old saying it's due. I'm living well at the end of the world, Beth. Take THAT!!!

-He Who Rules With the Blade and the Fear (you can still call me "Trevor" if you want)

P.S. Please don't say anything to my flock about me not being sure how the whole warlord thing happened. As far as they're concerned, I was sent here as an avenging demon from Hell to wreck our master Satan's bloody vengeance on Earth so he can claim enough souls to rise up and rule with me at his right hand. Trying to keep that story going as long as I can, so be cool, okay? Thanks!

Time Travel - My Notes

2009-05-13T23:49:00.004-04:00

I was really looking forward to this weekend, and I'm totally impatient, so I went ahead and invented time travel. It wasn't hard. I mean, I don't want to give away my methods or whatever but I will give you a hint... waffle batter. Lots of it. And a three car batteries. THREE. Not two, not four. You don't want to end up on Neptune all, "How the fuck did I get on Neptune; whole place smells like fish ass."

Anyway, so I used time travel to go to this weekend and it was a fucking BLAST, y'all. You guys don't even know. Ever shotgun a beer on top of a helicopter and not die? I have. When the weekend was over, I was like, well shit... I've got time travel now... might as well get weird up and down the historical timeline. And that's EXACTLY WHAT I DID.

Herewith, my notes from my adventures. Ladies, put down a tarp.

TIME TRAVEL - MY NOTES

-Dinosaurs are fucking pussies!!! Oh my god, the movies have got it all so wrong. I saw this raptor and was pretty much getting my shit right with the lord because obviously he's going slice and dice me, but then it came up and started nuzzling my chest with it's head. It purred!!! I stroked it's scaly noggin for a while, but then I snapped it's neck all Steven Seagal WHOOP-CRACK!!! Bitches, I killed a motherfucking raptor with my bare hands!!! What did you do yesterday? Fart during American Idol? Haha... game, set, MATCH.

-Hung out with historical Jesus. Nice guy, obviously. Black. So that settles that. He also kept referring to God as "she." I think someone might want to do a quick rewrite on the next edition of the Bible. Or not, historical Jesus doesn't give a shit. I know... I asked him. Real mellow guy. Smelled like a goat, though.

-The Dark Ages... no fun. Mead was alright, but not good enough to balance out the plague and the Crusades and the dragons. Oh right, dragons... totally real. And MEAN. Not like dinosaurs at all. Tried to snap one's neck and it nearly barbecued my face. Luckily, I brought a gun. Know what kills a dragon? A gun. Anyway, if you see any tapestries depicting a chubby dude with a magic iron weapon of destruction being heralded as a God... yo, that's all me.

-Skipped ahead to the 80's. Managed to catch The Clash in concert. Highly recommend it.

-The Great Depression wasn't so bad. Girls were like, "We're so depressed... wanna have some dirty 30's sex to take our minds off us being cash poor?" That happened ALL THE TIME. Plus, I could walk around in nothing but a barrel and make the cover of Life magazine. If anyone sees a copy of that Life magazine, by the by, snatch it up. I want to give it to my mom.

-I know this is going to sound like, "duh," but The Bronze Age... lots of bronze. It's like a whole age where everyone came in third.

-You know that album "Meet the Beatles?" Well I met The Beatles. I am now, officially, the fifth Beatle. John, Paul, George and Ringo and C-dog. If you listen to "I Want to Hold Your Hand," you can hear me throwing up in the background. I drank all The Beatles' booze.

-Ran into Dr. Martin Luther King Jr. at this big walking thing in Alabama. Told him about Obama. He gave me a high-five and a bottle of Coke. Nice dude. I liked him better than Jesus because he smelled very pleasant.

-The 70's were just okay. Lots of bush. Thin Lizzy, though. Whatever, if you watched That 70's Show, you pretty much know what was up. Not sure how people lived with that laugh track going off all the time. It was especially hard for me because I'm hilarious.

-I watched Hitler take a dump. After he left the bathroom (without washing his hands, mind you) it occurred to me that I probably should have killed him with my trusty magic iron weapon of destruction. I'm such a space cadet sometimes.

-Went back to last Thursday and helped myself find my car keys so I wouldn't be late for dinner at my folks' place. It was really nice getting to talk to myself like that. It DID tear a hole in the space/time continuum and we're probably going to get swallowed up by a cosmic blackness at some point, but... hey... well, you've met me. How could you NOT want to chit-chat?

-Found the guy who invented Cheez-Its. Kissed him square on the lips. He gave me a free box of Cheez-Its. Time travel fucking rules.

A Frightening 20 Seconds, or, "I Think My Own Body Just Tried To Kill Me"

2009-05-12T18:38:00.005-04:00

Everyone thinks their own body is like this thing that would never hurt them, like a can of Dr. Pepper, or a single lily in a glass vase, but everyone is fucking WRONG. Cans of Dr. Pepper make good blunt objects to bash out people's brains (and, bonus, a tasty beverage is right at hand to quench your post-murder thirst), single lilies in glass vases very often carry switchblades, and your own body... oh shit, it's like if the Taliban was inside you, waiting to suicide bomb your whole self into oblivion. Ever heard of Cancer? Aneurysms? Lungs suddenly bursting into flames? That shit goes on all the time and that's just scratching the surface of how your body can do some motherfucking chin checkin'.

To that list I'd like to add one more item of pure, white hot, internal deadliness: Vomit Burps.

Or "Vurps," if you like.

And, yeah, all you Doubting Dans and Delilahs out there... Vurps can kill. Like trained, gross assassins, they can take you out in the blink of an eye. Perhaps even a blink of YOUR OWN eye. How fucked up is THAT? So fucked up.

Anyway, I know all this is true because I'm kind of this God-like figure who practically sweats omnipotence, but also because... last night... a Vurp damn near snuffed out my candle.

So it's 3am and I'm asleep, dreaming of you... yes, YOU... naked, save for a discreet layer of BBQ sauce, offering me a plate of brisket all, "hey, big boy, would you like me to sauce your beef," when tragedy struck. As I was unconscious and horny at the time, I'm unclear as to specifically what went down, but from what I've been able to piece together, I Vurped... while asleep...

The small quantity of vomit rose up into my throat and, as I was laying down, it stayed there, completely blocking my windpipe. I couldn't breath! After a few seconds of no-oxygen-having, I sprang to my feet, awake with terror, my esophagus burning with somewhat digested Taco Bueno. My eyes and nose began to run with tears and snot, respectively... oh, I'm sure I was a sight. Still handsome as the day is long, of course, but also kind of slimy and wet.

For about 20 seconds, I just stumbled around like a drunk man fighting an imaginary wasp... choking to death, drowsy with nudie meat dreams, slick in the face from my various juices...

I thought, "Well, this is it... this is how it all ends for ol' C-dog. Bury me face down so the world can admire my shapely buttocks!!!"

And then... my will to live kicked in! With my last ounce of sexy energy, I swallowed hard, forcing the vomit back down into the Hell from whence it came (my stomach). I breathed deeply the stale, farty air of my one room apartment. It tasted to me like stale, farty ambrosia.

So let this be a warning to you all, my little lambs. Your body is the enemy. It wants you to die in a variety of terrifying, painful ways. And it wants you to poop a little when you croak so your funeral will be cloaked in shame.

Be wary. Be vigilante. Drink lots of 100 proof liquor to show it just who the fuck is boss. And maybe lay off the Taco Bueno; that stuff is the spark that sets off the war, much like the assassination of Franz Ferdinand (the archduke, not the peppy band).

What's a Girl Like You Doing In a Place Like This?

2009-05-11T22:48:00.003-04:00

-Noisy bars help drown out the voices... the horrible, horrible voices.

-If you hang around the slaughterhouse long enough, they'll give you a free pail of innards. And I loves me some innards.

-Shoplifting rash cream.

-Ordering a sack full of Beef N' Cheddars to take back to my lonely apartment, where I'll eat all the Beef N' Cheddars and cry Beef N' Cheddar-flavored tears on my cat while I watch old Jane Austen movies and wonder if Mr. Darcy will one day eat a Beef N' Cheddar with me, naked, god I'm so very lonely.

-Trying to give you a lap dance so I can make enough money to buy my son's asthma medicine.

-Attempting to call to order a meeting of the House of Representatives.

-Sleeping peacefully next to my husband. Please don't hurt us.

-Drinking varnish with a funnel. It's the only thing that gets me drunk enough these days. Would you like to drink some varnish with me? I have a clean funnel...

-Saving the trees; smelling like if patchouli oil didn't bathe.

-The Batusi.

Unique Mother's Day Gifts

2009-05-07T10:47:00.005-04:00

-Break her vacuum so she doesn't have to vacuum the house anymore. When she cries about her vacuum, that's when you bust out the brand new broom! Tie a festive, pink bow around the broom to really show you care.

-Finally authorize that Do Not Resuscitate order.

-Kill your father, but replace him with a handsome male prostitute that you pay to give your Mom the complete "Husband Experience." For the rest of her life, she'll be fake-married to a piece of rough trade named Lester, but at least that son of bitch father of yours will finally be rotting in the ground!!! Haha, if only he could have seen the look on his own face when you strangled him with that telephone cord... teach him to miss your swim meets because he had to "work night shifts" to "support his family" because he "loved us all so much." Swim meets were your LIFE, dude...

-A hug, you cheap bastard.

-Classy thongs.

-Lotto tickets are always good... worst case, she wins nothing but enjoys the tactile sensation of scratching something with a dime; best case, she hits the jackpot and you get half or you'll push her down the stairs. Make sure she understands the part about the stairs, Mr. Millionaire.

-You're not making her do your laundry... you're letting her. And if she forgets to add the fabric softener like you like, you'll let her see how she likes sleeping in the garage.

-Sometimes, just a phone call is all it takes to brighten her day. Particularly if she knows that the prison only lets you have one a month.

-When you bring her her weekly booze delivery, just this once make it top-shelf.

-Let her adopt your friend Joel for the day so she can at least get a taste of what it would be like to have a successful son who doesn't steal money out of her purse.

High School Reunion: My Ideas!

2009-05-04T19:28:00.004-04:00

A couple of days ago, I received... via Facebook, no less... the first notice regarding my impending 10-year high school reunion. I reacted to this information as anyone would; I sobbed loudly while giving myself a whore's bath in the sink, I pooped all over everything in a tailspin of bowel-loosening shame and regret, and then I blew up an Arby's because they can't make me go to a reunion if I'm in jail for blowing up an Arby's. That's just common sense.

But, since no one cares about Arby's or the people who go there, I was let off with a $50 fine and a stern warning from the court and... fuck... now I have to entertain the notion of ACTUALLY going to my high school reunion which was SO not the outcome I was looking for. Should have bombed a Chili's.

Anyway, since there's a very real chance that I'll soon be making awkward conversation in a decorated gymnasium with people I hate who are wildly more successful than myself, I thought I'd do everything I can to make the whole experience a little more palatable.

I've decided to help plan the reunion!!!

I mean, I guess the first step is going to have to be getting myself on the reunion planning committee, but I think that can be accomplished using my cunning, my guile, and my sweet Texas ass in tight blue jeans. The ladies love that. Well, they don't hate it. Most don't get too nauseous. My sweet Texas ass in tight blue jeans is hideous and will not be a part of the plan. I will instead switch tactics; begging will be the key that unlocks the door to reunion planning Valhalla.

So, without further adieu, here's my...

10-Year High School Reunion Ideas of Awesomeness To Make For a Better, More Awesome, Time For All Of Us!!! CLASS OF '99!!!!

-I need to get a better title for my list of ideas. Parenthetically, I need to not drink so much weed killer while naming my idea lists. Maybe I should just cut down on the weed killer altogether. Anything with "killer" in the name probably shouldn't be used in homemade margaritas. They ARE delicious, though. Or at least they make me black out for a few (many) hours (days).

-Instead of slow dances, let's have a mosh pit. They had mosh pits in the 90's, so it will be nostalgic. If my mosh pit idea goes over well, I promise you this... I will knock down the popular kids and step on their necks. Revenge will taste so sweet...

-A bowlful of condoms and morning-after pills at each table.

-Midway through the proceedings, a rousing game of "Guess Which Alumnus is Slowly Dying From Leukemia" will surely liven things up. The winner should get a prize; the person that's dying shouldn't be informed about the game ahead of time because they might not want to play.

-I know a Mexican who can arrange a cockfight just for us. Betting is encouraged; bring your own rooster to get in on the fun! There will be NO razors attached to the claws. This isn't Guadalahara, after all. We've got souls.

-No handguns this year.

-Let's put our senior pictures on our name tags, so everyone can remember what they looked like when they still had hopes and dreams and the life hadn't been stomped out of them by the harshness of reality. Also, funny haircuts!!!

-To save money, let's make the whole thing BYOB. Or BYOW (wine). Or BYOTFOE (trashcan full of Everclear). Or BYOWK (weed killer).

-Suggested themes for the reunion:

"Lookin' Fine, Class of '99! Except for you, Trevor. Fuck you!"
"All Dead Inside!"
"Let's Not Talk About Our Awkward, Homoerotic Fumblings in the Locker Room!"
"Golden Memories That Will Last a Lifetime, or Some Bullshit!"
"It's a Shame Those Murders Senior Year are Still Unsolved!"
"Now is the Time For Me To FINALLY Tell C-dog How Much I Love Him, Have ALWAYS Loved Him, and How Badly I Want to Jump His Bones on the Wrestling Mats in Gym B!"
"Who Farted?"

Yep... going to be the best reunion ever! THEY WILL BOW BEFORE MY MIGHT!!! I mean my might on the dance floor. Also, I'm taking hostages.

Well, That Sucked: Wolverine

2009-05-03T22:32:00.005-04:00

First things first, I want you to know where I'm coming from with regards to the X-Men movie franchise, the comics themselves, the idea of movies in general, and what it's like to be a human being that can process information gathered through a series of lenses, rods, and cones set inside two ocular cavities within his skull.

Actually, let's just focus on the first two parts and if there's time for the rest, well then, perhaps I'll smack you upside your fool head with a hot loaf of enlightenment. Or maybe I'll just get drunk and throw up in my driveway. Either way, I'm waking up nude on my neighbor's lawn.

What was I talking about...

Right, The X-Men. I like them. The comics, from what I've read, were entertaining enough, and I enjoyed the first two movies of the series; the ones that Bryan Singer directed. The third one... which was directed/farted on by Brett Ratner... was a bronze-plated shrug of a whatever, notable only for featuring Frasier smeared in blue makeup, which was oddly satisfying.

But the first two... man, those were some great flicks. Fun, escapist fare; the kind of movie you talk about with your friends over pizza and Coke while getting real excited about the neat-o minute details... too excited, some would say... then you have to explain why talking about adamantium claws gave you a boner. Then your friends don't want to talk to you because you showed them your boner. Boners are a real deal-breaker with a lot people, it turns out. God, I hate my boner.

Anyway, so what about the new one? The Wolverine: How I Done Got Here summer blockbuster? How was that.

Well... did you see the title? Because that pretty much sums it up. It sucked. Hard. Here's why...

Boring as shit - There's some little drips and drabs of action, but not just a whole lot. It's not "action packed." It's more like action sprinkled. The movie is lightly spritzed with action. What there IS a lot of, though, is glowering. And screaming "NOOOOOOO" up to the heavens. And Hugh Jackman walking around shirtless, taunting me with his abs so muscled and carved from a one-ton block of fuck marble GOD you just want to trace erotic sketches on them with your tongue...

Hugh Jackman - Handsome though he may be... and oh sweet baby Jesus, is he ever... it appears that he routinely left his charisma in the trailer every morning when he went to the set. Like, he put it near his wallet and his keys so he'd be SURE to remember it, but the phone was ringing and he caught a glimpse of himself in the mirror and his hands were full with a large latte and an Egg McMuffin and damn if it wasn't all so distracting that he left his charisma right next to the loose change dish and a stack of unread mail. And it happened EVERY DAY!!! Poor Hugh Jackman... he could have really used that charisma during the making of this movie. I would still touch his dong, though.

Other Characters - Who the fuck and why the fuck, re: the other people and their presence in the movie. If memory serves, none of them really showed up together in the comics. Maybe they did... I don't really know... I spent most of my comics-reading youth huffing oven cleaner out of an empty Sonic bag. But whatever, it was still an unholy mishmash of extremely lame mutants (one is really fat! one can make light bulbs turn off and on! one wears a garish cowboy hat!) that you don't care about and chuckle lightly to yourself when they die a horrible death. The casting was stupid and watching the movie makes you feel stupid.

Will.I.Am - That douchebag from The Black-Eyed Peas is in this (he's the one with the cowboy hat) and when he appears on screen, you're overtaken by the desire to never, ever stop hitting him in the face with a fire extinguisher. Why is a member of The Black-Eyed Peas in ANY movie, let alone this movie? The Black-Eyed Peas should be rounded up and shot, not put in front of a camera and asked to read lines as a character that's not their awful, awful selves. Come on guys, I know making a movie is hard, but some choices are easy. Shoot The Black-Eyed Peas on sight; don't film them in conjunction with a work of supposed entertainment.

Everything Else - I'm getting tired of writing, so let's just say that everything else about or related to Wolverine sucked ass harder than... I don't know... whatever sucks your own, personal ass during the course of a normal day and leave it at that. Don't go see this movie. It will make you angry and the popcorn will taste like ashes in your mouth and it will cause you to beat your loved ones and then you'll hang yourself in prison and when you're burning in Hell, you'll stare up at the world as we know it and curse Wolverine for ruining your life and damning your soul for all eternity.

So maybe save your spendin' money for the new Pixar show or something. Or just send it to me. (I will spend it on oven cleaner)

Swine Flu: Fact & Fiction

2009-04-27T20:46:00.004-04:00

I know everyone is scared of this whole Swine Flu thing and is unsure of what to do and also I heard that Ms. Piggy has been dragged from her home and strung up in the town square as an example to all other pigs, felt or not, but... folks... you all need to calm down. Your best friend and most-trusted giver of information/infotaiment/fake prescriptions is here to guide you through this national nightmare.

Using the finest minds in science (my own, plus these dudes I know that work down at the Lucky Mart and know shit about aliens), I have compiled a thorough, completely correct, pleasant smelling, and accurate like a motherfucker list that separates the Swine Flu facts you need to know from the Swine Flu fiction that can just go fuck itself. Reading this list will make you better educated on the subject, a more appealing lover, and for fifteen minutes after you finish reading the last sentence, you'll possess the power to move small objects with your mind. Remember though: With great power comes... er... something... I don't know... a kick-ass car, I think. Whatever, not important. Here, now...

Swine Flu: Fact & Fiction

FACT - Swine Flu jumped from pigs to humans because SOME people like to have sex with pigs. Not pointing fingers, here... I'm just saying that they know who they are and should be very ashamed of themselves. (Okay, look, it was your Dad. I didn't want you to find out this way.)

FICTION - Vials of Swine Flu can be used as mixers in a host of fabulous girls-night cocktails. You should never drink vials of Swine Flu, even if you do mix it with enough Everclear to stop the heart of a Clydesdale. You CAN, however use vials of Swine Flu to thicken runny soups and/or spice up a hearty batch of 5-Alarm Chili. The Hanta virus, by the by, DOES make an excellent mixer... particularly when paired with a decent-quality rum... but you have to go to Africa to get it. Hassle!

FACT - New cases are being reported every day, even in places with a lot of rich, white people. Believe me, no one is more shocked than the rich, white people. They thought... being rich and white and all... that they were immune to anything beyond the occasional migraine or bout of Tennis Elbow. Nope... they're taking it in the neck right along with the rest of us. Which is hilarious. When they start wasting away, we should rob them. Bring a surgical mask though. Because... you know... Swine Flu.

FICTION - This is all the Mexicans fault. Why are you so racist, dude? Just because you think you saw a Mexican hitting on Becky that one time doesn't mean you get to hate them as a people. That's just... well, it's not cool. Besides, they brought burritos into the world. How could you blame the creators of the burrito. But seriously though, don't go to Mexico. Swine Flu by the barrel full down there. Also, drug gangs that will stab you in the heart. Bad place. I mean, burritos, but still.

FACT - Every time you write "Swine Flu," you accidentally write either, "Swing Flu," or "Swine Flue." So fucking annoying. It makes you feel like your hands are full-on retarded and then you start wishing your hands were never born. And since they're basically like your girlfriend now, it's... well, it gets complicated.

FICTION - "Swine Flu" is a hilarious name for your just-formed punk/ska/emo band with Mathcore influences mixed with a little Johnny Cash, because Johnny Cash was the MAN. Wrong, Trevor. Topical band names are never funny, plus they're outdated and lame after a couple of news cycles, or as soon as everyone's attention is pulled away by Lindsay Lohan showing her vag again, which ever happens first.

FACT - Swine Flue is the beginning of the end of the world. Yeah, probably. I mean... maybe it's just because I'm a nerd or whatever, but... getting a pretty strong "Captain Trips" vibe off all this. Maybe it's time to reread The Stand again... pick up some tips and strategies for the months ahead. See you in Colorado. Or Vegas, if that's your thing.