Thursday, May 31, 2007

For That Special Someone...

All the things that we've been through
You should understand me like I understand you
Now girl I know the difference between right and wrong
I ain't gonna do nothing to break up our happy home
Oh don't get so excited when I come home a little late at night
Cos we only act like children
when we argue fuss and fight
If you don't know me by now (If you don't know me)
You will never never never know me (No you won't)
If you don't know me by now
You will never never never know me

Wizards, Rides, Indifference

In an effort to separate more parents and desperately lonely college Freshmen from their money, it was announced yesterday that J.K. Rowling will be turning her Harry Potter franchise into an amusement park. (Sigh). I fully recognize that I'm the only person in America who could give a crap about the Harry Potter books as a whole, but, to the rest of you, I ask this: What with Six Flags and Disneyworld and Knott's Berry Farms and all, is there really a need for another over-priced theme park in the world, popular magical twelve-year-olds or not? I mean, I enjoy strapping myself into a fast-moving car that's connected to a large, twisty metal structure as much as the next guy, but... c'mon.

Anyway, because regardless of my feelings towards the enterprise I'd still like for them to give me lots of money, I've come up with some suggested rides and attractions for their excuse to charge 12$ for a corn dog...

Harry Potter and The Magical Theme Park Adventure

NOTE: I've seen the first and second movies in the series. That's all. All other knowledge of the subject has been gleaned from pop-culture osmosis and from my various friends who won't shut up about it.

Fantastical Flying Broomstick Adventure - Riders are tied to a broomstick. Nothing happens, as broomsticks do not possess the power of flight in real life. Lessons are learned about separating fact from fiction.

Wizards and Crap: Live!!! - Some wizards come out and do some crap. Live.

That Red-Headed Friend Of Harry's Quite Exciting Carousel - It's a carousel. What more do you want? We taped some pictures of that red-headed kid all over the damn thing. It's "themed" now. Look, just give us some money and ride it.

The Hermione Challenge - All male, over-30 fans of the Harry Potter series are challenged in a game show environment to convince the audience that they've never, ever had sexual fantasies about the underage Hermione. Winners retain a little bit of their dignity. Losers get hauled away by the cops.

Dumbledore's Magical Potion Laboratory Of Wonderment - It's actually a bar.

Remember That One Kid Who's A Total Dick To Harry All The Time... "Drano," Or Something... Yeah, Well, He's A Rollercoaster Now - Features three loops, high speeds and a pervasive feeling that you're wasting your life.

Alan Rickman's "Remember When I Was In Die Hard" 3-D Experience - A visibly intoxicated Alan Rickman talks about how he was the bad guy in Die Hard. In 3-D. It's a four-hour movie, but you can leave anytime you want.

Batman: The Ride - We know it's not Harry Potter, but we got it really cheap. Just pretend that Harry Potter fights Batman. Or don't. Whatever.

Wednesday, May 30, 2007

Bee Attack!

NOTE: If you happen to have Bee-related issues, you might not want to click the below link.

Seriously, yikes.

I can only assume that the Sci-Fi channel is working on a movie version of this as we speak, hopefully with Casper Van Dien as the captain and Shannon Tweed as the stewardess who's a day away from retirement. Also, the bees are mutants. And have laser guns.

If You're Feeling Sinister...

I've come to the decision, as most men do in their late-20's, that it is now time for me to have a nemesis in my life.

Why, you ask?

Dunno. I'm bored, maybe? I've got it too easy? One of my closest friends is leaving New York for good in a couple of weeks and I need something to occupy my time? Any of those will do for a reason, I guess, but whatever the case, the fact remains: I need a nemesis.

So, here's what we're going to do: Today and today only, I will be holding auditions for my new nemesis here at ZFS!. Anyone is eligible; I'm completely non-discriminatory when it comes to who my nemesis is. However, there are some rules and guidelines that, should you follow them, will greatly improve your chances of becoming my most mortal of enemies.

So You Want To Be ZFS!'s Nemesis?: A Handy Guide

-First and foremost, you must hate me, C-dog, with the fiery passion of a thousand exploding planets. Not going to lie, it won't be easy; I am universally beloved after all. Nonetheless, you'll just have to try. Here, let me help you... You know watermelon? You know how everyone thinks it's the best food for summer and it's so delicious. Yeah well, I think watermelon sucks ass. Also, I think Rice Krispie Treats are gross. So there's a little fertilizer to help your seed of hate grow.

-It would help if you lived in the tri-state area. It's not a prerequisite, of course, but I do think it'll be a little more difficult for us to engage in a battles of the wits if you live in, say, Laughlin, Nevada.

-I'll probably just go ahead with referring to myself as Clint, Clinton or C-dog, but it'd be nice if you had a clever nickname. Something... evil-y, I guess. Dr. Wicked? The Sinister Shadow? Victor Von Vicious, perhaps? Oh, you get the idea.

-Oooh, a costume would be cool too. Again, I'm going to stick with the ratty clothes and soiled ball caps that make up my current wardrobe, but if you feel like putting on something with a little flash and pizazz, I'd totally be into that. Remember though: Summer is coming on full bore. Don't wear anything hot and/or restrictive because it won't be much fun if my nemesis is brought down by heat stroke.

-With rent being what it is these days, it's cool if you don't have a secret lair or anything like that. However, your address and phone number should be unlisted. It would be lame if I could just look you up in the phone book.

-You should commit at least one dastardly act per month. Let your own definition of "dastardly" be your guide, I guess. Um, don't... you know... kill anyone or anything. Because then the police would have to get involved and I soooo don't need that right now. Think along the lines of moderate, low-key dastardliness; shoving grannies around or sending me creepy, threatening letters. That sort of thing.

-Most Important Rule: Though it's perfectly acceptable for you to try and foil my attempts at advancement and happiness, you must never, ever actually succeed in your foiling. I do a good enough job of screwing up my life on my own, thank you very much. Basically, I want you around so that I have an excuse to shake my fist in the air and shout, "[Your Villain Name]!!!"

So, here we go... Let the auditions begin!

Our New Mascot

Source: I Can Has Cheezburger (obviously)

Tuesday, May 29, 2007

How You'll Know It's Me

-The rose I'll be clutching will have wilted from my radiating desperation.

-White shoes, white socks, white suit, white shirt, bloody nose.

-From the street, you can see the lamplight shimmer off my piercings.

-World's Greatest Grandpa t-shirt.

-Farting. Oh sweet Jesus, the farting...

-There aren't many people with a full Wiggles-themed wardrobe.

-The back of the club, sippin' Moet, is where you'll find me; the back of the club, mackin' hoes, my crew's behind me.

-You like parrots? 'Cause I'm bringin' my parrot.

-Look for a 6'5", older German lady. That's my chaperon.


Here's A Picture Of A Passed-Out Lohan

Discussion Questions:
Do you feel bad for her, like, even a little bit?
She probably smells like a bar's bathroom all the time, right?
That person next to her is performing voodoo; Yes or No?
That's an AA medallion on the mirror; is the irony killing you yet?
She'll be dead by when, exactly? (feel free to place bets)
NOTE: Please show your work. Remember, you're all in direct competition with each other. 1st prize is a Cadillac Eldorado, 2nd prize is a set of steak knives, and 3rd prize is you're fired.

What It's Like To Be Me

NOTE: I can't tell you how many emails, letters, pleading voice mails, notes tied to thrown bricks, etc. that I receive on a daily basis from readers who desperately want to know just what it's like to be C-dog. Well, as always, and because I can't sleep, I'm happy to give you a little peek into my life with these three short, tangentially related anecdotes. I think it's safe to say that, after reading them, digesting them and taking them to heart, you'll wish that you hadn't asked. Also, I misspelled "tangentially" a minute ago and before I corrected it, the middle part of the word was "genital." Ha!!!


I had a weird craving for orange juice the other day so, in a shocking twist, I bought some at the grocery store. I took it home, allowed it to get nice and cold in the fridge for an hour or so, and then I poured myself a hearty, big-boy glass that nearly overflowed with sweet, pulpy tastiness. I took a big swig and immediately I knew that something wasn't right. But what? I checked the date on the carton; no, it was well before the expiration date (June 9th, for all you fact nerds out there). I examined the glass to make sure there wasn't anything on the rim that would taint the orange juice's flavor. After I had a chuckle at my usage of the word "taint," I determined that all was well with the glass it's self. So the orange juice was of a fine quality and the glass was as it should be... why then did the orange juice taste so odd. Then, it hit me: The orange juice tasted odd because it didn't have any booze in it. I sighed heavily, finished off the glass, and settled down on the couch, allowing the gentle sobbing of my liver to lull me to a sound sleep.


Girlfriend and I went for a walk today and this was the outfit that I chose to wear out in public:

-A TCU baseball cap that was once white and purple. It is now dark brown and purple. I'll let you figure out how it got that way, but know that it basically took the same path as John McClaine's undershirt in Die Hard, but with less terrorists.

-A pair of shorts that I made by cutting the legs off of a pair of old, crappy slacks. The shorts are unevenly cut, ragged and thread-y around the knees and have a hole in the crotch.

-A blue t-shirt that's been worn and sweated in so many times that the armpits are now black. It's also had the collar ripped off of it and it has a dime-sized hole around the gut region.

-A pair of my girlfriend's socks.

-Shoes that have not one, not two, not even three, but four separate holes in them large enough to allow a cool breeze to flow over my feet when I walk down the stairs.


I went to a Memorial Day party at my friend Buzz's apartment over the weekend. After I'd been there for about an hour, I took a good look around (on my way to the kitchen for a margarita refill) and realized that I was the only fat person at the party. I recognize that it's my own fault for attending a party in Williamsburg, a section of Brooklyn which has a weight limit that's strictly enforced at the border (I sneak in under the cover of darkness by disguising myself as an American Apparel outlet), but still. It's damn disconcerting to be the only person in a crowd for whom the phrase "large and in charge" applies. I felt like everyone was watching me when I made for the chip bowl. As I grabbed a Tostito and dipped into the salsa, cartoon thought bubbles appeared over my fellow party-goer's heads that read, "Oh no, fatty's at it again," and, "If I look closely, I can see his ass swell," and "How'd he make it past the guards?" I'm not normally a self-conscious person, but you try weighing a stout 280 while standing in a group of people that are all together about as heavy as a package of Mentos.


So there you go. Let it never be said that I didn't give you the opportunity to walk a mile in my shoes. Those holes really let your feet breath, no?

Monday, May 28, 2007

Gettin' Memorial: A Long Weekend's Contents

- Late sleeping
- Three (3) long, 90-block walks
- Sweatiness, much
- Cold showers, lots of
- Dinner with friends
- One (1) excellent cheeseburger
- Party in Brooklyn
- Four (4) large margaritas made with, apparently, gasoline
- One (1) Snapple bottle filled with pilfered vodka
- One (1) hangover
- Three (3) Mets games on TV
- One (1) street fair in Manhattan
- Zero (0) assassination plots foiled
- Four thousand (4,000) cries of "Summer can fucking blow me!"
- One (1) sunburn
- Sleep disrupted by stagnant, humid temperature
- Ten (10) ninjas defeated*
- Thoughts of our nation's soldiers, not as many as I should have
- One (1) half-assed, lazy blog post that you're currently reading

*This happened in a dream, but it still counts. Because I said so, that's why.

Saturday, May 26, 2007

Alternative Reality LA

I recognize that this is probably not that interesting to anyone who hasn't had the dubious distinction of living in Los Angeles, but I'm posting it anyway because... and I say this as someone that has, in fact, lived in Los Angeles... it's freakin' awesome.

You're going to have to click on the image to get the full effect, but what you're looking at here is a subway map of Los Angeles. Los Angeles, it should be noted, does not have a subway (well, not one that's actually useful). This, though... if this map were indeed a reality and not just the fictional product of right-thinking, urban developmentally-minded artist, would be the greatest thing to happen in L.A. since... um... okay, it would be the first good thing to happen in L.A. ever:

NOTE: I've taken the liberty of circling what would have been my stop, for you C-dog completests out there. For more about the map, check out, as always, the never ending source of all things awesome.

Seriously though, for anyone that has spent any time at all stuck in rush hour traffic on the 405, this map is like a cruel peek at a happier, less-smoggy life. Simply put, Los Angeles is city that, even more so than Chicago or New York, desperately needs a mass transit system that's worth a damn. Because of its sprawl and its perma-clogged freeways, it needs this map to be true. And it never, ever will be, for reasons I will never, ever understand (probably something to do with money).

Anyway, just wanted to share. Hope everyone's enjoying their Memorial Day festivities. Now, Girlfriend and I are off; the destination: various parties, dinners and, eventually, hangovers.

Take care!

Friday, May 25, 2007

Oooh, Pretty...

Original production art of the Millennium Falcon and crew, done by artist Ralph McQuarrie. McQuarrie's stills were a big part of George Lucas' pitch during his efforts to sell the concept of Star Wars to 20th Century Fox. Oooh, pretty!!!

30 Years Ago, In A Galaxy Far, Far Away...

UPDATE: For your viewing pleasure...




Happy birthday to you
Happy birthday to you
Happy birthday, dear Greatest Movie Of All Time Ever
Happy birthday to YOOOOOOOOU!!!!!!

I tell ya, they grow up so fast. Seems like only yesterday that I was an incredibly nerdy teenager sitting in my mother's living room with my friend Alan, both of us out of our minds on soda and Doritos, reciting the dialogue along with the movie and cracking each other up with hilarious Wookie jokes. But time marches on, as they say; Alan's got a kid now (sadly, he was not allowed to name it Luke) and I no longer live with my parents. I've got my own living room to be a total dork in, and when I'm out of my mind on something, it's usually liquor. Okay, Doritos still factor in too.

The movie, though... the movie stays the same. Well, except for all of the CGI bullshit that George Lucas put into it that made it a lesser entity than it was in it's original, un-fucked with incarnation. But whatever. Thankfully, that particular national nightmare is now over, what with the release of the 70's theatrical versions on DVD and all.

So let's all take a minute today to ponder the significance of Star Wars; how it's affected us, how it's changed us, how it's made it so women don't want to engage us in conversation for fear that we'll start talking about Banthas and Jawas and Grand Moff Tarkin. Today, above all else, let's honor it's memory.

So may the Force be with you always, Star Wars; know for sure that this Red Five will forever be standing by.

P.S. The new trilogy blows!

Thursday, May 24, 2007

A Moment Of McClarity

I have wasted my life.

Oh sure, I've accomplished a few things... held down a decent job for a while, started a blog that people seem to like, remained in a steady relationship for a good stretch, etc. Still, when faced with the realization that I have never, ever created a McDonald's-topped pizza to consume after a night of drinking... well, the only conclusion I can reach is that my life has been woefully misspent. Here, see for yourself:

Your heart is breaking now, isn't it? Now you know how I feel. Seriously guys, what have we been doing with ourselves? Besides not creating the best food hybrid ever, I mean.

We should all be very, very ashamed.

Source, including recipe and more pics here

Conversations In Motion

In a fast car…

Sincere, Tough-Hearted Woman: You see, my old man’s got a problem. He live with the bottle, that’s the way it is. He says his body’s too old for working; I say his body’s too young to look like his.
Strong, Caring Man: That’s really depressing. But at least you’ve got a plan to get us out of here. What with you working at a convenience store and managing to save a little bit of money and all.

On a downtown train…

Gruff Alcoholic: I know your window and I know it’s late. I know your stairs and your doorway; I walk down your street and past your gate.
Pretty Young Woman: I have mace.

In a suicide machine sprung from a cage on Highway 9…

Just A Scared And Lonely Rider: The Highway’s jammed with broken heroes on a last-chance power drive.
All-American Girl: I told you we should have left earlier.
Just A Scared And Lonely Rider: This town rips the bones from your back-
All-American Girl: Jesus, enough with that. Can we pull over a get a soda or something?

In a little red corvette…

Tiny, Oversexed Minnesotan: But it was Saturday night; I guess that makes it all right. And U say, baby, have u got enough gas.
Darlin’ Nikki: You’re aware that I’m not talking about your car, right?
Tiny, Oversexed Minnesotan: Really? Because I thought-
Darlin’ Nikki: Talking about your penis.
Tiny, Oversexed Minnesotan: Oh…. OH…. The stuff about the horses makes so much more sense now.

On a midnight train to Georgia…

Gladys Knight: He kept dreamin’… that one day, he’d be a star. But he sure found out the hard way that dreams… don’t always come true.
Pips (all together): Do you want us to make the train noises now.
Gladys Knight: No… later. It’ll be more poignant when I talk about how I’d rather live in his world than live without him in mine.
Pips (all together): If you say so.

Wednesday, May 23, 2007


Sorry for the cryptic drama (see below). I know I hate it when people are all, "I have to go suddenly, but wait... I'll give you no explanation whatsoever!" Way it is sometimes, I guess. All I'll say is that I had to run off this afternoon to take care of some heavy shit that was going down.

Because of my actions, an embassy is safe, certain documents are safely in the hands of the correct operatives, and the nation is once again safe for Democracy, Diplomacy, and some other words that mean stuff

Anyway, LOST was pretty crazy tonight, huh???


American Idol: I Predict The Winner

NOTE: I haven't watched American Idol since the Clay Aiken era. Also, it disturbs me greatly that we have a piece of our nation's history that can reasonably be called the "Clay Aiken era."

The Contestants

Phillipi Sparks' Daughter: From what I've seen of her during the roughly 9,678,246 commercials for American Idol that they've managed to cram into a single viewing of The Simpsons, it seems that she's got a very nice voice. Also, as I mentioned, she's Phillipi Sparks' daughter; he used to play for the Dallas Cowboys, albeit briefly, and that right there gives me some nice, hometown-y vibes. Additionally, she looks (in the above picture, anyway) quite sassy. Sassy is always a good thing, especially in girls that have killer pipes.

Her Chance Of Winning: Probably.

The White Guy: Eh. He looks like a douchebag. Also, I think I heard somewhere that he does beatboxing. Lame. I think we can all agree that the only person that should be allowed to practice the art of beatboxing is Darren Robinson from The Fat Boys and he's been dead for twelve years. Also against The White Guy is the fact that he, to my knowledge, is not the child of any athlete that played for a Dallas-based sports team. I know that's not technically his fault, but that's just tough. If I were him, I'd blame my father for not being good enough at sports to get on, at the very least, the Texas Rangers. The final nail in his coffin, though, is his hair: It's got chunky, blond stripes in it which says to me that he's a Tri-Delt pledge that's really looking forward to Spring Break in Cabo. No good, The White Guy. No good.

His Chance Of Winning: Doubt it.


Look, I don't know. I'll be watching LOST.

Tuesday, May 22, 2007

UPDATE: Here's A Picture Of A Metal Midget

UPDATE: As you can see, commenter David has definitively proven that our Metal Midget friend is carrying around chicken drumsticks on his belt. What does this mean, if anything. Personally, I think it heralds the coming of the end times.

Discussion Questions:

How does this metal midget make you feel?
Do you think he's nice?
Where does he get his little leather clothes made?
Does he know the odd, spandexed man standing next to him?
Wouldn't it be cool if they fought crime together?

NOTE: Your answers will count for 99% of your grade.

2ND NOTE: I'm unusually busy at work today, ergo this post.

Rubix Cool

Not to sound like a 13-year-old girl or anything, but OMIGOD!!! On my subway ride into work, I watched this Japanese B-boy kid solve, re-scramble and solve a Rubix Cube five fucking times!!!

His hands flew around like they were some sort of kooky, puzzle-solving birds. His focus never broke, not when the smelly homeless guy sat down next to him, not when the train lurched forward, not at all. I'm pretty sure a drag queen could have sat on his lap and started singing a medley of tunes from 42nd Street and this kid wouldn't have broken his stride.

Seriously, It was awesome; like having my own personal episode of That's Incredible sitting four feet across from me. I'm pretty sure I wasn't the only person on the train watching him, either. He was like a mystical shaman wearing a trucker hat, a holy man with a love of old-school hip-hop, a sensei in high-top sneakers.

And I was in awe of his mental might and power. Remember, I'm the guy who has yet to figure out how to play a game of Yahtzee. Look, what I'm trying to say is, it was a magical moment for me and I hope all of you get to witness such expert 80's novelty handling in the very near future.

Oh, also, there was a tranny on my train and he/she looked like absolute hell.

So that was my late-morning commute, in a nutshell.

"Pop Goes The World" by Men Without Hats

Morning, kids.

I trust everyone had a restful Monday night. Perhaps you settled in with a good book, your favorite cat at your feet, and maybe a glass of wine, since the Reader's Digest said it's good for the heart. Or did you finally get to all that needlepoint that's been laying about your apartment, mixing in with your half-hooked woolly afghans and partially completed mosaics of crucifixion scenes? Well, whatever the case, I hope it was a pleasant, quiet, non-threatening evening and may I suggest that tonight you go the other way hit some leather bars.

Anyway, I'm working the West Coast shift at the office today, and currently I'm swanning about my apartment in a flowing, chiffon dressing gown while clutching a mug of hot, herbal tea. I'm sure you understand, that's not something that a guy can just stop doing when he really gets going.

So I'll post for reals later when I get to work.

For now, though, here's some Australian men singing a song that doesn't make a lot of sense, but is guaranteed to get lodged in your head like the catchiest piece of shrapnel thrown from the exploding Atom Bomb of Music:

Monday, May 21, 2007

Worth Your Valuable Time

If you're anything like me (and if you are, I'm deeply sorry), then you enjoy a good, ol' fashioned 70's cop movie. Especially if it's a 70's cop movie set in New York City, which automatically ups it's "cool points" by a factor of twenty. Which is not to say that a 70's cop movie set in, for example, Minneapolis/St. Paul can't be cool; I'm sure there's all kinds of gritty, horrible crime in and around the Twin Cities and a movie that exposes the frozen Midwest's seedy underbelly would be just fine as movies go. Still, when you've got a 70's cop movie set in New York City, you know you're dealing with a film that's just a little more high-class; kind of like when you order mineral water instead of regular tap water. Yes, they're both water, essentially, but mineral water has bubbles and, as we all know, bubbles equal class and distinction where water is concerned.
But I digress...
My point is, you can't beat a good New York City-set, 70's cop movie and, with that in mind, I'd like to suggest a title that I don't think a lot of people have seen. That movie (if you haven't figured it out from the large picture at the start of this post) is The Taking of Pelham 1-2-3.
See, it's about a group of thieves that hijack a subway train (specifically, the 6 train) and hold all it's passengers for ransom underground. Um... greatest concept ever? Quite possibly. This is doubly true if you happen to be one of the many people in the world who rely on the public transportation offered by a subway system. I'm sure there's not a one of us out there who hasn't thought of forcibly taking control of a train and demanding a large sum of money for it and it's cargo's safe return.
Am I right? Huh, am I... right?
Hm? Ah, it's just me then? Well then... forget I mentioned it. And, um, don't call the authorities.
The movie, though... you've got to see this movie. What's great about it is that it's not flashy, it's not ultra-violent and it's not action hero-y. For fuck's sake, the cop fighting the bad guys in Pelham is played by Walter Matthau! When you cast as your lead a man about as tough and menacing as a comfy leather chair, you've got to know you're dealing with a very different breed of thriller. The lead thief, by the by, is played by Robert Shaw (Quint from Jaws) and his creepy, evilness contrasts perfectly with Matthau's hilarious crankiness.
Anyway, I don't want to say too much more about it because I don't want to give anything away but, no joke kids, give this film a look-see.
NOTE: The cover-art for the current DVD release is very different from the above poster. I just like that poster, is why I used it. I'm sure you can figure it out.

Romantic Gestures

There's your every day, run o' the mill romantic gestures (getting her flowers, candy, remembering her name first thing in the morning) and then there's this.

Seriously. That dude's got the upper hand forever in that relationship. "Oh, you're mad because I forgot to pick up the dry-cleaning, I see.. well... hey, remember the time I staged a hunger strike because I loved you so much?!?! Yeah, that's what I thought." He's on easy street until she tops him in the show-of-love department and, sorry, nothing tops a hunger strike. That man's the Ghandi of that lady's heart, now and forever.

...the son of a bitch...

I mean, no, good for him and all that. I'm glad he made her love him. Or proved his worth, or whatever happened; I'm not even going to pretend to understand all the cultural arranged marriage, "too dark" stuff that's going on there. Either way, kudos. It's just that, now, the bar is raised impossibly high in the "romantic gestures" department. We regular dudes, particularly those of who've occasionally been accused of not being the most romantic card in the Hallmark rack, are screwed. Like I said... nothing tops a hunger strike. Certainly not flowers and a six-pack of beer from the bodega coupled with a leering offer of a "massage" (my preferred method of romance, except that I rarely bring flowers and I usually drink the six-pack by myself beforehand). This guy's selfless effort of devotion has made it so that the average man is going to have to start lopping off his own body parts to show his feelings and, no joke, I don't have that many body parts I'm willing to sacrifice in the name of love.

Okay, maybe a pinkie or an earlobe, but that'd be about where I'd draw the line.

Anyway, I bring this up as a word of warning to all the men who read this site: Dudes, it's going to get rough out there for a little while. We've got to step up our game. To that end, I've whipped up a little cheat sheet that, I think, will help us all be big winners at the Game of Love.


NOTE: I don't know what I'm talking about. Please, for the sake of your relationships, don't listen to me.

1. Flowers are overdone and, quite frankly, she knows what the bouquets they sell at the gas station look like. Don't go there. Instead, bring her a neatly-wrapped bouquet of fresh garden herbs. She'll look at you oddly at first, but after you explain to her that she's supposed to use them to make you dinner, she'll come around.

2. Take her dancing at the hottest nightclub in town. If that's too expensive, blast techno music in your living room while waving around a couple of flashlights. It's the same thing.

3. An expensive bottle of wine is always appreciated, but, and this important: Don't drink any of it before you give it to her. They don't like that, women. Instead, buy some of those airplane-sized bottles of vodka and chug them on the train over to her place.

4. Calling each other by cutesy, pet names is perfectly acceptable when it's just the two of you. However, you really should keep it to things like "Sugar Pie" and "Sweety Bunches" and whatnot. Though you mean it as a the most sincere form of flattery, calling her your little "Mookie Wilson" won't melt her heart even after you explain his significance to the world of sports.

5. Give her a pearl necklace. Or, if you're dating a dude, a rusty trombone.

6. Cook her dinner. Or, if you can't cook, order out, put the food on some nice plates and take all the credit. Get it from an actual restaurant though, because she's not going to buy that you've got the exact same kind of kitchen equipment that White Castle has.

7. While getting her a nice copy of the Kama Sutra isn't a bad idea, it is considered crass to put sticky notes on all the pages that contain positions "you'd so totally be into." Also, when giving her the book, try not waggle your eyebrows and lick your lips in a suggestive manner.

8. She won't watch porn with you, especially since you've found a way to bring every conversation you've ever had since the second date back around to that topic.

9. Shave your back, dude. It looks like you're giving an alpaca a piggyback ride.

10. Break yourself of the habit of making airquotes when you say, "I love you." Only assholes do airquotes anymore. Oh, also, it's probably breaking her heart or something.

Sunday, May 20, 2007


Finally got around to seeing Spider-man 3, yesterday. In short, I was not impressed. This saddens me, as I was a huge fan of the first two movies. Like, I'm not wearing Spider-man boxers right now, but if someone were to give me a pair as a gift, I would not only put them on, but I'd parade around in them happily; I'm that much of a fan of Spider-man One and Two.

But this third one... hm, no. There weren't any Ewoks or anything, but still. It was pretty bad.

Further reflections:

NOTE: Here there be spoilers; proceed with caution.

- The one thing I'll say for the movie was that the acting was uniformly excellent. Well, mostly. Bryce Dallas Howard, whom I've seen do good work before, appeared to be imitating a High School cheerleader who just got the lead role in the big Fall production of Anything Goes. Otherwise, everyone else was top notch. Toby Maguire, especially, deserves mention for remaining perfectly cast as Peter Parker and Spider-man.

- The real star, for me, anyway, was Topher Grace. He wasn't given just a ton to do, but he really took the ball and ran with what he had. As it turns out, Nice-Guy Topher Grace is just fine, but Evil, Fucked-Up Teeth Topher Grace is sooooo much more cool. Topher, call me!!! Furthermore, all of the stuff with Venom was pretty neat and they'd have been much smarter to make the movie just about him and Spider-man dukin' it out. The whole Sandman character, though well-acted by Thomas Haden Church, was absolutely useless.

- Seriously, I've attended Catholic funerals that were better paced than Spider-man 3. The movie took for-fucking-ever to get going, and when it did, when some momentum had been built up, Aunt May would appear for a conversation with Peter about how her husband used to look good in a bathing suit. All of Aunt May's scenes, as well as all the angtsy scenes with Peter and MJ, had the same effect on the movie as shoving a branch into the spokes of a moving bicycle. And, yes, I know that Spider-man is by nature a very angsty story. Whatever. They've handled it better before.

- Bad, Black-Suited Peter Parker has a dance number. Oooookay. I can only assume this was put in the movie because Sam Raimi lost a bet.

- Awwww, look, Peter and Harry made up and they're all friends n' stuff and now they're fightin' side-by-side and it's all awesome. Except that nobody cares about the New Goblin. Or Harry. Or that entire plotline, in general. We want to see SPIDER-MAN fighting villains with his web-slinging powers of awesomeness. That's it.

- There were more leaps in logic, contrived coincidences, and plot holes in Spider-man 3 than there were in the entire second season of LOST. And that's saying something. LOST can get away with it though, because it's super-cool. Spider-man 3... not so much.

- In general, the whole movie was a mess. Not a hot mess, like Batman Forever, which was just apeshit-crazy and was therefore entertaining to watch. No, this was just a plain ol' mess, like The Fantastic Four movie from a couple of years ago. No scene really seemed to connect to the one before or after it, it was sluggish and dull, and even the action scenes lacked the electric intensity of the series's previous installments. Again, the cast mostly did excellent work, but unfortunantely that can't fix everything. Spider-man 3, and it breaks my heart to say this, just doesn't work. They should have quit while they were ahead.

Friday, May 18, 2007

One Last Thing...

While I head off to drink myself into a stupor, thus erasing all memories of this craptacular day, please let me leave you with this:

It's the hardest game ever!

Enjoy, and have an intoxicating weekend!!!

NOTE: My best time was 18.962

Oooh, Pretty...

Cloud Gate, known colloquially as "The Bean," in Chicago's Millenium Park. It's huge, it's shiny, and it's kind of weird, all of which in my book add up to... Oooh, Pretty!!!

Non-Specific Irritation

I don't want to get too specific here, so all I'm going to say is that there are some people who take their jobs in the corporate world waaay too seriously and should really just relax. Furthermore, again, without getting into the details, those same people should realize that certain, handsome individuals will, from time to time, make mistakes being as how they don't have a finance degree and aren't quite as well-versed in the business world as they are.

This is all hypothetical, of course. And I'm saying this on behalf of a friend. Who's not me.

Also, and this is apropos of nothing, especially not with regards to anything written above, but this day needs to end in a fucking hurry or certain usually-pleasant and easy going individuals might go apeshit and start tossing computers around the room like Donkey Kong.

That is all.


Remember the other day, when I decided that I was Australian? Yeah, I was just goofing around when I said that then and I didn't really mean it. Now, though... oh, now... thing are very different. I want badly to be Australian. It's a desire that burns within me like I swallowed a healthy chunk of the Sun.


Because Australia now has x-rated car washes.

Oooooh yeeeeaaaaah. It's a Cinemax movie sprung to life, but with sex-rageous accents!!! So I'm booking my flight today and you can expect to never hear from me again. Although I don't, you know, technically, have a car... not going to lie, that could be a problem. Maybe I can get them to just x-ratedly wash my clothes or something.

Anyway, with that in mind, here are some other jobs that I feel should be X-rated:

Baker - Unsanitary? Yes. But with all that frosting lying about, the possibilities are endless.

Astronaut - Naked, weightless doin' it is the last frontier of x-ratedness.

Politician - As long as the politician is attractive, of course. No one wants to see, say, Mitt Romney naked. Even Mrs. Romney.

Banker - Rolling around all sexy-like with someone can only be improved by doing said rolling around on a big pile of 100$ bills.

Police Officer - The arm of the law isn't the only thing that's long! Hi-oh!!!

Liquor Store Clerk - It would make a good thing even better, much like the adding of bacon to cheese.

Invoice Inputter - Hello, ladies!!!

Porn Star - Yes, being a porn star is already an x-rated job. However, you can never have something that's too x-rated. What I'm trying to say is that porn stars should try harder.

Thursday, May 17, 2007

A Tattoo Of Me

Commenter-in-good-standing and all around pleasant person, Pigeon (not her real name), has gone that extra mile and branded herself with my image:

Until one of you can top that, she is now your Queen. Bow before her might and excellent taste in not-at-all-fake body art!!!

In all seriousness, this pic was responsible for the best laugh I've had all day. Thanks, Pigeon, for real. Now, if you could please continue to waste your time on inflating my ego, that would be just spectacular. I'm thinking something in the ballpark of a line of C-Dog bumper stickers, or perhaps some coffee mugs upon which you could emblazon my most inspirational quotations.

So... yes. Let's get on that, shall we?

UPDATE: Hot Girls In Danger!!!

UPDATE: Does no one care about the potential plight of all the famous ladies that I find hot??? You people are heartless bastards. Also, I'm bored.

Uber-girl-next-door and hot, hot, HAWT famous lady Jenna Fischer, otherwise known as Pam from The Office, slipped, fell and broke her back last night at some hateful, evil restaurant here in New York. She's okay, in as much as she's not dead, but still... this will not stand, people.

What if this is just the beginning? What if all the restaurants in NYC are planning a wave of attacks on all the famous ladies that I find hot? It'll be utter, crazy-go-nuts chaos!

Reese Witherspoon, Alyson Hannigan, and Emilie De Ravin will all be in the most gravest of danger! They'll have to go into hiding! They can stay at my place, I don't mind!!!

If you, the concerned reader, know of any other famous ladies that I find hot who are in immediate danger from a New York restaurant, please don't hesitate to shoot me an email at your earliest convenience.

I'll take it from there. On an unrelated subject, what's the average prison sentence handed out for kidnapping these days? Just curious!

Look, here's a source.

A New Me

In a decision entirely motivated by insomnia, I've changed my profile picture. Exciting? Yes, of course it is; it's the profile pic-changing equivalent of Dylan going electric.

As you may have noticed, I went in a different direction this time around; gone is the "Classic C-Dog" look (me at my cubicle, looking drop-dead sexy while wearing slimming stripes). These days, it's all about the "Goofy Ol' Clinton," which as you can see features me, grinning like I've just won First Prize at a science fair, standing against our blue living room wall and wearing an unusually green shirt that has in the past been favorably compared to things found at the City Dump.

I think this new, innovative picture represents a bold step forward in the direction of ZFS! My beefy face speaks of the sweet laughter we're all sure to share. The bold, clashing colors brazenly hint at the surprises and secrets that could pop up with every new post. And, of course, my obvious inability to shave on a regular basis proves, once and for all, that I am basically a hobo who happens to have a steady job.

Yes, it's the dawn of a new era. An era of hope, of joy, of poor choices in photographic representation... it's going to be great, kids! Just fucking great!!!

NOTE: Seriously, I'd really like to go to sleep now.

Wednesday, May 16, 2007

Worst. Tattoo. Ever.

The fact that the tattoo "artist" made her look like one of the mutants from The Hills Have Eyes isn't even the worst part. No, the real tragedy is the bit above the portrait that clearly says, "In Loving Memory."

This poor girl is dead and THAT'S how she's going to be remembered!!!

Seriously, yeesh. When I go out, I want to be immortalized with a giant mural bearing my likeness rendered entirely in Skittles and broken Budweiser bottles. And when I say, "giant," I mean "at least seven stories high." Anything shorter and I'm going to haunt the ever-lovin' shit out of some people. And it says that in my will, too, so it's legally binding.

Source is here

Melt: A Restaurant Review

NOTE: I know this is a post that's not of particular interest to anyone outside of the New York area, dealing as it does with a Brooklyn-based restaurant, but I wanted to write it anyway, if for no other reason than to show all you good people that Girlfriend and I don't just eat at places like Arby’s. I'll try to make it interesting though.

440 Bergen St.
Brooklyn, NY 11217

The Occasion: Girlfriend just completed her Spring semester of Grad School classes, so we thought we'd celebrate by eating some food served on an actual plate, as opposed to a Styrofoam container. We got dressed up (rather, she got dressed up; I put on the shirt with the least-visible stains on it) and proceeded to hit the town... with a vengeance!!! By "with a vengeance," I of course mean "with a positive, cheery attitude and an enthusiasm for a good meal to come."

The Place: Melt is hip, but not oppressively so; their color scheme of brown and white is pleasant but not distracting, the waitstaff is uniformly friendly and attractive, and the whole environment gives off the air of a funky, SoHo apartment owned by a really cool couple who throw amazing dinner parties. While we were there, the bar played a mix of old Morrissey tunes and Lily Allen's new CD, which made for a surprisingly good-vibish background to the meal at hand.

A Note About The Meal: We went to Melt specifically last night because, on Tuesdays, they do a 20$ "tasting menu." This is fancy-speak for "five courses of food, small portions, and you don't get to choose what you eat." This sounds a little restrictive, but, as we'd been to Melt before, we trusted them to only give us the good stuff. We were not disappointed.


Course #1 - Butternut Squash Soup with Bacon and Hazelnuts
This was just fine, but I'm really not that big of a fan of squash so, with me, it was already starting at a disadvantage. It tasted good, however, or as good as anything made with a gourd could possibly hope to be; I did find it a bit weird that it had whole hazelnuts floating in it. It was like combining a soup with a bar snack and it was a little disconcerting. Girlfriend, though, was tempted to ask if she could have all five of her courses just be this soup. It was her favorite thing of the evening.

As good as: A date to the movies with a pretty girl who makes the first move towards holding hands.

Course #2 - Goat Cheese Wonton with a Green Salad
I know that it's probably in bad form to use the phrase "holy shit" while writing a restaurant review, but seriously... Holy Shit! The Goat Cheese Wonton was... well... a wonton stuffed with goat cheese and loads of fresh herbs, but it was un-fucking-believable. It was punch in the mouth from the Heavyweight Champion of Flavor. It was fresh and bright and just greasy enough to make you feel at home; it was deep-fried Springtime and I could have eaten a bucket of those magnificent bastards. The green salad wasn't bad, but it was like watching a double feature of The Umbrellas of Cherbourg and Happy Gilmore; two good things, but things that reside on two different planes of existence nonetheless.

As good as: Finding boxes of money in the back of your closet while a naked Reese Witherspoon gives you a massage as, in the background, your favorite baseball team wins the World Series with a walk-off grand slam.

Course #3 - Mushroom Croquette with Red Pepper Aoli
Creamy and flavorful, the Mushroom Croquette was very tasty and probably would have impressed me more had it not followed the Goat Cheese Wonton of Eternal Wonderment and Magic. As it was, though, it reminded me of a really good hors d'oeuvres served at an office party where you're not required to wear a tie.

As good as: Bumping into an old classmate at the supermarket and having a nice conversation for about ten minutes, before you both have to split to run more errands.

Course #4 - Mini-Tostada with Guacamole and Chipolte Drizzle
This was the only semi-dud of the evening. It wasn't bad, per se, it just wasn't up to the quality of the rest of the meal. The guac was certainly well-prepared and the chipolte stuff was tasty, but... meh. Definitely the lowlight.

As good as: A really long nap where you wake up all fuzzy-brained and slightly sweaty.

Course #5 - Maryland Crabcake with Celery Slaw
As crabcakes go, it was top notch. More meat than breadcrumbs (always a good sign) and not overly seasoned like some that you find, it was the perfect accompaniment to the celery slaw upon which it sat. The slaw, by the way, was called something else; something fancy. But I can't think of the word right now and, really, it was just a caper-heavy coleslaw. Good, though.

As good as: Watching a guy who carjacked a granny getting beat with a stick.


NOTE: After the tasting menu was done, we decided to stick around for dessert and a round of drinks.

Alcoholic Beverage - Grappa
Grappa is basically Italian moonshine and it's fabulous. If you can get your hands on this grape-based White Lightning, I highly recommend that you try it. Careful though: It'll take your head off if you don't watch your back.

Dessert - Peanut Butter and Jelly Cheesecake
Oh... god... Melt took my childhood and formed into a fattening dessert that made my eyes roll back in my head. I'm also pretty sure I saw dead relatives and heard classical music playing. There may have been a pearly gate, but I'm not sure as I was too busy licking my plate.


At one point, Girlfriend said to me, "It's like the Iron Chefs are cooking for us and the secret ingredient is 'Deliciousness!'"

I couldn't have said it better myself.

Tuesday, May 15, 2007

Jerry Falwell: Dead

I'm not a hateful person. Sure, I can put forth the sass with the best of them and, true, I've been known to mock my fair share, but still the fact remains: I'm generally not someone who takes delight in the misery of others. However, that being said, the first thing I thought when I saw that Jerry Falwell had died was, "Good." Followed closely by, "I hope it was painful."
Few have done more towards making this a more intolerant, vicious nation than Rev. Falwell and the fact that he's no longer breathing the same air as the rest of us can only be viewed as the best thing that's happened since Ted Haggard got busted with a male prostitute. If the Hell that he preached about so fervently does in fact exist, I can only assume that he's there now, catching a red-hot pitchfork in the ass.
One would hope, anyway.
All the details here

I Am British

Well, no... I'm not, obviously. Not yet anyway.

If I was British, I'd have certainly brought it up by now. In all honesty, were I actually a man from Britain, this blog would probably be called "Sir Clinton's Very British Blog About Things That Are British (Like ME!!!)."

But that's not the case. I'm very not British. I am, in reality, an American. Even more damnable, I'm a Texan. Not that I, personally, mind being a Texan, of course; quite the contrary. It's just that people these days tend to have a fairly low opinion of Texans thanks to our suck-ass President and it gets really old having to explain time and time again that, no, we're not all like that. And, while we're on the subject of dispelling myths about those of with the good fortune to grow up in Texas, let me also state for the record that we don't all ride horses, it's not at all like it was on Dallas, and there are many of us that don't think cellphones and DVD players are "the work of witches." Now, yes, my grandfather does own a cattle ranch (true), but that's merely a coincidence.

Look, my point is, being a Texan doesn't have anywhere near the cachet as does being British. And, after watching the new romantic comedy Music and Lyrics last night, which stars alpha-Brit Hugh Grant, I've decided that this situation is entirely unacceptable. The British (well, Hugh Grant, anyway) are just so charming. We're talking crazy, heart-meltingly charming here. Lethally charming. Not to mention witty. Everything I said about the British being charming, they're double that in the wit department. And that's exactly what I want to be.

Now, I know, you're saying to yourself, "But C-dog, what about this mystical, vaunted Southern charm and wit that all you types are supposed to have?" Well, listen... Southern charm and wit only work when you're skinny and muscular and dressed like a cowboy. When you're a whiskery, lumpy sort (such as myself), you're pretty much resigned to the redneck/hillbilly/hick category whether you like it or not. And I, for one, don't like it.

Therefore, from now on, I am British.

"Pip, pip! Bob's your uncle! Bangers and mash! God save the Queen, old chap!"

See. Totally British. You can't hear me saying these things, of course, but keep in mind: I spent many years doing theater. This means that I can do an absolutely flawless British accent that would make you think I'm a real Briton from Britain, provided, of course, that you'd never in your entire life heard a British accent before. And had just been smacked very hard on the back of the head with a brick.

Hm. Yeah, my British accent sucks. That's going to be a problem.

I suppose I could pack up and move to England and live amongst those who speak with British accents for a number of years. Bound to pick it up that way. Then again, I don't really want to move to Britain; I like New York quite a bit and if there's one thing that's been said over and over again about Britain, it's that it is in no way New York City. I confirmed this on a map, just to be sure. Another option would be to rent a large quantity of British television, watch it all over a weekend, and hope to absorb the accent that way. This, though, would make me just like that weird kid in High School who always wore Dr. Who t-shirts with a trench coat and a top hat and talked only in obscure Monty Python references. Nobody liked that kid. Thirdly, I guess I can just start telling everyone that a slight, Texan drawl is the new British accent and then spend the entirety of my waking hours convincing the world that this is rock-solid truth.

Which, now that I've said all of this out loud, seems like a lot of work. And Lazy will always trump both British and Texan.

So... ugh. I am not British. Whatever. I didn't really want to be British anyway. Bunch of charming, witty jerks.

Now, Australians... that's where it's at. Yeah, they're all good-natured and sunny. And they all surf and fistfight kangaroos. And they eat all their meals at Outback Steakhouses, probably while accompanied by their best koala pals.

Yeah... yeah, that sounds fantastic.

Ladies and gentlemen, I am Australian.

Monday, May 14, 2007

Doomwatch '07: FINAL UPDATE

Heh... well... when I'm wrong, I'm wrong. Not that I'm bummed at the lack of terrible, terrible doom or anything. I'm just sorry I made such a big hairy deal about it. What can you do, huh?

Granted, there are still about 40 minutes left in the day but, and I really mean this... eh. I'm going to sleep. And I'm sure, since I'm finally, shamefully letting down my guard, that's probably when all the missiles will launch from one end of the globe to the other, all simultaneous-like, and then pop goes the world. But thems the breaks, I guess.

See ya'll in the fallout shelters.

Or, you know, tomorrow. Whichever.

Doomwatch '07: UPDATE #3

I should admit up front that my enthusiasm for Doomwatch '07 has flagged a bit in the last couple of hours. I've gotten busy with the invoices here at the job and also I've grown weary of the pop-up ads on CNN's website that present themselves every time I hit "refresh." Not to mention the fact that I've recently gotten quite distracted by a delicious Blow Pop that I found while digging around in my book bag.

In fact, I'd count "finding a Blow Pop" as a definite sign that things are looking up. I mean, it certainly isn't a bad thing. Unless... you know... you don't like Blow Pops. Even then, though, it'd just be a mild nuisance to find Blow Pops in your bookbag; not really anything worth calling the local news about.

So, I don't know. Maybe all this worry and bother was for nothing.

Then again, there is this, which I think has got to mean something on a larger scale. But what, I ask you? What?

Doomwatch '07: UPDATE #2

Further portents of doom...

-I had to make a pit stop earlier today and when I entered the men's room, I was confronted by the smell of someone's atrociously musky dump. It was a odor that didn't so much linger as it did embed it's self into the bathroom tiles, walls and my sinuses. Was it the stench of pure evil? Sure seemed that way.

-I went to McDonalds to pick up my daily package of Ranch dressing (for to dip my crackers in) and the service was friendly, courteous and moved quickly. There was even a smile from the cashier. It was all very disconcerting.

-Ever since I plugged in my new mouse, my computer has, about every ten minutes or so, started totally wigging out. Random icons will open themselves, windows I'm using will shut themselves down, my iTunes will disconnect... the ghost in the machine is riled up and it's scaring the crap out of me.

-Most troubling: As I was typing the above paragraph, the Belle & Sebastian song "Get Me Away From Here, I'm Dying" came on via the Shuffle option. That can't be good a sign.

Doomwatch '07: UPDATE #1

As of yet, there has been nothing of note.

My computer's mouse broke and I had to call tech support to get a new one, but that's hardly cause for alarm. Also, I spilled a bit of coffee on an invoice, forcing me to reprint it but, again, nothing heart-stoppingly tragic. Nonetheless, I've been vigilantly scouring the internet-based news sources all morning and, truthfully, it's been pretty slim pickings. The closest thing I've found that could be construed as a portent of doom is this.

And that's really more creepy than anything else.

So... so far, so good. Not that I'm resting on my laurels or anything. No sleeping on the job here. Consider me back up on that wall, rifle in hand (metaphorically, of course), keeping watch over the nation and, by proxy, all of you good, pleasant-looking and friendly people.

Don't thank me yet, though. We've still a long way to go.

Doomwatch '07

Something is going to happen today. Something bad.

I know this because, see, when I woke up this morning, I was overcome by a nagging sensation of impending doom. Also, I had to pee. I took care of that, then I was able to focus on this inescapable feeling of dread and, after careful consideration and after ruling out the possibility that there's something in my own life that I'm currently dreading, I've come to the conclusion that no good can come of today.

Now I'm not saying we're all doomed, despite what the picture to the right might have you believe. There's every chance that this opaque sense of menace might only concern things that will happen to me. Then again... maybe not. I don't know, and that's the real problem here.

So, what to do?

Well, the obvious solution would be for all of us to take the day off from work, very carefully make our way back to our respective apartments, and hole up there for the rest of the day, keeping an eye on CNN while we curl up under some blankets and patiently wait for tomorrow's 12:01 am. This, of course, isn't entirely feasible being as how "I think some bad shit's gonna go down" isn't really an excuse most bosses will except in exchange for your absence. And that's not even considering the possibility that this shapeless, shadowy "bad thing" might in some way involve your (using the royal "your" here) apartment building blowing up in a hellish fireball.

Nope, that won't do at all. It seems then that the best course of action is to stay steady-as-she-goes; go on about our daily lives as if I hadn't just this morning been gripped by the icy hand of unfortunately vague premonitions.

All I can say is, everyone, be on the lookout. Be aware of your surroundings. If you see a glint of steel, for god sakes duck! I'll be monitering the national situation from my cubicle, using the most sophisticated methods of science (hitting the "refresh" button while at CNN's website) to stay on top of this day's ever-changing happenings. If this "whatever" happens somewhere in the world, I'll be one of the first to know. Unless I'm in the bathroom. Or at lunch. Then would one of you be so kind as to shoot me an email? Thanks!

Having said all this, we musn't forget that there's a very good chance that all of this is meaningless. This feeling I've got could be nothing more than digestive issues, or maybe it's the leftover trepidation from an already-forgotten bad dream.

It's very likely nothing. Unless it isn't. And in that case, I'm totally a prophet! So it's win-win.

NOTE: I'll be updating regularly today to fill everyone in on the progress of Doomwatch '07. We'll see what happens.... we'll just see...

Sunday, May 13, 2007

The Source Of The Smell

I would like to preface this post by reminding you, yes you, the reader, that you're not perfect. I'm sure you've got some flaws, some "issues" you need to work on, and, hey, that's okay. There's nothing wrong with that at all. It's partially what makes us human (that, and the whole intelligent brains/opposable thumbs/capacity for speech thing). All I'm saying is, remember that you've got your own unfortunate quirks that cause problems from time to time and that you shouldn't judge other people. Particularly me.

One of my flaws is that I'm not terribly clean. I mean, I shower every day and I make copious use of the deodorant stick, but when it comes to, say, picking up dirty clothes off the floor or keeping my personal spaces tidy and grime-free... well, there are homeless people living in alleys who find me a bit gross.

I bring this up because... um... you remember the other day when I mentioned that there was a bad smell coming from my office? "Maybe it's a dead mouse, har har" I said, trying to be all Mr. Funny Blog. Yeah, well...

It was a dead mouse. Worse, actually. It was part of a dead mouse. Seems our cat had caught it at some point, killed it, and then deposited the half-a-carcass into a t-shirt of mine that had been laying on the floor of my office. Other pieces of clothing had gotten tossed on top of it and, consequently, it went unnoticed for a few days. Basically I think it's the same thing that happened to Jimmy Hoffa, except for he's still out there, rotting away, and the mouse was discovered yesterday afternoon by me during a bout of Spring cleaning.

And if I thought the smell was bad before it was uncovered... fuck, guys. I can't even describe it. It's the stench of decay, of death, of murder. It's a savage, iron-y smell that penetrates to the core of your brain and lingers on everything that it touches. Horrible, horrible. Needless to say, there's going to be a fuckload of laundry-doin' in my future.

Anyway, just thought I'd share. If for no other reason than this charming tale will probably make you feel better about your own lives. No matter what, at least your office/workspace/apartment doesn't smell like dead things.

Friday, May 11, 2007

Oooh, Pretty...

A picture of full liquor bottles in their natural habitat, lovingly photographed by Some Guy in a Bar. Seriously, I can't think of anything more attractive right now. Oooh, pretty!!! And make mine a double!!!

"Alfie" by Lily Allen

I try very hard to not get too crazy with the music videos around here. I know that no one really cares what particular music video is tickling my fancy at this exact moment and, also, I'm pretty sure that everyone has figured out by now that I post music videos when I don't have anything real or interesting to write about. Frankly, you should all be insulted by the way I insist on ramming my musical tastes down your throats in lieu of actual, good-for-the-mind-and-heart, laugh-a-minute content. My behavior sickens me.

That being said, here's a really awesome music video!

NOTE: Slightly NSFW due to language and puppet spankin'-it

Incidentally, she looks like exactly like this girl I used to date when I lived in LA. It's freaking me out a little bit, they favor each other so much. I'm actually starting to wonder if I was dating a British pop-sensation and just didn't notice. I was drinking an awful lot back then, so I guess anything's possible.

Anyway, creepy puppets are neat and it's really a shame that more music videos don't employ their services.

She Doesn't Love You Anymore

-She asks for the key she gave you to her apartment back. When you hand it over, she jams it in your eye.

-You've gotten very good at dodging thrown wine glasses, expertly-tossed kitchen knives, and mid-sized sedans that attempt to run you down outside your home.

-You see her out on the town with friends, having a great time without you. You then see her in a movie with the same friends, having an even better time. Naked.

-She stops returning your calls. However, she does pay an ex-cop to beat you senseless with your own telephone.

-You go around to her place to pick up some stuff you left there and, while she does give it back to you without a fuss, it is all on fire.

-She asks you to meet her at the restaurant where you and her had your first date. There is a lot of traffic and you arrive late, which is fortunate for you because there are no survivors.

-You break down crying, begging for forgiveness, but this only makes her tighten the chains that hold you securely to the wall.

-She gets a kicky, fun hairdo and a brand new wardrobe that perfectly compliments her newly energized outlook on life as well as her recent sex-change operation.

-You suddenly feel as if you don't exist. This is due partially to her cold, callous attitude, but it's mostly due to the fact that she stole your identity.

-You run into her and her new boyfriend at the mall, which is weird because you know for a fact that your Dad hates going shopping.

Thursday, May 10, 2007

A Question To The Readers

NOTE: This is in light of my previous post. Obviously.

What is the strangest/most unusual food item you, personally, have ever seen on a fast food restaurant's menu? Or, baring that, what is the weirdest/most unusual business practice that you've seen at a fast food restaurant.


Weird Food - The BLT Burritos (which were nasty) at Taco Bell

Weird Practice - A while back, Wendy's did this thing where they actually had table service, like waiters and waitresses, at their restaurants after 6pm. Or something like that.

C'mon, ZFS!-keteers. Whatta ya got???

Arby's: An Adventure In Grossness

One thing that I learned early on in Girlfriend and I's relationship is that Girlfriend loves Arby's. Not to a scary degree or anything; she doesn't have a roast-beef sandwich tattoo (that I'm aware of anyway), but still. The girl loves her Arby's and I'm honestly okay with this. We all have our weird, fast food cravings and, being as how I've carried on torrid, emotionally-damaging affairs with, at various times, Whataburger, In-N-Out, Taco Bell and, for one shameful summer, Chik-Fil-A, I've clearly no room to talk.

This, of course, doesn't change the fact that Arby's is, according to a Government-sponsored scientific survey that involved beakers and at least one microscope, totally gross. Again, I'm not bad-talking people that eat there; I've put away a few Beef N' Cheddars in my day and I'm also well acquainted with the concept of "Horsey Sauce." However, with that being said, there's no denying that Arby's is and always will be one of the nastier fast food establishments in our great nation. The meat is grey, people! GREY!!!

Anyhoo, I bring this up because, for a long time, Girlfriend has been unable to get her Arby's fix due to the fact that we live in the 5 Burroughs where there are no Arby's to be found and, also, we don't have a car to take us to a place (New Jersey) where the Arby's are plentiful. Understandably, this has made Girlfriend damn despondent. Not helping matters, she's been subjected repeatedly to the Arby's commercials that run in our area, despite the fact that we are an Arby's-less community. It's tantamount to torture (if you have a small, watered-down concept of torture, granted), and there's been absolutely nothing that we could do about it.

Until now.

Yes, the day has come: Arby's has come to town, it's arms open and ready to embrace us all with it's slightly-skanky good(ish)ness. Specifically, the new Arby's is located in the Manhattan Mall and yesterday, Girlfriend and I went to check it out.

The Manhattan Mall, if you've never been before, is the pretty much like any other mall you'd find in the rest of the country, which is to say that it's packed with teenagers and it chokes to death a little piece of your soul for every twenty minutes that you spend within it's walls. Oh, but I kid the large conglomeration of retail establishments! As far as malls go, I've certainly seen worse; it appeared as if someone had at least made an attempt to mop up at some point in the recent past and I wasn't at any point afraid of being mugged by roving gangs of thugs, which is more than I can say for some of the malls in Arlington and Austin. We didn't really spend a lot of time amongst the actual stores, but I can personally attest that The Body Shop was free of dead or dying hobos and that the escalators to the various levels quite ably went about their duties of conveying people up and down.

All in all, a decent enough mall. But that's not why we were there. We headed straight for the Food Court.

I'll tell you right now that our Arby's experience last night was a decidedly mixed bag. So basically the norm for a trip to Arby's. Let me break it down for you:

The Arby's at the Manhattan Mall - An Overview

The Store It's Self - It, like any other food outlet in a mall, was a smaller version of the normal-sized Arby's outlet and it was reasonably clean and shiny. When it comes to food places in malls, I'm usually just happy if there's not a puddle of pee where I have to stand to place my order.

The Service - It appeared that we were being helped by the store's manager and it also appeared as if he'd learned English only a few minutes before we stepped up to the counter. I'm not saying there's anything wrong with that, nor am I wishing to get into a discussion on the immigration policies of our country. I'm just telling you how it was.

The Beef N' Cheddars - The quintessential Arby's experience. By that, I mean that they were the perfect balance of tasty and disgusting that's so germane to an Arby's meal. Plus, cheese sauce, which makes everything, including tax audits and bullet wounds, better.

The Potato Cakes - At some point, Arby's has stopped using actual potatoes in their Potato Cakes and started using low-quality cardboard instead. Liberal doses of ketchup and Horsey Sauce were required to choke this unholy triangles down, and even then neither of us could finish our orders.

The Curly Fries - (Yes, we got both forms of potato on the menu; don't judge, Mr. or Mrs. I'm-So-Perfect) As always, Arby's has some top quality Curly Fries. Spicy and greasy, not-too-crisp and not-too-soggy, sweetness and love, the moon and the stars... these are the reason that fast food was invented and so it shall forever be.

The Soda - It was just your average Pepsi.

Overall Grade: C- (major points off for the Potato Cakes, which really were butt-nasty)

Conclusion - After downing all the above food, both Girlfriend and I felt like absolute crap for the next hour or so. Maybe it's because we don't really eat a lot of fast food anymore, or maybe it's just that the food it's self sucked but, for whatever reason, the both of us were hurtin' in the gut region. Not that this will stop us from going back, of course. When the craving calls, you can't just let it go to the machine.

We'll be back, Arby's. Oh yes, we will be back. For the Curly Fries, if for nothing else.