Saturday, June 30, 2007

I Should Have Seen This Coming

NOTE: He's "sick," or something. Bullshit. He was like, "Oh, dear me, C-dog's excited about coming to my show? Well, we can't have a good thing happen to him, now can we. Sorry, Madison Square Garden, I'm going to sit this one out. Fuck you right in the bum, C-dog!!!"
Yep. That's exactly how it went down. Also, and I mean this, meh.

Friday, June 29, 2007

Oooh, Music Video-y...

NOTE: I've been rather busy this afternoon and haven't had a chance to find an "Oooh, Pretty..." picture. Also, is everyone else tired of the whole "Oooh, Pretty..." concept, or is it just me? I don't know; I'm just kinda over it. Which is probably a testament to my ridiculously short attention span than it is anything else. Anyway, here's a little musical entertainment from Craig Finn and the boys from The Hold Steady. Enjoy, kiddos, and have a lovely weekend!!!

"Stuck Between Stations" by The Hold Steady

My Legacy

I've been thinking a lot lately about the question of my legacy (I've mentioned my raging egomania before, right?). I know that I want to be remembered for many, many hundreds of years after my death; that's a given... I just don't know how, exactly, to go about it. The first instinct is that my legacy would, of course, be this very blog. Let's face it, there's some writing on here that's as likely to span the ages as Shakespeare's "Romeo and Juliet," or Hemingway's "For Whom The Bell Tolls, or at the very least, a really good joke written in Sharpie above a urinal in a bar. But I think we all know that the internet is going to burn itself in a swirling hellstorm of pornography opinions about the Harry Potter series within the next twenty years or so and, besides, having your greatest accomplishment on this planet be a blog is a lot like having sex with the hottest of your relatives... sure, it's still sex and sure, he or she's a looker, but it still makes you a twisted deviant.

Anyway, here's what I've been able to come up with as far as ideas for my legacy are concerned. I need feedback on this, people, because not only am I ridiculously self-centered, I'm indecisive as well and if it's up to me, it'll never get done. We don't want to deprive the people of Earth of the wonder and magic that is me, now do we? I'll answer for you: No. No we do not.

Ideas For My Legacy

Statue - As you can see from the picture up top, a large statue of me would be absolutely stunning. Majestic, really, and an inspiration to the millions of immigrants that make their way into our country every day. Not that I'm suggesting we take down a certain lady that's been wearing out her welcome in the New York harbor for like a million years... of course not. I'm just saying that if they did decide to mothball her, I've got a few ideas for what the city could do with the space.

Mural - As you've all figured out by now, I'm just unfairly handsome. It's a burden, but it's mine to shoulder and, hey, it beats walking through life looking like John Merrick or Matt Damon. Look, my point is, I have a face that begs to be rendered five stories high and in oils.

The Great American Novel - "Gravity's Rainbow," "Rabbit, Run, "A Catcher in the Rye," and... "The ZFS! Guide To Cheap Bars and Cheaper Women?" Well, maybe not that title exactly, but something along those lines. All that matters, really, is that I write something that's at least 300 soul-baring pages and uses lots of big words. Whatever it ends up being about, you know it will set the world ablaze, win me a Pulitzer Prize, and be adapted into a movie that will earn me an Oscar because, naturally, I will be playing the lead.

Titan of Industry - This, I'll admit, is a long shot. I don't have what anyone would call "good," or, "any" business acumen, nor do I have the drive and determination to work very hard at much of anything. A bit of an uphill battle, this one. Still, can't rule it out... I do have a few ideas for how I could wrestle control of the real estate market away from Donald Trump (they mostly involve running up behind him and hitting him with a sock full of door hinges), so I guess anything is possible.

Album - I'm not much of a singer. Nor can I play any instruments or read music or identify "the beat" or anything like that. Still, I think I could probably cut an album that would unify the the nations and teach all of our hearts how to smile. I mean, if Neil Young can do it, so can I. That's right, I just implied that I'm better at music than Neil Young. Wait, I'll go a step further... I'm better at everything than Neil Young. Neil Young cannot do anything at all that I can't do at least fifty times better, and I include actually being Neil Young in that statement. If I were to re-record Harvest right now, you'd want to punch Neil Young square in the face after just one listen. Fuck you, Neil Young. Fuck. You.

Clinton-esque - This would be perfect... having people describe wonderful things as being "Clinton-esque." Yeah, I could really get into that. The problem is, when you hear "Clinton-esque," you immediately think of our former President, Bill Clinton, followed by, to a lesser extent, George Clinton. I respect both of these men's achievements in the worlds of politics and doing drugs, respectively, but fuck them for having the same name as me because it's seriously fucking up my legacy plans. And, yes, I suppose we could all start referring to things as "Davis-esque," but that doesn't really have the same flow, and also, there's the Geena Davis, Miles Davis, Bette Davis, Jim Davis and Ossie Davis issues to take into account.

So that's what I've come up with thus far. At the moment, I'm leaning towards a big statue, but I'm open to suggestion. Please, help me help the world... any ideas?

Thursday, June 28, 2007

A Poo Warning System Has Been Implemented

Due to complaints from a certain reader who shall remain nameless, all posts that discuss poo, pooing or poo-related topics will now feature this handsomely designed Warning Graphic, created by longtime companion* of myself and ZFS!, Braden.

*I mean that in a totally straight way.**

**OR DO I???***


Q: Who Am I Seeing In Concert For Free On Saturday Night?

A: This handsome, sensitive gentleman right here...

NOTE OF EXPLANATION: My friend Lisa totally won free tickets to see Morrissey at the Garden on Saturday through NPR and she's taking me because I'm a big Smiths fan. Just wanted to share because, seriously, when does stuff like this ever happen to me? Never, that's when. Except for it just happened now. But this is the exception, not the rule. Anyway, MORRISSEY!!!! WHEEEEEE!!!

P.S. Does getting really excited about a Morrissey concert automatically make you gay? I mean, I don't care or anything, but if it does, then I seriously need to go shopping for a new wardrobe because I'm not going to fit in at the meetings otherwise.

Here's A Picture Of A Religious T-Shirt

Discussion Questions
-If I saw a guy wearing this from a long way off, I'd think, "Hey, there's a dude that knows how to party." As I got closer though, I'd realize that he's just a religious person who's trying to trick a drunk. Would it be allowable within our society's laws to give said t-shirt wearer a savage noogie? A swirlie, perhaps? Purple nurple?
-Do you think Evangelical Christians would have a problem with me writing "Drink Booze" on a bunch of crucifixes, even though it's the exact same thing that they're doing here?
-"Bloodwiser" would make a pretty awesome name for a Swedish black metal band, no?
-Remember those kids in High School who were always wearing t-shirts like this? They'd constantly try to get you to come "pray at the pole" with them before class, they'd give you static for reading Hunter S. Thompson books (even though that's what you're supposed to do when you're in High School), and then they'd get pissed off in English when the teacher showed The Simpsons version of The Raven because The Simpsons are "blasphemous." Fuck, those kids were annoying.
-This kind of religion, where that's all you're about all the time, has got to be just exhausting, right? Seeing people wearing these shirts, or building Baptist haunted houses, or protesting the funerals of soldiers... it all makes me want to take a very long nap.
NOTE: If you don't get at least three out of the five questions correct, you'll make the baby Jesus cry. And once that kid gets going, it's like impossible to get him to stop. The person who gets the most right answers will win an automatic admission into Heaven, which is a lot like your favorite bar, but with better food and a really great house band who's lead singer you could totally nail if you wanted to. The one with the most incorrect responses will be sent immediately to Hell, which looks suspiciously like a suburban McDonald's right after the end of Little League practice.

Wednesday, June 27, 2007

Breaking Down The Men's Room Stalls

If you want to poop in the men's room at my office, you've got a tough decision on your hands. The decision? Which stall do you choose? It's kind of like "The Lady and the Tiger," but without the rip-off ending where you don't get to find out what was behind the door that the protagonist chose because you're supposed to "use your imagination" or some bullshit. Whatever, Frank Stockton; if you're too goddamn lazy to write an ending, that's fine, but you don't have to jerk our chain with a cliffhanger that's never going to get resolved. I mean, what is this, the final season of ALF?*

Anyway, the men's room in my office... First things first, it looks like this:

As you can see, there are four stalls from which you can choose (this, of course, is provided that they're all empty; if any are occupied, there's a whole additional set of choices that must be made and, quite frankly, I haven't the time or inclination to get into them today because I am so very lazy). Here are the pros and cons of each one:
Stall #1
Pro - The cleanest of the four by a country mile. If you ever felt the need to eat, say, a large tuna melt out of a toilet, doing so out of the one in Stall #1 is the smartest way to go seeing as it would be the least likely to give you Hepatitis.
Con- The reason it's so clean is that, as detailed in my photo-accurate blueprint, it's right by the door. If you're pooping in that stall, everyone out in the hall by the copier can hear you blasting away. No one wants to be the guy whom everyone thinks is taking a trombone with him on his bathroom breaks.
Stall #2
Pro- Reasonably clean, and it's just far enough away from the door that, should you happen to have had a hearty bowl of chili for lunch, you can be at least somewhat sure that you're "bowel songs" aren't being broadcast in high fidelity, if you catch my meaning.
Con- This stall should be condemned. First of all, the door won't close all the way because the hinges are all wonky, so you'll pretty much be pooping for an audience. Secondly, the toilet seat is missing a few of the screws that hold it firmly to the bowl. This turns the whole business of dropping a deuce into a carnival-esque thrill ride of slipping, sliding and the very real possibility of testicular pinchage, should the seat and the porcelain catch you just right.
Stall #3
Pro- Very clean, and the overhead light is right above it, which makes for a very pleasant environment for reading magazines, the sports section, etc. while you're working hard for the money, as it were.
Con- The toilet seat on this one used to be broken, but finally enough people complained to get it fixed. Problem is, they put a toilet seat on there that's... uncomfortable, I guess. It must be designed for an ass that's not of this planet, because it's got these weird ridges and bumps and, in the thigh-support department, it's quite paltry. Maybe it's supposed to be an ergonomic toilet seat, but that seems unlikely, so I'm sticking with the theory that it's from Saturn.
Stall #4
Pro- The farthest away from the door and, thus, the most private. You could cut a fart at a decibel usually found at a Metallica concert and the people outside would be none the wiser. Oh, and occasionally, someone will have left the funny pages in there for your mid-dump entertainment.
Con- Due to the luxuriousness of it's privacy's bounty, everyone uses it. Everyone. Because of this, the toilet is half the time covered in piss, ass-sweat, stray pubes and a substance that you can only hope to God is Ranch dressing, because otherwise you'll hurl. No joke, I took a Hazmat worker in there once and he said, "Yeah, so... I've seen Ground Zero for the Ebola virus before."
So there you have it. Now, you can make an informed decision when it's time to poop at the men's room in my office. I trust you'll make the right decision. Barring that, you can just poop in the urinal, which is what I do.
*Too obscure? Or just obscure enough?

Answering Your Questions

NOTE: I can't tell you how many emails, hand-written letters, inked scrolls, old-timey Western Union telegraphs, and carved stone tablets I get every day from readers just like yourself (though their not as pretty/handsome), all in search of answers to questions that are weighing heavy on their mind. I don't blame them; I'm brilliant and my advice is worth, at minimum, a full-sized luxury sedan stuffed with foie gras and billionaires. So, while I usually write back to everyone individually, I thought it would be nice for a change to share my expansive reservoir of knowledge with the masses; what can I say, I'm a giver. Plus, I'm trying to secure a lock on this whole Nobel Peace Prize thing as quickly as possible. Don't think I forgot how you fucking robbed me last year, Muhammad Yunus. '07 is my year!

Answering The Questions Of My People

How do big, important businessmen wear suits during hot weather like this?

-Ricardo from Des Moines

Well, Ricardo, it has a lot to do with the fact that all businessmen have ice water running through their veins. That's how they're able to attack the world of, say, finance with the mercilessness of a trained assassin. There are other factors of course (they have no soul, many are mechanized androids, etc.) but mainly it's as simple as that. Oh, also, they wear ladies underwear. That doesn't necessarily keep them cool, but it's true nonetheless.

Will you marry me?

-Enid from Glendale

Aw, you're sweet Enid, but sadly I'm going to have to decline your proposal. As I've mentioned many times on this blog, I have a girlfriend whom I love very much; therefore, currently, I'm not in the market for another companion. Also, judging by the picture you sent in along with your letter, you appear to be a 6'10" hulking brute of a man who's clearly incarcerated somewhere within the California prison system. I'm sorry, but I just can't do a long-distance relationship again. It's too hard.

How do you perform open-heart surgery? (a reply sooner rather than later would be most appreciated by me as well as by Mr. Goldman here)

-[name illegible due to blood smears on letter]

Look, I'm not a doctor... the Texas Supreme Court made that point very clear. But, since you appear to be in need of a quick solution, I'd suggest renting and watching every single episode of the popular television program E.R. at your earliest convenience. I'm sure that they explain it all in there somewhere (seasons 3 and 4 were particularly good!).

Who's Harry Crumb?

-Tully from Ft. Worth

Easy; Harry Crumb is portly, now-deceased comedian John Candy. If you'd watched the movie, you'd have known that.

What's currently the funniest thing you've ever seen? I need to know, as I am currently ghost-writing your biography.

-Skip from Queens

That's an easy one, there, Skip. The answer is this:

Where does he get those wonderful toys?

-Joker from Gotham City

I believe he orders them from the SkyMall catalog, but don't quote me on that; there's a chance he's got a deal with Sharper Image.

Do I look fat in these pants?

-Various ladies from all over, am I right fellas???

Naw, baby, you look gorgeous. Now can we just go? We're going to be late!!! C'mon... Jesus...

You maybe want to finish this post and do some work, you lazy-ass bastard?

-My boss from the office at the end of the hall

Yes ma'am, right away ma'am.

Tuesday, June 26, 2007

I'm Sorry, Hollywood, But We're Done Here

Hey Hollywood... this is America. Thanks for meeting us here on such short notice. We'll due you the courtesy of dispensing with the idle chit-chat... See, the thing is, we need to talk. About us; about the future of us.

I'm sure you've noticed already, but truly... things are not going well. They haven't been going well for a long while now.

Which is not to say that it hasn't been a great run. It has. You've put out some really excellent movies in the last 90 years or so and there's no denying that you've made an everlasting impression on us all. But what can we say; times change. Look, our favorite Beatles song used to be "In My Life;" now it's "Helter Skelter." You see what we mean? People change. They grow up, they move on... they eventually come to a point where they have to let some things go.

And that's where we are now, Hollywood. It's time for us, as a people, to let you go. You just don't have it anymore and, frankly, it's starting to become a bit of an embarrassment. Bollywood, of all people, is starting to make snide comments when it sees us together. And the cinema of the UK, though it's too polite to come right out and say so, clearly disapproves. But it's not just that... it's... well... it's this:

I know, I know... I shouldn't judge you based solely on one movie but, c'mon. Who's Your Caddy? Really? That's how you choose to represent yourself? No, no... that just won't do. Best we cut our loses now, okay?
We'll come around later next week to pick up our things. And please, for your own sake, try to get some help. You're only hurting yourself.

Monday, June 25, 2007

C-dog and Girlfriend On... The Mermaid Parade; Part Two

So, here we have the final installment of our dueling banjos-style take on Coney Island's Mermaid Parade. Please consult Part One, should you need a refresher course on just what in the all-fired hell is going on around here.

NOTE: Slightly more NSFW than last time, mainly for the picture at the very end. Just how NSFW will depend on your job's feelings toward pasties.

C-dog: As if they needed something to make Starbucks coffee even more unappealing. Something about a surly girl in a wig just doesn’t say “delicious cuppa joe” to me.
Girlfriend: Now see, I liked this costume…it showed ingenuity and flair. Also, you really have to have commitment to wear a costume you that you have to constantly “airplane” your arms to wear.

Girlfriend: Are they goth mermaids…or are they dominatrix mermaids? I’m confused.
C-dog: Whatever they are, they’re definitely a sub-species of mermaid that's really into My Chemical Romance. They also write a lot of poetry in ripped-up Strawberry Shortcake diaries and have elaborately-designed MySpace pages.
Girlfriend: I have for you, a gothmaid poem:

The algae is green, like my envy for the surface
My heart is that crud that makes seafoam smell bad
The ocean is dark, and wet, and dark
Apathy is a current

C-dog: Oh god… so tragic… pass me a clove cigarette…

Girlfriend: I feel like I met this guy on a Craigslist date. Costume included.
C-dog: (sigh) I’m trying to decide if the worst part of his outfit is the Duane Reade discount-Halloween-bin glitter mask, or the fact that he’s quite obviously wearing the same shorts as a referee at an ages 10-thru-12 soccer game. Still, he does have a rather sharp-looking comic book-y bubble quote on a stick… you got to give the guy credit for putting forth the effort in at least one aspect of his costume.
Girlfriend: Wearing an alien costume to a Mermaid Parade is a definite cry for help. Unless the guy argues that he’s dressed as an alien from an oceanic planet. But at that point I’d stop listening because he’s put way too much thought into a parade costume.

C-dog: AAAAAAAHHHHH!!!! Looking at this woman makes me wish humans had never evolved eyes. She’s so… well, “jarring” is the only word I can think of that fits; she gives people the first ever cases of visual whiplash.
Girlfriend: I think she’s pretty. And she was the only person in the parade who paused long enough that I didn’t get whiplash trying to snap the photo. I love you, sea anemone lady! Call me!
C-dog: Where do you get pretty out of that?
Girlfriend: Well, I could say she looks like one of the multi-dicked sex monsters out of a violent hentai video. Tentacle rape, anyone?
C-dog: I was going to go with “Cthulu,” but I guess hentai’s probably more accurate, what with tentacles being at least somewhat nautical and all.

Girlfriend: At first you think someone took time out of their day to peel Metrocards off subway station floors and worked hard to sew them all together into plastic togs. However, I was in Kmart yesterday (buying some Preparation H for Clint) and saw the exact same outfits on sale. They even had Metro-cardigans for the family dog.
C-dog: This is kind of a sweet picture… family portrait, and all… but still I do take general umbrage with people who feel the need to flaunt their hobbies in public. I mean, yeah, it’s neat that you’re so crafty, but… um… you’re bumming people out because no one can figure out why someone would want to waste that much of their own time. Also, not that it’s anyone’s business, but I use the Preparation H on my wrinkles… it is beauty pageant season, after all.

Girlfriend: Awesome! It’s about time somebody dressed up as the ocean.
C-dog: Man, the Atlantic’s really let itself go.

Girlfriend: Let’s be serious for a moment and mention that Coney Island is going to soon be under construction. Many of the parade participants made political statements concerning the changes. You might not be able to notice, but this guy is on hunger strike.
C-dog: Male bulimia is not a joke, people.

C-dog: It’s the Rocky Horror logo’s more politically minded brother. Or sister, maybe? Do giant Teeth Popes have a gender?
Girlfriend: Doesn’t he remind you of the “Through the Hatch” obstacle on Double Dare? I kept expecting the guy to spit up an orange flag.

C-dog: Now see, this is where I feel bad… I don’t want to harsh on anyone for having a less than statuesque body because, let’s face it, I don’t exactly look like a sculpted hunk of marble when I’m bare-assed. Then again, I don’t go around on rollerblades wearing nothing but a pair of sparkly pasties either. Not that any of you will ever, ever know about, anyway.
Girlfriend: She’s my favorite. Ladies, when is the proper time to accept and love your body?

A. With the care and support of a significant other.
B. Through the guidance of a Bulimic 12-step program
C. Never, if you’re Catholic.
D. At Coney Island, during a parade, while shakin’ your flabby, pastied jugs.

The answer is not D. Never D.

Mondays Are For Letting The Hate Flow

NOTE: I've got a sunburn, a headache, and a lot of work to do that, quite frankly, I don't feel like doing. As I sit here at my desk, the surliness within me grows and grows. I need to vent that shit, stat, or I'm going to flip out and start trashing the place and nobody wants that. Because when I get going, I'm like an AK-47 loaded not with bullets... but with tornadoes. Bring it world... fucking bring it!!!

FLOWERS - Whatever, pretty flowers. I get that you have to grow and produce oxygen and give food to bees, but you know what? I think you're full of shit. Oooh, look at me, look at me... I'm a variety of colors and I smell good all the time and if you give a whole bundle of me and my brothers to your girlfriend, you'll probably get some sweet, sweet lovin'. Yeah, well, fuck you and your visually appealing, good-scent having, thoughtful present-being selves. Sometimes you make me sneeze and if I'm going to keep you around my house, I've got to give you a shitload of water and sunlight so you don't die. Dude, I have enough to worry about with keeping my cat alive; like I have time to deal with your allergy-aggravating, floral butts.

BABIES - Ugh. Yeah, it's not your fault, but when I'm on the subway, trying to avoid making eye-contact with the homeless while still looking studly enough so that all the ladies on the train go, "He's so handsome; I bet a smile from him is like a death-row pardon," your crying is really distracting. Also, with the pooping and the peeing and the puking all the time...? We get it, okay. You're an unformed human who hasn't learned how to take care of his-or-herself yet. There's absolutely no need to make a big hairy deal about it constantly. Seriously, could you be more of an attention whore?

COOL RANCH DORITOS - You sneaky fucking backstabbing liar motherfuckers... You taste so good; like a liberally seasoned dream that I never want to wake up from, and just when I think I've found the snack food I want to spend the rest of my days with... BOOM!!! You stab me in the back with a fucking broadsword made up of my suddenly-fat ass and my stinky Doritos breath. How could you do this to me, a guy who only wants to love you? I settle down with a bag of you, ready to commit myself fully to the act of enjoying your deliciousness, and when it's all over, all I've got is the inability to move because I'm too stuffed with grease and also, I can't talk to anyone because my mouth-fumes are so toxic I'd melt their faces like I just shoved them head-first into a blast furnace. I'm so sad because of you and I hope you feel awful about it.

PEACE - Hey, go ahead and happen, Peace. I mean, sure, if you show up, you'll put a lot of people who manufacture guns, bullets, tanks, gas masks, bomber planes, bayonets, and nuclear weapons out of work, but I guess you probably don't care about that. You just want to stride across the planet like a big shot, making everyone "happy." Well, hopefully the employees of Lockheed Martin can find some of that "happiness" on the unemployment line. But don't let that bother you. I'm sure they'll be fine living out of their cars and dying cold and lonely in an alley behind a strip club.

LIQUOR - You and cigarettes are both murders that get advertising space in national magazines. Don't know how you did it, but congrats, you organ-destroying, life-ruining, buzz-inducing, so, so, tasty.... god, I want a glass of you to drink right now... oh god... Aw, hell. Liquor, I can't hate you. You're just too good. Still a murderer, yes, but a murderer I'd love to have my liver process right about now.

NOTE: Whew! Man I feel great now! Why's everyone crying?

Sunday, June 24, 2007

C-dog and Girlfriend On... The Mermaid Parade; Part One

Yesterday, Girlfriend and I attended The Mermaid Parade that's held every year at Coney Island here in Brooklyn. If you're unfamiliar, it's a lot like the Macy's Thanksgiving Day Parade, but with no budget, a nautical theme and an exponentially increased amount of titty. Basically, it's an excuse for people of all shapes, sizes, sexual orientations and shame levels to strip down, toss on some glitter, and boogie down a hot street near the ocean while being dry-humped by a tranny.

Naturally, we got pictures. Or, rather, Girlfriend got pictures. I can't operate a camera.

So here now, I present to you Girlfriend and I's tag-team take on Coney Island's Mermaid Parade:

NOTE: Some of these pics are NSFW-ish, but not too bad.

C-dog: Dork Cops!!!
Girlfriend: Oooh, rookie lost a bet!
C-Dog: Totally. We saw all variety of cop conveyance out there and these guys, unquestionably, were the as far down on the totem pole as you can possibly be without dropping off into the shameful world of crossing guards and lunch-room monitors.
Girlfriend: Not to mention the fact that the whole squad of cops present were there to crowd-control a parade of scythe-sharpening wackos.
C-dog: Scythe-sharpening, eh?
Girlfriend: Obviously the people in the parade spend a lot of time sharpening their scythes for the impending Armageddon. Duh. You didn’t get that?
C-dog: Sorry, not on my wacko game today, I guess.

Girlfriend: What is this guy supposed to be, exactly?
C-dog: Well, since the Mermaid Parade’s supposed to have a pervasive nautical theme, my only guess is that he’s the “girlfriend” of the Pirate ship? Or perhaps he’s the “saucy first mate.”
Girlfriend: He’s wearing boy-briefs and silver belt around his chest. How is that nautical?
C-dog: Hey, we don’t know what went on back then. Maybe that’s how they dressed when they’ve been on a ship for months and months. It’s hot out on the open seas.
Girlfriend: Also, it looks like he’s running away from the giant Astroland rocket. I’m going to assume that’s because he thinks it says “Astroglide.”
C-dog: Naturally.

C-dog: I know this is probably evidence of my deeply immature mind, but all I can think is, “Wow, that’s a big, candy-colored penis monster.” I know in my brain that it’s supposed to be a sea anemone, but my heart’s saying nothing but “dicks, dicks, dicks.”
Girlfriend: Just like always, right?

C-dog: These guys, I like. Very pretty, very creative, there’s not an overabundance of wang on display… a rarity among the parade’s offerings, to say the least.
Girlfriend: Jellyfishes…or giant nut sacks? You be the judge.
C-dog: I wasn’t going to go there, not after you called me out on my dick-minded thinking, so I’m glad you said something.

Girlfriend: Classy. But obviously not words to live by. Plenty of homeless people smell like fish.

C-dog: Check it out! It’s Kid Rock’s career from a parallel dimension!
Girlfriend: Damn, you took the Kid Rock reference out of my mouth.
C-dog: Sorry, there’s just no other way to go with this guy. The band, such as it was, was called “Erocktica,” by the way. Erocktica. Think about that; about the kind of people who would name their band "Erocktica." What’s not shown in this picture is the Erocktica floozy behind the ur-Kid Rock who had a tit fully out of her bathing suit without her knowledge.
Girlfriend: That would be the same girl who was trying to talk to the kids in the audience.
C-dog: That’s the one. God, I love Erocktica. They’re my favorite band now.

Girlfriend: Bitch stole my outfit.
C-dog: She can’t fill out a couple of large fry containers like you can, baby. No worries.
Girlfriend: You're right. I’m totally McGorgeous!

C-dog: I was going to make a sarcastic comment about this guy being underdressed, but I just can’t. The garishness has overridden the sarcastic part of my brain.

Girlfriend: Wouldn’t mind rubbing him with butter and lemon and crackin’ his claws. If you know what I mean.
C-dog: You like fully red dudes, huh?
Girlfriend: Yeah, he had me at “lobster-claw hat.”
C-dog: Well, I guess he does beat dinner at an actual Red Lobster.
Girlfriend: And either way, you end up with crabs.
C-dog: (rimshot)

C-dog: It’s Gandalf the Gay!
Girlfriend: Poor guy got lost on the way to the Lord of the Rings convention.
C-dog: You shall not pass… an all-male review without stopping in for a peek.
Girlfriend: No wonder he kept all his male hobbits close.
C-dog: Those books make so much more sense now.

Girlfriend: I’d just like to say that she was my favorite; no one dresses like zombie mermaids anymore.
C-dog: And it’s a shame too, because she looks so lovely.
Girlfriend: This is what happens when zombies and sharks stop the fighting and start the mating.

C-dog: Oh man. God bless this guy.
Girlfriend: He doesn’t even know there’s a parade going on. Such innocence.
C-dog: I kind of want to trade in my Dad for him. He looks so full of wisdom and life.
Girlfriend: He just looks comfortable, so unrestrained from society and pants.

Friday, June 22, 2007

The Motivationless Man

I really want to write some funny, entertaining stuff for you kids to read but... eh. Just can't seem to get the bat off my shoulder. As it were. Probably has something to do with it being Friday, or maybe it's because I didn't sleep well last night seeing as how our bed got rained on (left the window open during a rainstorm; totally my fault), and there's a very real chance, albeit a small one, that aliens abducted me during the night and removed the part of my brain that handles all my motivation to write this blog. Seems like something those assholes would do.

Well, whatever the case, it's just not happening today. So here's this, a montage of scenes from Troll 2, the worst movie ever made:

NOTE: Probably SFW. But maybe not. I don't know. Whatever

Oooh, Event-y

NOTE: No, I'm not going to shut up about this. Deal, suckas!!!

4:30pm, Museum of the Moving Image, Sunday. Legendary Italian horror director Dario Argento's first movie, The Bird With The Crystal Plumage. I'm going to be there, kicking it with the movie nerds, and you should be there too. Yes, it's in Queens, but that ain't no thang. Oooh, Event-y!!!

Question: Did everyone enjoy the two uses of "street slang" in this post? Because I think they lent a gritty realism to my otherwise bland and somewhat uninteresting topic.

Alcohol News

NOTE: C-dog had a bit of an evening last night and, thus, feels like hammered horse shit this morning. So, in keeping with that spirit, here's some alcohol-related items that should keep you entertained while he tries to remember the license plate number of the truck that ran him down. Worry not, though. He'll be back a little later once the coffee and bagel have worked their sweet, witchy magic on his brain and guts, respectively.

-A woman in Tacoma, WA was arrested for drunk driving with a blood-alcohol content of 0.50. Think about that... 0.50!!! That's over six times the legal limit (which is 0.08). Seriously, how are you even upright with that amount of booze coursing through your system, let alone able to operate a car? Anyway, she and I are having a Spring wedding and I can't wait for all of you to meet her! She's my drunken dream gal!!!

-Turns out, I have more in common with rats than I thought.

-Okay, this isn't technically drinking-related, but you have to know that there was some sort of alcohol present when a guy thinks, "Fuck this parking ticket. I'm sending them sumbitches some dog poo."

Thursday, June 21, 2007

Worth Your Valuable Time

I don't know about you kids, but I generally can't stand to have a book recommended to me. Movies? Awesome! Music? Bring it. But books... eh. I think it's because a book is such an investment of time, or at least more of an investment than movies or music, and if it sucks, then you've just wasted a few days slogging through, say, Love In The Time Of Cholera, which is a book that's only purpose is to serve as the answer for the question, "What's the novel that's going to put me to sleep the fastest?".
NOTE: C-dog recognizes that Love In The Time Of Cholera is a universally loved and respected work of fiction. He does not care.
My point is, with books, I have a pretty short attention span when it's something I, personally, choose for myself to read. It's even more of a dicey gamble when it comes to books recommend by others, so I hope you take that into account when I tell you that Girlfriend recommended a book to me the other day that I fucking loved.
That book (if you haven't already figured it out from the picture up top) is Ender's Game. Now, don't let the fact that it's quite obviously a science fiction novel scare you. It's really not. I mean, yes, it's set in the future and there's spaceships and an alien race and all that junk, but it's just a science fiction novel in much the same way that Casablanca was just a movie about a guy who owned a bar.
Ender's Game is a novel about war. More specifically, it's about the strategic side of war, and how a battle must be fought with the brain as well as with the muscles if it's to be won. It's also about humanity's last hope being pinned on one person, a situation made all the more difficult by the fact that that one person happens to be an eight-year-old boy. It's unlike any other book I've ever read and it's one I can't recommend to you good, enjoyable folks heartily enough. Also, please know that I'm not just saying this because she's my Girlfriend; I've not liked other books she's had me read, just as she's disliked some of the choices I've forced upon her (some people just aren't that into books about 70's baseball, it seems).
Anyway, give it a look-see if you're in the market for a fast-paced, entertaining story that will also make you think. If not, well, there's always the work of Gabriel Garcia Marquez.

Craigslist: Photo Edition

I was talking about the previous post with Girlfriend this morning and she brought up the fact that the world at large (that'd be you guys) need to see my "Craigslist photo," otherwise known as the picture with which I chose to represent myself to the large body of internet ladies I hoped to date. It's this:

Now, I still maintain that it's not that bad of a picture. Girlfriend, however, thinks that it makes me look like a doofus. Not helping matters: The large art print behind me that, swear to whomever, I didn't know was there at the time of the actual picture-taking. Having it looming over my shoulder like a guy trying to read my paper on the subway does, I'll admit, make it seem as though I'm trying to make myself appear like a classy guy who's into art and knows a lot about art and who's cultured goddammit, so won't someone please love my hideous, hideous self!!! Also, you can see the the early days of my hair beginning to thin, which makes me want to weep bitter tears and curse my family's genetic make-up.

Still, Girlfriend did agree to meet me, and that decision was based in part on this picture, so really who's the winner of this particular argument? C-dog, that's who.

Parenthetically, if I were going to write a Craigslist ad today, here's the picture I'd use:

NOTE: I've been looking for an excuse to put this picture on ZFS! for weeks now. Seriously, I don't think I've taken a better picture since... well... ever. I'd hit that, s'all I'm sayin'.

Wednesday, June 20, 2007

Thing I Lied About When I Posted Craigslist Personal Ads In The Pre-Girlfriend Era

NOTE: Yes, I used to post Craigslist personal ads, especially when I was drunk and near a computer. Don't judge, Mr. or Ms. I-Have-Healthy-Social-Skills-Like-A-Normal-Person.

I'm a great cook - If you consider slapping a wad of shredded cheese between two tortillas, then dropping the whole mess on a scorching hot surface for three minutes to be cooking, then yes, I'm a great cook. If, however, you'd like something else home cooked to eat once in a while... say, oh, anything other than quesadillas... then looking elsewhere for chef-ly companionship would be a much better idea. I'll only break your heart and most of your kitchen appliances.

I speak Spanish and French - Quesadilla. Also, salsa, burrito, and enchilada. As for French... well, I took it in High School, but I cut class a lot and really I was only there in an effort to make time with a certain female member of the French Club (Side Note: Mission accomplished!).

I enjoy the outdoors - While I do enjoy the outdoors on an academic level and, yes, I recognize the outdoors as key feature of our planet's ecosystem, to be honest I'd rather not so much be there, especially if the option of not being outdoors is available. Even less so if there's a couch involved.

I on occasion will have a small taste of liquor, but only if you're having some too- Some lies were bigger than others.

This is the first time I've done this, but...- Craig actually got a little creeped out and was like, "Dude, I'm glad you like m'list. I like it too. But you're coming on a little strong. Little needy, there. Take a few days away from your computer to reflect and ponder and then maybe, maybe, I'll lift the court order barring you from my corner of cyberspace."

I'm reasonably good-looking - This was actually really unfair because, when the girls I'd meet saw me in all my dashingly handsome glory, their eyes would pop like baked potatoes in a microwave. But, really, how can you write, "I'm so goddamn attractive you'll want to stab George Clooney in the face because you've mistaken him for a syphilitic hobo trying to pick your pocket" and have people believe you?

I'm a writer who's all about writing and will one day be known for his writing, etc. - This was particularly laughable back then, way before ZFS! got a-rollin', because my entire "writing career" at the time consisted of reviewing horror movies every once in a while and, of course, writing Craigslist ads that made frequent use of the phrase, "the novel that I'm working on." There was no novel. There was barely a short story. There were a couple of fistfuls of great first paragraphs, a play that was barely that, and lots and lots and lots of little humorous essays, lists, thoughts, and... well, you've read the blog so you know of what I speak.

Coming Up For Air


As a general rule, this job is okay. Boring, but that's corporate America for you, and it's tedious too, but again, that's what I have to put up with unless I want to go back to waiting tables again. And believe me, I don't want to go back to waiting tables (my liver couldn't take it, for one thing).

However, there are days... oh brother, there are days. Let me tell you how it is:

[Insert long, bitch-tastic rant about C-dog's job that no one, including the author if we're being entirely honest, really cares about.]

So yeah, you totally pity me now, don't you. You had no idea my job required so much of me and meant so much to the citizens of our great nation. I'm a hero in your eyes, now. A tanned and shirtless hero. My abs are fantastic*!!!

*Sorry, C-dog's lost the plot a little bit from all the invoice inputting. He'll be fine after a delicious sandwich and some Cherry Coke.

The Day Today

First things first, in case you were wondering what's the least fun thing to do on a Tuesday night after a long, shitty day at work, please, wonder no longer: It's going to a baseball game and watching the team you root for play like a bunch of Little Leaguers as they get their asses handed to them 9-0. No kidding, I thought I'd accidentally gotten on the wrong train and ended up at a Texas Ranger's game. Because we have trains in New York that make all local stops between here and Arlington, TX. Prove we don't!

Anyway, today is shaping up to be an unholy shitstorm of deadlines, paperwork, self-doubt, revenge, assassination attempts, ballroom dancing, three-card monte games and somebody's going to have to do all these dishes, and I guess that somebody's going to have to be me. And will anyone say a simple "thank you, C-dog?" No, of course not.

So, as you can see, I've got myself a pretty full plate. And not in the good, heapin'-helpin'-o'-BBQ way. In the bad way.

But, because I'd hate for things to dry up around here and have everyone get all lonely, here's...

One Of My Favorite Music Videos Of All Time:

NOTE: Sorry for the Fuse Network graphics all over the video; best copy I could find.


Some Topics For Conversation:

-You know what's delicious? Bacon.
-Why don't men wear snap-brim fedoras anymore?
-Surprising C-dog Fact: I dance like a dream!
-Remember that show that used to be on Nick At Nite called Lancelot Link where all the actors were monkeys? That show was cool, huh?
-Your ideas about politics and popular music are different than other people's. Discuss.

I'll try to check in later, say around lunch break-ish time, just to make sure you crazy kids haven't trashed the place. Hopefully, things will calm down after a while and I can post more. But if not, know that C-dog loves you, but he's just too busy to play catch right now.

Tuesday, June 19, 2007

The G-13

I've been, for some reason, feeling very light-headed all day. More than likely it's because I did too many crunches at the gym this morning after my three mile run, but on the off chance that that entirely fiction scenario isn't the case, I thought it might be a good idea to get some protein into me; balance out my "workin's" and counteract all the caffeine (coffee), salt (sunflower seeds) and sugar (coffee again and a pack of Wrigley's Doublemint) that was coursing through my bloodstream.

So I went to Charley's, which is the all-purpose mega-deli down the block from my work.

Side Note: These places, the ones that cater to the business community of Midtown and offer every kind of food you could think of and even some that only exist in parallel dimensions (I mean, who's ever heard of "sushi?"), have to make just an insane amount of money, right? They're always packed, the food is fairly low in quality, and they're the only game in town if you don't want to go the fast food route or pay 478$ for a bowl of under-cooked rigatoni at a sit-down restaurant... ergo, mad bank. At least that's my reasoning. What I'm asking is, anyone want to rob one of these places with me? We can pull down a fat score and get some corned beef. Who's in???

Anyway, I went to Charley's and I got The G-13:

Roast Beef
Melted Swiss

In a word, "yum." And while it was, in fact, yum... yum-rageous, even... I do have one tiny complaint. My sinuses, once proud and upstanding members of my body's community of... uh... parts, I guess, are now shredded and blown-out like a crashing hot air balloon. They're wounded soldiers dying in the mud. They've been reduced to meat, kids... MEAT!!!


Horseradish abuse. Now, I like horseradish. A lot, actually, or I wouldn't have chosen this particular sandwich. But as with all things, there's a line with horseradish that must not be crossed and, today, the men behind the counter at Charley's sprinted across that line like Flo Jo at the Olympics. The G-13 is absolutely slutty with horseradish. It's sick with it. It bread and meat are Scrooge McDuck's giant vault, it's horseradish the gold coins, strong enough in their numbers for the cranky, talking waterfowl to take a nice, long swim.

Just in case my tortured, Scrooge McDuck analogy didn't make it clear, this sandwich had a whole fucking lot of horseradish on it and, currently, I'm without the ability to smell things.

So that was my lunch break. Anyone else run afoul of a mean-ass sandwich?

The Reality Of Cooking

Reality shows, as a general rule, don't really do it for me. Which is not to say that I think I'm better than reality shows; I believe it was Socrates who said, "He who has a deep, unabiding love for the early films of Adam Sandler shouldn't throw stones, entertainment-wise." Wise words, truly. No, it's not that I find reality shows beneath me... it's actually that I find them, for the most part, boring.

Who's the best at being a tall, thin girl with no discernible personality? What happens when we switch two families' Moms around (besides fucking up their kids for life, of course)? Don't you find it shocking that, after we put a bunch viciously egocentric, Type-A personalities in a house together, all they did was fight and screw???

Meh. Who cares? I mean, I get it... it's cathartic and funny to see a bunch of jerkwads slam into each other (naked or otherwise), and there's nothing wrong with watching a show that, at it's end, leaves you with a feeling of moral superiority because even though you may be a bit of a mess, at least you're not like those assholes. That's fine. To me, though, that gets old. This, I suppose, could be contributed to the fact that I walk around all the time with a hyper-inflated feeling of moral superiority and that I'm always grateful that I'm not like that asshole, or that asshole, or really any of the millions of assholes that make up our great and mighty species (it should be noted that, in addition to humans, I also feel superior to walruses, geese and dairy cows). Come to think of it, this, shall we say, "over-abundance" of self-worth probably makes me the perfect candidate to be a contestant on a reality show. Sadly I'll never get the chance to walk the halls of the Big Brother house because, quite frankly, I'm closer in physical appearance to one of the squatter, hairier citizens of Middle Earth than anything else. My chunky butt doesn't exactly translate into ratings gold.

But I digress.

My point is that, generally, I don't like reality shows (which I guess I could have just said flat-out, as opposed to talking around the issue like a White House Press Secretary). There is, however, an exception to that rule and it's this: Reality shows that are cooking-themed. Specifically, Top Chef and Hell's Kitchen; two shows that, while both set in kitchens, are about as different as The Beatles and a crazy, homeless guy that plays guitar under a bridge for spare change. And yet I love them both equally, just as I love The Beatles and that crazy homeless guy, whom as of today is Girlfriend and I's new roommate. Should probably tell her about that before she gets home and finds him rinsing out his socks in our toilet....

Anyway, the shows:


Mostly class, particularly when you're talking about the first season. Their rep as one of the least trashy reality shows in existence was tarnished a bit in season two, thanks largely to most of the cast turning into mean, hateful bullies halfway through it's run. Still, as far as the actual competition is concerned, it's all high-level drama. The challenges are creative and a true reflection of the contestant's abilities, the judging is fair and thoughtful, and the host, Padma Lakshmi, is interesting and engaging, if for no other reason than she until recently was bunking down with Salman Rushdie. It is, in short, everything a reality show should strive for, save for one exception: It lacks a lot of the catharsis, the schadenfreude if you will, of it's fellow, similarly-inclined programing. Which brings us to...


Mostly catharsis, with almost zero class. Which is great, actually, thanks in large part to the man on the left in the picture above: Gordon Ramsay. God, I love this man. He's everything I want to be as far as macho arrogance is concerned. Most people think he's this awful, evil monster who's sole mission for this show, as well as for life, is to torment his charges before breaking them over his knee. That's wrong. It's more that he is, like a lot of chefs, a psychotic perfectionist who's used to working in a classy, three-start dining establishment where everything is done correctly and with speed and skill. When things aren't done correctly, it's like a slap in his face; an ultimate disrespect. Now, because this is very much not Top Chef, the producers have intentionally loaded the deck, as it were, with a collection of knuckle-headed fuck-ups that seem to be mathematically engineered to illicit from Ramsay exactly one reaction: a volcanic meltdown. And it is goooood. The man, honestly, and to paraphrase A Christmas Story, works in swears the way other men work in oils. Watching him rip into a lazy, petulant contestant who you yourself would like to hit repeatedly with a ladle is satisfying in ways that sex with the partner of your choice could never be, and I say this with absolutely no shame.

So, yes... reality shows: Bad. Cooking-themed reality shows: Excellent at both ends of the spectrum. I'm glad we had this chat because, quite frankly, it's been a long time coming.

Monday, June 18, 2007

New Feature!

Can you feel the excitement? Or are those just the DT's settling in?

Well, no matter. Since I'm at work and bored, I've decided to get proactive here on the ol' blog and set up a new feature, which is something I'm sure you figured out by reading the title of this post. You guys are quick like that.

Anyway, the new feature is "Blog's You're Not Reading (But Should Be)" and it's got it's own little home right under my bio and awesomely animated caricature over there on the right side of your page. It's pretty self-explanatory, but basically it's a place where I can highlight blogs I'm currently reading that are awesome and that, in my estimation, aren't being read by enough people. I won't be making a big hairy deal about it like this every time I change the list, but it will change often enough for it to be worth your while to glance at it every now and again.

Now, in all seriousness, I hope that this new feature isn't taken the wrong way. Or, more specifically, I hope people don't think I'm trying to come off like some sort of big shot, or something; dropping crumbs to the "little people." I'd fucking hate it if that's what people thought I was trying to do because, really, who the fuck am I? I assure you that's not the case and, really, I'm just trying to be a nice guy. However, if everyone does get that impression, please let me know and I'll take down the feature ASAP. Hopefully, though, this will all be taken in the spirit in which it's intended; i.e. In the spirit of continuing to seek out and appreciate good writing, where ever it might be found.

I'm sure you will all think I'm a silly person for including the above paragraph, but hey... what can I say? I'm a worrier. I get it from my Mom, so blame her.

Anyway, alls I'm sayin' is that, under yonder new heading, there's a lot of stuff that's made me laugh. Give it a look-see, won't you?

Seeds... Of Doom?

I have a new addiction in my life; one that nicely fills the gap between liquor and cooking-based reality shows. It's this (or "these," rather):

Maybe it's because I dig the spitting aspect of eating sunflower seeds, or maybe it's because I have an oral fixation so powerful that if I didn't eat sunflower seeds all day, I'd chew on all my fingernails, pens, ketchup packets and possibly my keyboard, but whatever the reason, man, I'm hooked. This, of course, is in and of it's self not much of a problem. Yes, they are quite salty and, at this point, my body's sodium levels are so high you could probably sprinkle me on your french fries, but otherwise they're a perfectly acceptable mid-day snack. Besides, anything adopted by big-league baseball players everywhere can't be wrong (unless you're in the 80's and talking about cocaine).

Anyway, the fact that I eat them all the time and my trashcan looks like a mass grave in Bosnia, but for sunflower seed shells, isn't the issue. The issue is that, just a few minutes ago, I accidentally swallowed a couple of whole sunflower seeds. Shells and all. I hadn't even really gotten the chance to suck the salt off of them; a tragedy at least on the level of a really bad paper cut. What happened was, as I was popping a handful into my mouth, one of my office-mates said something funny and I laughed, inhaling as I did so, and down they went to the Land of the Lost, which is what I call my guts. Why? Well, I never really thought about it but, I guess, mainly it's because my guts are filled with Sleestaks. And, no, I don't know why that's the case and neither do the doctors. Look, that's really not the point...

The point is, I have a question for you, my faithful and filthy/gorgeous readers, and it is this: What in the all-fired hell are a couple of unshelled sunflower seeds going to do to my "workin's?" Should I just let it ride, so to speak? Should I induce vomiting like I'm Meredith Baxter-Birney in Kate’s Secret? Because if these things are going to be bouncing around my insides, tearing shit up like they're the evil ball-thingys from Phantasm, then I want them out, NOW.

So help a brother who's new to the sunflower seed game out. What's the happy-haps? Or some such.

Here's A Picture Of An Awesome Old Man

Discussion Questions:

-Seeing this kind of makes you want to tell your Granddad to get with the program, doesn't it?

-Have you taken into consideration that if this old fart falls down while busting an Ollie, he'll probably break like a thousand bones? That fact makes this exponentially more bad ass, no?

-Anyone else get the impression, based on the crowd's somewhat "Ain't no thang" reaction, that this dude's there every day grinding rails and showing all the thirteen-year-olds how they did it back when "skateboarding" was called "just fucking around with this wheelie-plank my best friend Archie made?"

-You know this guy's got the best record collection you've ever seen, right?

-When I'm old like Skater A here, I'm going to spend most of my days in a shitty, stinky bar that's covered in old boxing photos and serves beer and whiskey in mason jars that look like they were cleaned at some point in the early 90's and that was about it. I'll still eat lots of chicken wings and I'll threaten to kick the ass of anyone who tries to sit on my stool while I'm on one of my many, many trips to the bathroom. I'll smell like Old Spice and anyone who wants to can see the scar from my quadruple-bypass. I'll be cranky, drunk and hilarious, but I fucking won't be skateboarding, because that's a young man's game and really I'd rather let the liquor kill me than a blow to the head when I fuck up a frontside kickflip. Who's with me?

NOTE: Use a #2 pencil. Oh, may God help you if you don't use a #2 pencil... (shakes fist). If you get all five questions correct, you'll be exempt from the final exam at the end of the semester. And by "final exam," I of course mean, "Schlitz beer chug-a-lug contest." So if that's the kind of thing you want to be exempt from (Communist), then by all means get every question right.

2ND NOTE: More awesome old men here and here, in case you missed them.

Friday, June 15, 2007

UPDATE: Oooh, Event-y...

UPDATE: It. Was. Awesome!!! I just can't get over how freakin' good this movie is, and I've seen it, at last count, a bajillion times. Anyway, hope everyone is having a lovely Father's Day. Now, back to drinking!


NOTE: "Oooh, Event-y" is the best friend and roommate of "Oooh, Pretty." When "Oooh, Pretty" is too hungover to show up for it's regular post, "Oooh, Event-y" will step in. Because that's what best friends do for each other.

On Sunday, at 2:00pm in beautiful(ish...) Queens, New York, the Museum of the Moving Image will be screening the 70's classic The Texas Chainsaw Massacre as part of it's "It's Only A Movie" horror fest. I'm going to be there, because awesome shit like this is why I moved to NYC in the first place. Who's down??? C'mon, it's one of the best movies of the last 30 years, the way it was meant to be seen: With me!

Seriously, though, I'm totally there. Support good horror, motherfuckers! Oooh, Event-y!!!

Here's the link again, with times, dates, prices, what-have-you's for the whole festival.

Live-Bloggin' Bob Barker's Last The Price Is Right: An Experience For The Ages

10:49: Starting a little early, just to get a taste for what's to come. Looks like we've got some Guiding Light going on here. Seems very dramatic.

10:51: Oooh, there's a commercial about helping inner-city youths and, somehow, they're relating it to the TPIR finale. I'm... watching it and... still... I don't entirely understand. Ew, that one kid's mom is totally fug.

10:53: I get it... the TPIR girls are there helping. That's nice. I guess. Now we're into a Mrs. Butterworth's commercial. Eh. Oh, is it wrong that I kind of want to see Nancy Drew?

10:55: Mmmm... Ranch dressing...

10:57: Guiding Light's over. The anticipation is KILLING ME!!! According to the news break, some toddlers in New Jersey were in danger, but now they're okay. Good to know.

11:00: And we're off! Same ol' twinkly frame around the screen! They're calling "on down" the contestants!

11:01: One of the contestants is wearing a tye-dyed shirt. Who does that?

11:02: Huge ovation; lots of confetti for BB's entrance. Not fucking around; right into the bidding. First item up for bid: A big-screen TV.

11:03: Gross, this fat chick who looks like she's going to shit a brick just won. Man, she's been waiting on line for three days to get tickets. Lame-o. The prize up for grabs is a Corvette. Nice.

11:04: The game is Lucky 7.

11:05: She has to guess each number in the price of the Corvette. She's seriously having a fat girl panic attack right now. Aaaaand she's fucking things up, royal...

11:06: Holy shit... she won! I don't even know what the fuck happened. She was all sweaty and panicked and wearing a shirt that was a color green usually found in movie-theater candy and then, suddenly, she's taking home a Corvette. Well good for her, I guess. Alan Thicke is now on TV shilling some sort of Vegas time-share. Poor bastard.

11:08: BB's telling a story about how he saw one of the contestants being interviewed by CBS earlier and he's glad he's now a contestant. Dude's been waiting for tickets outside for FIVE DAYS.

11:08: Next item up for bid: Shitty, Mafia-bride necklace.

11:10: Kind of hot, kind of not, chick won. HOLY SHIT IT'S PLINKO!!!

11:11: Who the fuck needs a chocolate mill? Jesus. Get on with the Plinko-ing... Ugh. Whatever, she's guessing right on all the prices. Which I guess is kind of the point of the show.

11:12: Is there finer drama in the world than watching people drop their Plinko chip down the Plinko board? It's like the season finale of Lost, but with the chance to win money and hear Bob Barker say "Plinko!" Can't get any better than that. Anyway, "Kristen" or whatever lost, because she's suck-ass with the Plinko chip dropping.

11:14: I so want one of those Rascal, old-people movers. I'd be the biggest hit at the bar.

11:15: Next item up for bid: A stair-machine.

11:16: Oh man, the tye-dyed dude. Won. The big prize is a ski-boat and Mr. Tye-Dye looks like he just saw a woman's "cooter" for the first time. Freaking out.

11:17: It's the Range Game. Trying to find the "range" of the price. Or something; man, these games have gotten complicated since the last time I watched. Or did I get stupider?

11:18: Mr. Tye-Dye won the boat. Is frothing all over BB. BB looks non-plussed. I kind of get the impression that he wanted Mr. Tye-Dye to lose. Not that I blame him.

11:19: First AARP ad of the day! Old people!!!

11:20: First Beano ad!!! FARTS!!!

11:21: We're at the big Wheel of Disappointment (thnx, Stewpid!). Kristen spins, gets 45, and is spinning again. She's at 85 cents and seems please.

11:22: Mr. Tye-Dye is up. He can't beat Kristen and BB looks pleased, like his foe has been vanquished. The fat chick's up again. Ooooh... she's tied with Kristen!!!

11:22: Spin-off!!! Meh. The fat chick Hit 1$, which as you know is the big deal of the Wheel of Disappointment. Wins an extra 1,000$ and Kristen goes off to be not-exactly-attractive somewhere else. Why do the irritating people always win on this show? Must be rigged.

11:24: Can you believe that they made a sitcom about those fucking Geico cavemen? Seriously, we're nearing the End Times, kids.

11:25: HAHAHAHAHA!!! New contestant Dean just fell on his face "comin' on down!!!" Hilarious! Anyway, the next item up for bid: cool-ass jukebox.

11:26: Dean, fresh off of eating it on national TV, wins. He says that everyone in Canada loves BB. I can't imagine that's not true. Sigh... another new car. They're going all out this go around, I guess.

11:28: What the fuck is this? All he has to do is guess the price between two different total choices? That's not a fucking game!!! That's multiple-fucking-choice!!! Eh. Whatever, he won. Good for him, he made a 50-50 decision. Let's throw a fucking parade with floats and Macy's balloons.

11:30: I'd like to get some money because of dog bites or accidents in the workplace. Got to write down this number.

11:31: The new contestant looks like your Art Teacher in High School. Long, gross ponytail and a decided lack of sexual attraction. The next item up for bid: A motorcycle of some sorts.

11:32: Art Teacher wins! Is absolutely losing her shit. Trying to stroke and hug the BB; she's like the killer in Silence of the Lambs, sans the cross-dressing. There's a camper up for grabs, and some other shit. Playing the Grocery Pricing Game.

11:33: Omigod, she's shaking like a girl about to be killed in a slasher film. She's picking groceries, trying to get a total of 21$. She loses, because she can't price Dial soap correctly. BB's nice to her, because he's not a mean man. He's gentle and kind. Unless you're wearing tye-dye. Then you can go fuck yourself.

11:36: Took a pee break. Now we're in a commercial for inhalers or something. God, they really think the only people who watch TPIR are old, don't they?

11:37: Dude, the new contestant is the very definition of douchebag. He's here to be ironic, you can totally tell and I want to hit him with my shoe. The next item up for bid: A couch. Phillip, the guy from the interview, wins! Good for him.

11:38: Ha! The first part of the prize is a collection of board games! Oh, then there's a new car. Of course. Because this is all they're giving away today. Nice car, though: Ford Explorer. The game is "Any Number." Another "guess the numbers in the price of the car" game. Really lacking in creativity these days, got to say. Need more things like Plinko.

11:40: Phillip loses on the last number, which I imagine is a reoccurring trend in his life. He looks heartbroken.

11:42: Power chair or scooter? What's the difference? Both haul around your wrinkled butt. Man, I totally want one of those. Cruisin' down the street with my gangsta lean...

11:43: Cool, if you're a contestant that doesn't get on the show, you get a free grill. Neat. Okay, on to the Wheel of Disappointment. Phillip's up and... he's @ 80cents.

11:45: Art Teacher craps out, a two-time loser. She can go cry in her ponytail.

11:46: Dean's up with a big-dick spin. He's "hollah-ing" to his peeps in Canada, but doesn't win. Phillip's the big winner, for the first time ever in his sad, sad existence. Oooh, look... BETTY WHITE!!!


11: 48: Hey, let's waste electricity by plugging in air fresheners. That sounds like a sweet idea!!! Can we also throw away food and shit on a homeless person?

11:49: The Showcase Showdown is upon us...

11:50: 1st Showcase... "all involving the word 'Saint.'" A trip to St. Martins island, Next is St. Patrick, otherwise known as a trip to Ireland (shout out to my girl Irish!!!). And then a Lincoln Navigator, which... doesn't really... have anything to do with the word "saint," but whatever. Fat Chick passes! It's all Phillips.

11:52: 2nd Showcase... "our girls are in the dentists waiting room." The hell... anyway, first prize is an electric grill. Sweet. Ah, a Mediterranean cruise is up next... man, that sounds nice. Also, all the TPIR girls look like stewardess. Just sayin'. And yet again we get another new fucking car. How original. Convertible Caddy this time. Nice, actually.

11:53: They've made their bids. And we're at a commercial about Uncle Joe's funeral. Life insurance. Oh, hey, does anyone remember those "robot insurance" commercials with Sam Waterson from SNL? Those were hilarious.

11:55: The "Miracle Ear." Want one of those too.

11:57: Phillip loses, of course, because he is a loser. Fat Chick wins, is nasty.

The End: BB says thanks for having him in our homes for the last 35 years. Is all class. Asks us to please spay and neuter our pets. We will Bob, I promise we will.

Wrap up: Well, there we go. That was fun! For me, anyway. Hope you guys enjoyed the live-bloggin' experience. I haven't even had time to check the comments yet, so I guess we'll see. I guess what we've learned here today is that Bob Barker is, in the face of losers, dorks, and creepy chicks who want to touch his face, still and always the goddamn man.

So Long Bob!!!