There are so many intelligent and articulate people covering the hard-hitting
issues in our country these days, that I felt it was my duty to cover the
rather inconsequential bullshit that tends to make up the vast majority of
our lives. Actually, I'll just be griping a lot which, if you weren't aware,
doubles as a synonym for complaining, and as a descriptor for
a sharp pain in the bowels.

Wednesday, October 31, 2007


'Tis a loaded word and I'd love to do it justice, but first I should note this is what got me talking about blow for the moment. It's also an award-winning film which, regrettably I have yet to see, a great band when "the" is placed in front of it (sorry Jess), and a synonym/shortening of a specific act, referenced here (shout out Jon Kraus 2k6). Only the film and this newly proposed energy drink powder draw their inspiration from the product the term is most synonymous with, cocaine.

As near as I remember, and apparently correctly, they've already attempted once to market a Cocaine-inspired energy drink and as you can see from those three letters in front of "cocaine" on that link, it is also recently deceased. Of course, only the name is taking a rest, and even then, only in the United States. And for all that people are doing to fight the shit-eaters that came up with this brand, I think it's wrong to neglect the asshats who are drinking this shit. I admit I've partaken of the occasional energy drink (perhaps succumbed is more apt terminology), but adding an extra gimmick to the already gimmicky, and lucrative, energy drink business just rubs me the wrong way, kind of like the damp liner of running shorts against an inner thigh.

Anyone in need of the rousing benefit of energy drinks need go no further than a quick whiff of my running shorts. A quick note on running shorts for the less informed is that they contain a crepe liner, generally comfortable as all hell. Given that, many, though not all, persons tend to wear these products sans underpants. I fall into this category. However, when wearing your shorts for more than one run, factoring in the additional olfactory effrontery that is the daily accumulation of unwashed nether-regions, it makes for the kind of smell that could bring a puke sandwich to tears. Such was my discovery when I removed my shorts today pre-shower and, tempted by a fate akin to looking into a used tissue or an unflushed toilet bowl, I took a whiff. Sadly, even with my parents' Chemistry backgrounds I did not waft, and while we might all secretly enjoy the scent of our own farts, this pungent odor did not have the same endearing quality. Bottled up in true eau de toilette form, no human could safely succumb to slumber.

Returning briefly to the impetus for this posting, I really do wonder how long this product will last. For the moment at least, I'm kind of diggin' the crappy song and skanky chicks on the frontpage of their site. With double the taurine and triple the caffeine of Red Bull, identical proportions to the liquid cocaine, something tells me these boys might be in cahoots. What benefits do I get from the powder then? Well, you can mix it as strong as you like and get crazy fucked the way I used to on Tang. Of course, if I were to saturate "blow" to the levels I did Tang, my heart would actually explode (this link is vile and, from me, that is saying something). I say choose Tang. It's even available in a whopping 38 flavors. That's more than Baskin' Fucking Robbins! I don't even use exclamation points. And to think, I spent all these years thinking it was only available in orange. Wow, I'm about to run out and buy some Tang.

On an even tastier note, I just had some delicious home-made roti, which might have gone down even better than the Bills latest win. Anyway, all this talk of energy drinks has made me oddly tired. Happy Halloween…

Thursday, October 25, 2007

Technologically Retarded

For starters, my eyeballs ache. Secondly, my brother got all the technological know-how in the family. Between feeds, diggs, and, not to mention the new FriendFeed, my mind is ready to explode. I am such a crotchety old man set in my ways that I don't even want to employ any of these alleged time-saving devices which organize your favorite websites, notify you of updates, and tell you about all the sites your friends and family are checking out. These all come in addition to all the social networking sites which already allow you to share all sorts of information and the conventional linking route. Should I post it, share it, blog it, e-mail it…damnit I broke the rule of three. Sounds like bop it anyway. It could all have something to do with my inability to use time efficiently, but I also like to do things away from the computadore. Don't worry, that sentence didn't really express a clear thought, but I know what I mean. When I do hit up the interweb, I kind of enjoy wandering about aimlessly, stumbling from website to website. Besides, it's like phone numbers back before cell phones (less than two years if you're me): you had all the important ones memorized.

Still, I was glad to see the Borders next to Penn Station packed tonight. It's nice to know people still read things published on paper and that I scare/make them uneasy/maybe it was coincidence. Three separate times in only a fifteen minute span I would wander into a section and any other person there would immediately retreat.

Last thing. This guy, probably early twenties like myself, was calling in his dinner order on the train tonight, on his Motorola Q to be precise (not that it actually matters. If I had a crazy job, I guess I might be forced to get one too). He was trying to order a fish sandwich, but apparently there was some trouble with the connection. "Fish. F-I-S-H. No, fish, like…" only he couldn't think of an example (and neither can I at this moment) and so he said, "you know, like fish. Like, it's a fish, and you cook it, and you put it on a sandwich." I guess you had to be there, although the story still might suck. I'm sure he got the freshest tartar sauce around.

Tuesday, October 23, 2007

Recipe of the Month

Since I enjoy cooking, and sometimes baking (I looooove desserts) I thought that I should offer up what can be perhaps an ongoing thing: Recipe of the Month. This month's pick was easy. Sure I didn't actually test it out, but the title of the recipe says it all Grundle Chip Cookies! I hate exclamation points as a general rule, but that one seemed warranted. Also, in my bike collision the other day, though my shin seems to be a bit sore still, the real kicker was the grundle cramp I got. Those things can be downright treacherous. And even though I linked it, it's not my recipe, and I haven't even tried it, I've pasted it over anyway.

"The secret to this chocolate chip cookie's great texture is oat flour made out of regular oatmeal. Since it makes a large batch I usually freeze some of the dough in cookie-sized drops. The frozen cookies need to be baked about 2 minutes longer and seem to be even "grundlier" in texture and more chewy."

Original recipe yield: 4 dozen


* 2 cups all-purpose flour
* 1 teaspoon baking powder
* 1 teaspoon baking soda
* 1/2 teaspoon salt
* 2 1/2 cups rolled oats
* 1 cup butter, softened
* 1 cup white sugar
* 1 cup brown sugar
* 2 eggs
* 1 teaspoon vanilla extract
* 2 cups semi-sweet chocolate chips
* 1 cup chopped pecans


1. Preheat the oven to 375 degrees F (190 degrees C). Sift together the flour, baking powder, baking soda and salt. Set aside. Process the rolled oats in a blender or food processor until almost powdered, combine with the sifted ingredients.
2. In a large bowl, cream together the butter, brown sugar and white sugar until smooth. Beat in the eggs one at a time then stir in the vanilla. Gradually stir in the dry ingredients until well blended. Fold in the chocolate chips and pecans. Drop by rounded spoonfuls onto ungreased cookie sheet.
3. Bake for 8 to 10 minutes in the preheated oven. Allow cookies to cool on baking sheet for 5 minutes before removing to a wire rack to cool completely.

I'm skeptical about the pecans (I don't like them in things except salad; alone they are also tasty) and also a bit lost on what exactly a "grundlier" texture is. When I think of grundle…well…it's not exactly what I have in mind for a highly-palatable texture. Of course, to recipe contributor Lorelei - undoubtedly either the mother or daughter from Gilmore Girls - this might not be the case. I plan to whip up a batch if I have time Friday.

On my way to class tonight, I also happened to be interviewed by FUSE (eff youz) about the holidays since I have "sucker" written all over my face. I'm sure it won't air (indubitably a positive for all parties involved) but maybe tomorrow I will go through what I really should have said.

Monday, October 22, 2007

Burger Time: A Bizarre Sexual Parable

On the surface, Burger Time was an oddly devised early 1980s video game where you starred as a chef whose quest it was to assemble enormous burgers that happened to be set out in separate layers which you had to access by walking across platforms and ascending and descending ladders. A layer of sandwich is dropped when you manage to walk from one edge of the bun, meat, or vegetable to the other. Obviously there are certain tricks. If you step on the topmost layer, it will also knock down subsequent layers of sandwich below it. While you do this, you must escape the clutches of the evil hot dogs (henceforth referred to as weiners), sunny-side up eggs and, I believe, pickles, sliced ones. You may encounter further foes later, but I've only ever made it to the sixth stage. If you want to know more about Burger Time, you can play it here, or ask my old buddy Matt Moss, the gamemaster. Your only defense against wiley weiners, energetic eggs, and persistent pickles is their extreme mental impairment (read: inability to walk by a ladder without traveling up or down it) and a supply of pepper which can be replenished with, you didn't guess it, ice cream cones. More on this later.

A frightening artist rendition of the classic game, and proof those enemies were pickles.

Perhaps you can already see where I'm headed. First, I realize that parables are generally moral or religious and also a fable is more the place for inanimate objects, but I contend that the chef is the main character, and these outsiders mere symbols. So it's time to assess the thinly-veiled sexual undertones of Burger Time. Disregard the chef as a male character and take note of his pursuit by weiners (judging by the above photo, wrapped sausages is more poignant, i.e. a wrapped weenus), sliced pickles (i.e. circumcised weenI and pickles be salty), and sunny-side up eggs (i.e. fertile eggs, i.e. I'm already stretching it badly at this point). These obstacles come in the face of chef's attempt to complete his daily duties. His only defense against rape by egg, vegetable, and meat product is pepper, clearly pepper spray, which momentarily paralyzes these nemeses. The ladders represent the classes and social milieus through which chef must travel in his lifetime with later stages symbolizing the increased difficulty of rising to such heights as time bears on.

I know what you're thinking: I haven't said shit about the ice cream cones and, it seems like an honors-track middle schooler could have written this. Well, middle schoolers resent that. I'm sure they would do a better job than I have as I reach back to the high school education that taught me every novel has a Jesus figure and maybe something about the number seven in Beloved, a book I beloathed. As for the ice cream cones, well, who doesn't like ice cream. Clearly it symbolizes Ambrosia, the nectar of the gods, hence its ability to replenish your pepper, which bestows upon chef the power to paralyze, a god-like power.

If you want higher-level video game analysis and commentary, look no further than the Angry Video Game Nerd. He even drinks Rolling Rock.

Sunday, October 21, 2007

Leave Preaching to the Church

Not that anyone e-mailed me about it or anything, but I decided that I've got to get a little less preachy in my posts. People need to keep in mind that I am rarely serious, even (perhaps especially) when I say I am. As a former History major I do tend to deal mostly in fact, but since facts are up to interpretation, shut up.

Take today for instance. Gorgeous day. I figured I would go for a bike ride down to the lovely Raritan towpath which, incidentally, I originally wanted to spell toe path, probably as two separate words, with a hyphen considered. I only bring it up since I'm generally (read: always) a stickler for spelling and slowly I struggle more and more to spell words like "the" (and in the interest of truthfulness, that is a mild case of hyperbole, which I've always wished were pronounced hyper-bowl). On the path, I thought I would go for a run. I did both of these things. While alcoholic beverages are prohibited, luckily for a lot of people they say nothing about porn because if you get near to where it intersects South Bound Brook, there's lots of porn and, surprise, beer cans near the creepy old train tracks going across the river. Sometimes when I ran that far I would stop and grab a few sips from a can to rehydrate and take a look at a few high-gloss photos for inspiration. Once before I had surgery I decided to bike all the way to around Princeton, about sixty miles round trip for me, and at least forty miles more than I'd ever biked. In some ways it went poorly, but that's for another time. I've got lots of mediocre towpath stories for a rainy day.

So right, interpretation of facts, what is fact, the acknowledgement that I only recieved a B in my one introductory Philosophy course (where I earned a B+ and my lilly-livered self never took the initiative to rectify it and while not exactly bitter I still think about it), etc. I don't know why I put in et cetera, I kind of hate that shit. So right, as I'm biking back after a nice stretch (literal stretching of muscles) that really wasn't particularly nice, I get to the outskirts of Johnson Park(where I still have yet to visit Olde Towne) and I'm just about to exit onto River Road, where I spy a Mexican guy with his two kids. I know what you're thinking, why did I mention they were Mexican? Well it's because they weren't white or any other race. Actually, I just needed at least one adjective so spice up that sentence, but really it could be the first reason.

So I'm biking towards them at no great rate and the one kid, who had made eye contact with me, I swear, makes a spin move right in front of me so that his back is facing me, not more than two feet away. I had nowhere to swerve so I jabbed the breaks and rolled right onto this child of probably seven, knocking him slow-motion to the ground, while trying to toss my bike so it wouldn't land on him (tire prints are sooo Spring) and, in the process, slammed it into my already brittle shin (they're both brittle, but it only hit one). Luckily the kid was fine and here's why I really mentioned they were Mexican - I knew they were here illegally and had I really hurt the kid they wouldn't press charges. That's not true. It was actually because the father didn't speak much English so when I apologized (it might not have been much of my fault, but I still knocked the kid down, and it takes two people to have an accident in these kinds of situations), all he said in response was "Ees s'okay," repeatedly, with one of the winningest smiles I've ever seen. What the hell does that have to do with these people being Mexican? Nothing, I really only used to as an adjective, like I said, but people love to read into these things. What the hell does any of this have to do with interpretation? Well, you know, whose fault the accident was, you know. Thankfully I'm in good hands with All-State and like a good neighbor State Farm was there, except I don't have All-State, and where the Hell was State Farm when someone robbed my house on Christmas? I know the answer to that last part, and it is: changing my deductable to $500 so that when I had ~$470 worth of things stolen at college, they wouldn't have to cover anything. Then they called my health insurance to tell them not to pay for one of thirteen things tested for on a blood test. But back to facts, if I hadn't hit my shin, I'd count my little smashup a totally winning experience.

Speaking of winning experiences: The Buffalo Bills finally won again this afternoon. For as dinged up as they are, the Bills, were they any other team in the NFL, would be 4-2 right now. But such is Bills' luck that, with time running down in Dallas, an onside kick gets touched at exactly the ten-yard minimum, and too much time is put back on the clock after a booth-reviewed play. But that was a fortnight ago. Today the Bills were winners.

One last plug for winners goes to Bob Chiapetta, the equipment guy at my alma mater. All I know is, Bob always had a grungy towel fresh from the boiling laundry pot for me that would never fit around even my small to medium-sized frame. Nor did he blink the time I returned twenty-one towels. Good guy.

Time to go focus more on this Sox-Indians game.

Thursday, October 18, 2007

NJ Transit: Ride in Style

Coming back from class tonight I had the privilege of riding on one of NJ Transits new double-decker affairs. I don't actually know how new they are as this is the second one I have ridden on. Still, the first was on Monday, so we aren't talking any great length of time here. When I went to get on the train the first time I really thought I might have been on the wrong train. It was pristine and it waited at the station for a hell of a long time considering it was an intermediate, not high volume, station. I opted to sit on the nearly subterranean level (more like subtrackanean since the track is raised up but you get the idea). A quick google search just now shows me I am waaay out of the loop as apparently this guy caught the inaugural ride on December 11, 2006. But like the old NBC rerun mantra goes: if you haven't seen it, it's new to you. On this second ride, I was really hoping to sit up top just for some form of comparison but, alas, impatience won out and I just took the lower-level.

And rather than continuing on about boring trains that I'm out of the loop on, how about musical elitists. I never get tired of these people. Sometimes I think I used to be one of these people, and then I remember I listened to Good Charlotte and Blink182. "What, those are my favorite bands," I can hear you saying. Hey, I'll still pop them in for a listen. I tossed on some Blink to clean my room as recently as the last couple of weeks. I can remember the time I spilled the cup of…shut up. And I'd still rather hear The Anthem than read Anthem. The point is there really is nothing wrong with this type of music. The fact that I struggle to say the same for bands like Slipknot and even a large volume of elsewhere beloved country music just goes to show that, to someone, I probably am a musical elitist. There is a distinction between music I don't like and music that actually sucks, but I am not about to make it.

Still, I'm not the type of people I'm talking about. I'm talking about the people whose playlist includes Radiohead as the only band you've ever heard of. These people constantly have to be on the cutting edge. Shit, that's what I have friends for. Without my friends I wouldn't know shit about shit, and I still don't, but at least sometimes I can track down a good song or album. And because I basically haven't listened to the radio since coming back from Hawaii, Soulja Boy is still a novelty to me. Fox seemed pretty slick for rockin' it during highlights of last Sunday's Giants/Jets game but, then again, Monday Night Football blasted Maroon 5's Harder to Breathe back in the day. What the fuck am I getting at? As with many things in life, music is never good just because you say so.

Band discovery is always a topic of much contention. I won't deny that my parade has been piddled on in the past when people tell me how awesome a band I've known of for years is, or when someone I despise happens to have similar music tastes to my won, but for a full-blown elitist this is a diarrhea shitstorm with corn niblets everywhere. Don't even get me started on the idea I like to call retro where it still might be cool for an elitist to look Justin Timberlake (and hey, sometimes I like him). And since I'm bordering dangerously on both my bedtime and making sweeping, mostly unfounded generalizations about indie rock and hipsters among other things, I'm pulling my own mic.

Quickly then, a word from myspace user Barcoder via google search of "musical elitist:"

I don't think there is anything wrong with being a musical elitist. In fact, I think it's wholly desirable. It shows a natural progression/evolution of one's musical taste leading to the will to defend that which you have taken the time to acquire.

Take the average popular drivel that is played on the radio stations. I used to love that shit when I was 9. But i'm above that now. Some people, however, will still be eagerly lapping up that nauseating, mind-rape dreck when they're in there 50's and onwards. Sure, not everyone takes music as seriously as I, and are therefore less likely to progress musically as a result. But some people do love music and are spiritually satisfied by pop. I'm more intelligent than them. End of.

Don't deny your musical elitism. Revel in it. Just don't persecute those who have musical tastes different to your own. Unless they like The Scissor Sisters cover of "Comfortably Numb". In which case make it look like like suicide.

Where we differ is that, to me, implicit in being an elitist of the musical variety is precisely to "persecute those who have musical tastes different to your own." Go laugh about Dashboard while I cry listening to it (note: this is exaggeration. I am not saying I have not and do not cry, but I do not cry listening to Dashboard). In conclusion then, opinions are like assholes: everybody has one; and my opinion is that your opinion is wrong. Honestly though, I'll bet there are people out there who don't have assholes. Don't worry though, I hear their lives are a lot less shitty than our own.

Monday, October 15, 2007

[B]Links and Buttholes

Recently I decided to go ahead and finally add links to my blog. This is a fairly common practice by bloggers and websites of most any sort for that matter, but in the past I'd strayed from it, mostly because I don't really go to all that many websites. I won't deny that there are those occasions on which I piss away gross amounts of time on the internet, but the sad truth is I only really check about four websites. So why are there already five links, with surely more to follow? I don't know either. The fact is, I only check two of those sites regularly: Wikipedia and ThreeQ. That being said, I almost never go directly to wikipedia, opting almost uniformly to google something and then select the wiki entry, which ends up generally in the first couple of search results. Why I do this, again, I have little explanation. Sites like TMZ and Perez Hilton, same thing holds true. Periodically I hear a rumor about some celebrity, google it, and end up with a TMZ or Perez entry as a top search result. From there I go on to read any manner of crap from these and many other sites, wasting copious quantities of time and gleaning little in the way of actualy useful knowledge, but rarely at a loss for celebrity slip-ups. Still, by visiting such sites bi-weekly at best, it's amazing the kinds of gossip you can miss. Don't talk to me for two weeks, and you probably only miss four or so boxes of cereal and about thirty-one bowel movements.

The next thing I wanted to address concerns noted sex educator Sue Johanson. Last night I happened to catch a chunk of her show Talk Sex With Sue Johanson which, yes, is on Oxygen, the network for women. I'm happy to note their lineup also includes Xena: Warrior Princess starring good old Lucy Bra-less. Since I never had cable at home, I actually used to watch Xena sometimes, though it didn't have crap on the Hercules show from which it spawned.

Getting back to Sue, then, the format of her show involves viewers calling in to ask Sue any manner of question they have regarding sex. It quickly became evident that there is no call screener for stupidity level of question, but it does drive home a good point: sex education is not as superfluous as a lot of people might like to assume. My favorite question, then, came from, I believe, Tammy in Ohio, with runner up going to another Tammy, this one from Florida. I'd heard some pretty inane things on lovelines back in the day with Adam Corolla, but these may have taken the cake. Tammy II (that is, Tammy from Florida) detailed how she and her boyfriend liked to incorporate eating into their sex life and asked for information on the feasibility of using chocolate syrup and peanut butter in the box realm. True to form, Sue didn't flinch and addressed the effect the syrup in particular would have on the pH, but unfortunately I missed the reasoning behind the shortcomings of, in particular, crunchy peanut butter.

Of course, it's easy to not flinch at a question like that when Original Tammy starts out asking "can you get AIDs from anal sex in the butthole." Well Tammy, where else exactly did you plan on having anal sex? When Sue went on to ask if Tammy's fiance had ever been a drug user, Tammy responded in the affirmative. When Sue then advised a condom always be used Tammy replied that "condoms are expensive…what about saran wrap?" I want so bad for this to be funnier than it is sad…

So to get back to humor quickly before I close things out, let's talk Lance Armstrong. I'll admit I was never a Lance fan, but after just reading his autobiography, It's Not About the Bike, that really changed. Armstrong famously battled cancer to go on to win a record seven straight Tour de France victories. But what could very well be the most miraculous aspect of Lance's life is Sheryl Crowe's explanation for why their relationship ended. Apparently she had no idea that Lance's treatment for, and recovery from, testicular cancer, just might have left him sterile. Poor Sheryl, she just wanted to soak up a son…

Wednesday, October 10, 2007

Not Cynical At All

We all know the cliched tale of the gold digger, but I think this posting from craigslist takes the cake. I intended to link to the post at craiglist directly but it's been removed, so I'll copy and paste it here. This news is at least four or five days old, but I'm not here for up-to-the-minute updates. Anyway, here is the ad and the wonderful response that ensued.

What am I doing wrong?

Okay, I’m tired of beating around the bush. I’m a beautiful (spectacularly beautiful) 25 year old girl. I’m articulate and classy.
I’m not from New York . I’m looking to get married to a guy who makes at least half a million a year. I know how that sounds, but keep in mind that a million a year is middle class in New York City, so I don’t think I’m overreaching at all.

Are there any guys who make 500K or more on this board? Any wives? Could you send me some tips? I dated a business man who makes average around 200 - 250. But that’s where I seem to hit a roadblock. 250,000 won’t get me to central park west. I know a woman in my yoga class who was married to an investment banker and lives in Tribeca, and she’s not as pretty as I am, nor is she a great genius. So what is she doing right? How do I get to her level?

Here are my questions specifically:

- Where do you single rich men hang out? Give me specifics- bars, restaurants, gyms

-What are you looking for in a mate? Be honest guys, you won’t hurt my feelings

-Is there an age range I should be targeting (I’m 25)?

- Why are some of the women living lavish lifestyles on the upper east side so plain? I’ve seen really ‘plain jane’ boring types who have nothing to offer married to incredibly wealthy guys. I’ve seen drop dead gorgeous girls in singles bars in the east village. What’s the story there?

- Jobs I should look out for? Everyone knows - lawyer, investment banker, doctor. How much do those guys really make? And where do they hang out? Where do the hedge fund guys hang out?

- How you decide marriage vs. just a girlfriend? I am looking for MARRIAGE ONLY

Please hold your insults - I’m putting myself out there in an honest way. Most beautiful women are superficial; at least I’m being up front about it. I wouldn’t be searching for these kind of guys if I wasn’t able to match them - in looks, culture, sophistication, and keeping a nice home and hearth.

it’s NOT ok to contact this poster with services or other commercial interests
PostingID: 432279810

Dear Pers-431649184:

I read your posting with great interest and have thought meaningfully about your dilemma. I offer the following analysis of your predicament.
Firstly, I’m not wasting your time, I qualify as a guy who fits your bill; that is I make more than $500K per year. That said here’s how I see it.

Your offer, from the prospective of a guy like me, is plain and simple a crappy business deal. Here’s why. Cutting through all the B.S., what you suggest is a simple trade: you bring your looks to the party and I bring my money. Fine, simple. But here’s the rub, your looks will fade and my money will likely continue into perpetuity…in fact, it is very likely that my income increases but it is an absolute certainty that you won’t be getting any more beautiful!

So, in economic terms you are a depreciating asset and I am an earning asset. Not only are you a depreciating asset, your depreciation accelerates! Let me explain, you’re 25 now and will likely stay pretty hot for the next 5 years, but less so each year. Then the fade begins in earnest. By 35 stick a fork in you!

So in Wall Street terms, we would call you a trading position, not a buy and hold…hence the rub…marriage. It doesn’t make good business sense to “buy you” (which is what you’re asking) so I’d rather lease. In case you think I’m being cruel, I would say the following. If my money were to go away, so would you, so when your beauty fades I need an out. It’s as simple as that. So a deal that makes sense is dating, not marriage.

Separately, I was taught early in my career about efficient markets. So, I wonder why a girl as “articulate, classy and spectacularly beautiful”
as you has been unable to find your sugar daddy. I find it hard to believe that if you are as gorgeous as you say you are that the $500K hasn’t found you, if not only for a tryout.

By the way, you could always find a way to make your own money and then we wouldn’t need to have this difficult conversation.

With all that said, I must say you’re going about it the right way.
Classic “pump and dump.”
I hope this is helpful, and if you want to enter into some sort of lease, let me know.

Back to cutting my own hair…

Dane [Can't] Cook

In the past few days I've had a whole mess of things I'd intended to bring up but as with my usual ways, I somehow managed to be doing nothing else and not get around to it. Marion Jones is one of those issues, but I feel as if that topic is being covered well enough that I need not post any link. As a track nerd I had an early beat on it, but that has been squandered. Also in sports - which I am pretty sure I have already pledged to talk about less in this blog, a pledge I will recind so that I can avoid restating it and risking any hypocritical labels - the Buffalo Bills. It was a rough Monday night last night and it wasn't just from all the ziti, chili cheese fries, chicken wings, and even a few brews (violating the palatable "rule of threes" in list-making, which also corresponds to joke telling). A long time Bills fan, last night was business as usual. The boys in blue looked like they were doing everything right, but even after five interceptions the Cowboys believed in Tony Romo.

So now back to my originally intended content. Dane Cook. I'd heard of the guy; I even think I caught a few minutes of his act on Letterman, Conan, or Leno, I honestly don't remember which. This was a while back. Subsequently he made Waiting, which I didn't realize goes all the way back to 2005. I never saw the film and I don't remember the stand-up, but I did note Dane's increasing popularity over the years. He's currently in some film, alongside Jessica Alba and I refuse to go look up the name despite the fact that it can't take longer than about twelve seconds. Ads for this film plus a spot as spokesperson for the mlb playoffs (aided by his affiliation to Boston) are what really got me thinking: who actually likes Dane, and why?

My only other Dane Cook experience was at a bar in New Brunswick sometime last year. I even recall the bar, the wonderful Golden Rail or G-Rail if you went to Rutgers or have a penchant for abbreviating things. I will say for the G-Rail that they offer pretty cheap drink specials on popular college drinking nights. That said, some waitress was attempting to sell my friend and I promotional shots of some disgusting variety, the kind of shots you would buy for a girl, but only a really slutty girl, probably who is teetering on the edge (the edge of what exactly, you can decide), but I don't know because I don't buy girls drinks. I think they were watermelon flavored. Point being, after I made some inane comments it prompted said waitress to ask if I was a Dane Cook fan and, after some other banter, whisper "taste the rainbow" in my ear. That settled it: I would be buying no shots from this skank (generalization based on circumstancial evidence and hearsay).

This weekend, then, I decided to watch the HBO on demand broadcast of Dane Cook's "Vicious Circle" with my girlfriend where, after much fast-forwarding, I heard the line from above. Unfortunately (fortunately) I don't recall any of the context. What I do recall was Dane's pants being so tight, his movements around the stage freaked me the fuck out. That and his energy was so high the whole time and his build-ups so long that there was, for me, no punch in any punchline. I also had no patience for his shitty little laugh when his ego was tickled (often).

I am pretty sure I actually didn't laugh once during the entire show which, as I said, I fast-forwarded liberally. But as with most things I intensely dislike, I am never the only one of my kind. On the Wiki page for Dane linked above, not only did it inform me that Dane is no spring chicken at 37, but that he is reviled by many, especially others of his trade, several of whom he is more than alleged to have stolen from. I won't be the first and I won't be the last to say it but, "Fuck you Dane. You are a hack." Carlos Mencia might be funnier.

On the bright side, if you are looking for largely comic genius (until the front row insults segment) D.L. Hughley's Unapologetic is pretty damned hilarious.

Wednesday, October 3, 2007

Pour Hot McDonald's Coffee On My Crotch

It's an open invitation, really it is. What really brought it to mind was the news that Anucha Browne Saunders won her sexual harassment suit. I'm not saying she wasn't sexually harassed, in spite of her hideous appearance, and I'm not trying to condone sexual harassment as a practice, I'm just saying $11.6 million is a lot of food. The fact that this lady was earning $260,000 before she was fired, or whatever the precise circumstances are, alarmed me as well.

In the article, Browne-Saunders alleges that "it isn't about the money." I understand, it's a principle thing, so how exactly does $11.6 million get picked out of a hat? Don't the people on the jury kind of think, "Holy shit, that's a truckload of bills, especially for someone already earning $260,000 a year prior to termination of employment?" I would hope they would use those exact words. Exorbitant settlement fees of course bring to mind the McDonald's coffee case. There is a more thorough rundown on Wikipedia but, for some reason, I seemed unable to link to it (perhaps disallowed). A detailed review makes it seem much less ridiculous than media originally would have you believe. This was not the first or last time McDonald's was sued in coffee burn-related incidents. Still, while McDonald's coffee might burn you slightly faster than competitor's brands, I struggle to find fault on this issue with a corporation I don't generally support (aside from chicken nuggets). After all, if I brewed a cup of coffee at my own house and spilled it on my crotch, who do I get to sue?

In more important news I hope to finally call it quits on Ben and Jerry's ice cream. I routinely used to talk shit about it and contend that I find Edy's much tastier, but that doesn't stop me from periodic BJ purchases. Take for instance, the other evening. Slightly inebriated, having consumed some delicious fried chicken and french fries (from a KENNEDY Fried Chicken), I sought out a sugary conclusion to my meal. I opted for Ben and Jerry's S'mores, the artist formerly known as Marsha Marsha Marshmallow. Not only did I have the same problem I always do - ice cream is the wrong consistency, harder than needed for optimal spooning - I just didn't find it particularly flavorful. Stand me in a BJ's shop and I'll delightedly eat it by the scoop, but I contend they just can't cut it in the pre-packaged market. And I still might try to eat a Vermonster solo. It doesn't matter what I think, though, because almost everyone else seems to reach for the Ben and Jerry's or, I should say, Unilever's. Maybe it is just Unilever's fault, who knows. I also had fond memories of Breyer's (Unilever owns them too, though I am not sure how long that has been the case) ice cream, only to find it grossly sub-par upon my last few tastings. The only solution is, at some point, to have a blind taste-testing. Choosing a consensus flavor, however, may prove difficult. In the meantime I really wish Good Humor would bring back the Fat Frog. Maybe they were terrible? Maybe I was five years old the last time I had one. Maybe desserts just taste better in frog form.
Thanks for stopping by…you stay classy Planet Earth.