4 Truths and a Lie

In a The Office type moment in my own office, "Michael" decided we should celebrate the holidays (read: Christmas, the holidaysiest of the holidays) by locking all the employees in the conference room and forcing us to engage in friendly conversation through a cacophony of holiday music, mostly about sleigh rides and winter wonderlands, neither of which I've ever actually seen before. And as much as I love the album Weird Al Does Christmas, when it's pumped to high volume and looped for 3 hours straight in a tight room without windows, I think it's appropriate and perhaps imperative to invoke the Geneva Conventions. To make matters worse, "Michael" upped the ante and shifted gears to waterboarding level. He made us play games...get-to-know-your-co-worker games, as in find-out-who-the-office-slut-and-office-lush-are games. The first incarnation of this unsavory act was an icebreaker--although no ice was actually broken--called 4 truths and a lie. The objective of this game is to present 4 truths and 1 lie about yourself, and let your co-workers pretend that they give a damn. Then, rinse and repeat until your hair falls out.

As always, I saved my truths and lie. But aren't all truths lies and all lies truths? I am so deep...Without further ado, I give you 4 truths and one lie. Can you guess which is which?

1) When I was five years old, I had a very absurd and unhealthy phobia of bread after witnessing a baguette maul a sesame roll to pieces. Wonder-Bread did nothing to save the roll.

2) I keep a red pill and a blue pill in the bottom drawer of my desk. Despite the 50-50 chance of me choosing differently, I inevitably swallow the red pill, put on my leather trench coat, and wait for Morpheus to show me how deep the rabbit-hole goes. He never comes. But at least I escape "reality" for a few hours.

3) While drunk at the annual office gala, I approached Helen Zia and told her she was the hottest lesbian journalist I ever met. Surprisingly, she still wouldn't switch teams, but I was consoled by the fact that up close, she appears soggier than day-old oatmeal.

4) I spent a month in Ecuador working at a school for poor children. And by "Ecuador" I really mean the tavern down the block and by "working" I really mean "catering to my alcoholism." I'm still not sure how a school for poor children fits into all of this.

5) During a family vacation in my teenage years, I was almost ejected from the Magic Kingdom because of an angry Winnie the Pooh. He called me out, I thought I was safe. I had no other choice but to curse him out and kick dirt into his shins. Fat fucking bear.

New Carnival Game: Bush-a-mole

Ironically enough, Bush had always been preparing for this day. He went so far as to perfect his swinging British accent, just so he could say with perfect comedic pitch after such an incident, "That really hurt! Who throws their shoe?! Honestly!"



But alas, his cat-like reflexes overcame his comedic sensibilities, and Bush became harder to hit than a Giants wide-receiver in December. However, reports indicate that immediately following the penny loafer attack, the president, overcome with apparent post-traumatic stress, muttered over and over, "Not in the face, Dick! Not in the face!" At which point a mysterious bearded man in tattered robes and worn sandals appeared. Known only as The Son, he spoke esoterically, chiding the audience, "He that is without sin among you, let him cast the first Bruno Magli."

Later in the day Hush Puppies announced their Spring 2009 line which will include the new leather oxfords Bush Puppies, described as "devastatingly presidential and perfect for projectile violence."

Idiomic/Idiotic Question of the Day

Jack turns to Jill and asks, "So what's the plan for getting up the hill?"

She coolly responds, "You know, I really don't have a plan. We can just play it by ear."

"Ok, but if anything goes wrong, it's your fault."

What a strange saying, I say. "Just play it by ear." Could you really imagine someone playing an instrument with their ear? I've seen guitar plucking with toes, but never with an ear. Playing piano would be even more difficult. How could you even hit the keys specifically with just the ear and not the whole head?

Either way, it's a pretty outrageous claim, and anyone that says it is more or less indicating that whatever they plan on doing, it's gonna be impossible. They might as well say "just play it by elbow" or "play it with back fat." Either one of those is just as likely. I think I'm more inclined to trust a person that says "just play it by fingers." That tells me that this person is practical and dexterous. Playing something by ear, on the other hand, is poppycock. That's right, the cock of a poppy. And I would choose dexterous over cock any day.

Strikes Cripple a Riot-Shaken Greece

(click here for NYTimes article)

I keep reading the above headline as "Cripple Strikes, a Riot-Shaken Greece," forcing me to ask the question: Why would cripples be striking in the Mediterranean? Don't they already get worker's comp? In any case, there probably is very little marching going on.

In other news, a citizens with disabilities rights group will follow me home tonight and corner me in an alley, beating me senseless until I join their ranks. Sigh.

Terxicon Ticalstandardization Question of the Day

If the word 'blog' is derived from the compound word 'web-log,' then why don't we call electronic mail 'icmail' or google mail 'glemail'? Why not rename instant messenger 'ant messenger' or the web-log atmosphere the 'gatmosphere'? What I'm saying is that the English language's treatment of internet and computer-related (terrelated) contractions is harshly inconsistent causing mass confusion (assconfusion). Why does no grammatical standardization (ticalstandardization) exist yet? It's the 21st Century, linguistic authorities (ticties), it's time for Obama-like change (ma like change)--you know, the rehtoric-heavy (cheavy) and lyrically precise (llycise) kind--for the rules of the computer lexicon (terxicon). Come on (meon) Merriam-Webster Online Dictionary (amster neonary), lay down (yown) the law already (weady). That way web log authors (g hors) like myself (myself) will refrain from (rainrom) writing innane entries (neentries) like these on ridiculous topics (uspics) like the ticalstandardization of terxicon merely to take up (keup) virtual space (ualace) on their (neir) pointless blogs (ssogs).

And the winner is...

In two impressive lop-sided victories this weekend, Manny Pacquiao pummeled the aged Oscar De La Hoya (aged as in moldy cheese, not aged as in fine wine) and the superheroine (not to be confused with super heroin, that shit make you crazy) Wonder Woman had her way with Your Mom.

A faster, more powerful, and even heavier Pacquiao proved on Saturday night that poor people from the Philippines are not to be messed with, no matter how funny their heavily accented English is. "Umm, I um wurried because I um nut rilly wurried..." He embarrassed De La Hoya by landing a barage of power punches so easily that he was simultaneously enjoying a strawberry Jamba Juice and walking his dog Aso.

In parallel occurrences, this past week's showdown for my affection ended in a landslide win for Wonder Woman who made Your Mom lick the bottom of her red leather boots. It was a surprising and embarrassing upset for Your Mom, who led with Las Vegas bookies by 2 to 1 and had the clear advantage in the child-bearing-hips department. However, voters were clearly turned off by the prospect of me dating Your Mom (or worse, becoming Your Dad) and were more enticed by the prospect of me getting Invisible Jet-head, as Double W received all votes minus 2 write-ins (for Jessica Alba even though I'm clearly out of her league, and for a unicorn whose single ribbed horn frightens me).

Wonder Woman advances to the next round, and Your Mom remains lonely...Until next time, I'm Boogie Brown and this is my imagination.

Go Pac Yourself

In less than 36 hours, the world's best pound-for-pound fighter Manny Pacquiao of the Philippines will go toe-to-toe with the Golden Boy of hand-to-hand boxing, Mexican-American Oscar De La Hoya. Pacquiao, having won titles in four different weight classes, will be facing yet another uphill battle by moving up two more classes to face the welterweight De La Hoya. We here at The Get Down caught up with the Filipino fighter at his Las Vegas press conference earlier this afternoon.

"I've fought larger guys before. It's not a problem," said Pacquiao, in response to lingering doubts about his clear size disadvantage to the bigger De La Hoya.

In fact, Manny's list of thwarted opponents includes Goliath, mostly known for his cameo in the widely popular Bible; the electric Blanka, the green Brazilian of Street Fighter fame known for gnawing at competitors while latched to their backs; and George Muresan, the 7'7" NBA center and co-star of the Billy Crystal flop My Giant. It is alleged that Muresan once stayed at the Bellagio in Las Vegas, and running into Pacquiao, gave the boxer his bags thinking Pacquiao was a bellhop. Sadly for Muresan, Pacquiao threw his devastating left hook into the basketball giant's knee. The reverberations from the blow were so damaging that Muresan's heart exploded on impact. At which point, he died.

"This is my greatest challenge," said Pacquiao. "When I take that walk to the ring to fight Oscar, I will carry all the people of the Philippines - the entire country - on my shoulders."

Indeed, hoisting over 90 million brown-faced people over your shoulders and walking them down an aisle is probably the greatest physical challenge of all time. As daunting as it is step into the ring against a bigger fighter, lifting that many rice-bloated people without getting a hernia on the way there is easily the more difficult task. As is often the case, Manny has his sights on two titles tomorrow night: World's Strongest Man and World's Smallest Walking Forklift.

"That's why it's called the Dream Match," Pacquiao told journalists at the end of the press conference. After closing his IBM Thinkpad, Pacquiao left the room and left reporters stunned by his hour-long presentation on REM sleep and the neurological basis of dreams. Pacquiao's deftness with the subject was equally matched by his clear comfort discussing Descartes' theories on perception, using the philosopher's musings as a framework for the science-based Powerpoint.

The room remained silent during the entirety of the presentation minus the sound of Pacquiao chewing on the end of his glasses--a professorial pair of bifocals he pulled out of his right breast pocket specifically for the conference. Oddly enough, he never wore the glasses, but only chewed on them. He did at one point, however, breathe on the frames and proceeded to wipe them clean with the bottom end of his floral necktie.

But will Pacquiao's intricate knowledge of neurology help him evade rapid-fire jabs to the face? The outcome of the Dream Match is anyone's guess at this point. One thing is for sure though: the world will be watching. At the very least, the former colonial worlds of Spain will be watching.

Who should I date?

Part 3 of the 32-part 1st round matchups of dating competition...Who should I choose to bestow my massive load of amorous glory? We have a fierce a competition of bitter rivals this week. So dear reader, who should I date? Or in a more grammatically-sensitive matter, whom should I date?

Wonder Woman
Why I like her: Forget all the hullabaloo about her lustrous black hair, her flawless physique, and her always-ready-for-halloween slutty superhero outfit. Nevermind that she can crush worlds with her thighs or can engage in many a wild wild west role-play with her Lasso of Truth in tow. I don't even give a damn that she's Amazonian royalty with connections to Supes and the Bat. Forget all that. She's on my list 'cuz she got an invisible jet! You can't get more baller than that!! Imagine us rollin' to the club in a jet...that you can't even see. Baller! Forget bling that blinds you, this ish is so blingity human eyes can't even detect it! Now couple that with my appreciation for alliteration, and you get a winning combo...Wonder Woman winks wisely at wiley wicked witches while walloping their withered wigs and wasting away their wicked ways.











OR

Your Mom
Why I like her: If you're reading this, your mom clearly has quality taste that she has passed on to you. She also has a lot of conviction, strength of character, and perseverence as she exhibited by not aborting you. Or perhaps she's just pro-life. And that's ok for this liberal, 'cuz I am pro-cougar.

Seriously though, every kid needs a father. Dating your mother would bring me one step closer to filling that void in your life. First, I'll be that casual gentleman caller that comes over for dinner. You begrudgingly eat with us but I win you over with lavish gifts and helping you with your algebra homework. Then I move into that phase where I spend the night 4 times a week and regularly pick you up from soccer practice. Eventually, you will be the flower girl/ring-bearer at your mother's wedding with me, at which point you forget your biological father and earnestly call me Dad for the first time. Everything's gonna be ok, junior. Daddy's here for you.

Papercuts Hurt

When I put down a book, I really put it down and call it an obese drunk destined to die alone in a cage. How you like them apples, book.

Remix
-----------
When I put down a book, I find it necessary to place it face down so the cover can't be seen. Either I'm embarrassed by what I read or I have an unhealthy phobia of cover art. But I suppose when you read something titled "Animal Entrails in Love," the answer is probably a combination of the two.

Remix of the remix
----------
But I suppose when you read a book titled "Coming to Terms With Your Wife's Homosexuality," the answer is probably a combination of the two.

Remix of the remix's remix
----------
a book titled "My Colon and Me"....

Remix of the remix's remix's remix
----------
"Goth Chicks of the 19th Century"

Remix of the remix's remix's remix's remix
----------
"Wizard of Oz 2: Flying Monkeys Strike Back"

Softcore Rap

Change has truly come to America. There are no more red states and blue states. White women can hug random black men. And now hardcore rap and day-time talk shows can hold hands and give Inuit kisses (eskimo kisses are politically incorrect) to each other in public. 50 cent is allowed to be emotional and articulate on the Tyra Banks show, and Snoop can cook mashed potatoes with black pepper and cognac on the Martha Stewart show.

Spicy Hand Wash

In case you didn't know, the lavatory (for those that don't speak Mensa, that means pee-pee room) on the flight to Vegas features lush amenities like hardwood floors and lemongrass wasabi hand wash. The airline is really trying to cater to the urban professional that likes to breakdance in the bathroom and prefers their Asian cuisine in the form of nosehair-burning liquid soap. The best part about lemongrass wasabi hand wash is that after you eat it, you can use it to clean it off your fingers. Genius.

Putting the Jumbo Back in Jumbo Jets

I heart fat women as much as the next chubby chaser. I hit on women at bars that would disgust the average white guy. So understand that I mean no disrespect when I say that there should be a rule that you can't be a flight attendant if you've got the body of a cop. When I'm beauty sleeping in my aisle seat, I should not be suddenly woken up by Officer Wiggins' jelly donut ass crashing into my shoulder. I'll let it slide the first time, but when it happens thrice, we gotta give the flight attendant a timeout and make her sit down below with the other over-sized luggage. And when her ginormous badonkadonk knocks over my personal TV screen causing it to collide into my shin, I think it's clear that airline uniforms should no longer be produced for those that wear size "too big for elastic waistbands."

Look, I don't mind the wrinkly, has-been flight attendants who were stewardesses in the 60's or the ones who look like failed drag queens on speed or even the gay male ones who are just as sarcastic as Will&Grace's Jack but not in the least bit endearing. But I do have a problem with the flight attendants with asses reminiscent of Al Roker hugging a mirror. That's pre-surgery Al of course. It's just not practical when the width of your booty is wider than the width of the aisle. If you're a flight attendant who feels like Winnie the Pooh stuck in a tree, it's probably time to sign up at Monster and start thinking about a career change.

And like I said, I really have no problem with the bigness in other aspects of my life. (please see my collection of Bubblebutts magazine for proof) I just don't need it ten thousand feet in the air. I already have my seat cushion to use as a flotation device.

Sexual Predator Nomenclature Question of the Day

J: we did end up going to the place in the Wynn but lots of older folks/cougars up in their club

me: cougarlicious!

J: not sure if thats your cup of tea, but YOTG go for it (if they are asian, they are bengal tigers)

me: it's cougar hunting season...my sex panther cologne will definitely lure them to the young-man-flesh

me: so is there a parallel term for older men that prey on younger women or are they just considered normal?

J: not that i know of...although theres a spot in dc that older guys hang out at to pick up younger women...called viagra triangle

me: it's said that ships are lost there forever

me: maybe the old guy that chases young women is a Viagrasaurus Rex...he may be a dinosaur but he's ravenous and foaming at the mouth

J: beware the unforgiving grip of his dentures!

J: Diaper Daddy!

Disturbing But Amusing Facebook Ad Question of the Day

Looking for hot Christian singles? Do you love 36C's and Jesus Christ? Wanna get hot and steamy and go to confession afterwards? Interested in sex without contraception? Browse and connect with the hottest of Jesus' flock at www.missionaryposition.com.

Finger banged up

Giants defensive tackle Fred Robbins has two broken thumbs. In a post-Soprano world, something tells me that this unfortunate injury has nothing to do with football. It must suck for him to walk down the street with his thumbs like that, and cars constantly pulling over to give him a ride. At least he gets to answer all yes or no questions with the ominous silence of an executioner and a simple yet dramatic turning of his wrist. Fred Robbins says: thumbs down...

TP BMI

Today, much to my surprise, I walked into the bathroom to find a roll of toilet paper standing atop the bathroom scale, and I thought to myself, "Damn, even toilet paper is trying to watch its weight!" I guess I would be self-conscious too if that many people shat on me everyday.

While pondering toilet paper's body image problems, I was abruptly interrupted when it yelled, "Don't you know how to knock?? How would you like it if I walked in on you naked???"

I replied, "C'mon it's not like you've never seen my bare ass before...Don't be so coarse TP. You're weight's not a problem. Everyone loves your rolls."

Public Service Announcement

i'm looking at you, white liberal women on the streets of philadelphia...

and also to the sketchy guy on the subway who felt the urge to shake my hand 'cuz I was wearing Obama pins and was peeved that I didn't have a conversation with him afterwards...I'm not here to absolve your guilt. You can get that from your priest...

The Change I Need: 'Wassup My OBAMA!'

Barack Obama has a new website that asks you to: 'Share your vision for what America can be, where President-Elect Obama should lead this country. Where should we start together?' So I submitted a letter to the new pres. Here it is:

Dear President-Elect Barack Hussein Obama,

First off, congrats on the whole historic election thing and leading the fight against the stereotype that all black people are good dancers. It’s quite a milestone. Kudos to you and yours.



I also wanted to follow up with you on this whole change.gov website. I know you’re pretty new to the executive branch but since when did the federal government have a Department of Change? Who will you appoint Secretary of Change? Dick Change-y? Is the movie Changeling about your change babies across the world? These are very serious questions that must be answered.

But more importantly, I wanted to take the time to tell you what I need from you. You got my absentee vote, so naturally, you have to do as I say now. [That sounded kinda weird. I’m not trying to imply you’re my slave-president or anything…AWKWARD…I heart black people.]

As I was driving the streets of Philadelphia on your election day, rapper Jim Jones was on the radio recommending that in the spirit of hope and positivity, that post-your election/triumphanance, we (as in black people and the Filipino guy listening to the radio) stop using the N-word and instead replace it with Obama. That way, you’d go up to your homeboy and be like “wassup my Obama!” Jim Jones suggested a week; I am suggesting this forever…or at least until the emergence of some scandal involving donkeys, cocaine, and the big guy from the Goonies tarnishes your entire career. Given that type of nadir [holla! You’re not the only one with SAT vocab], ‘Obama’ might be on par with the n-word. But anyway…Make it happen el presidente! [That’s Spanish for the presidente.] Do it for all yo Obamas out there.

I also need your help on another crucial matter. Lately, I’ve been feeling very inadequate. Emails from friends now prominently feature in their signatures a smorgasbord of acronyms: MD, Esq, JD, PHD, MBA, MSW, MPP, MPH, ESP, PS3, HIV, ABC, BBD, mmhmmm. I now feel like the lazy, directionless, under-achiever that momma always warned me not to become.

Please help me President B-HO, help me one-up these elitist pricks I call friends. Knight me. That’s right, knight me. I realize that we’re not in England and you’re no Queen. But we live in a world of hope now where anything’s possible, and you’re practically the jesus of hope. If anybody could knight me, you could. I would be the first knight of the blog-table, Sir Boogie Brown I.

Class reunions would go so much better if I were knighted. “oh you’re working in the ER now? That’s great. I’m a knight. I vanquish dragons and protect the crown. Call me Sir.” As someone who spent most of his life trying to fit in and then saying “fuck it, I’m gonna outdo them all,” I’m sure you can understand my plight. Knight me, B-HO, knight me.

Best wishes,
Hope you’re well,
Sincerely yours,

Boogie Brown

P.S. Can’t you just make George W. your new puppy?

Irrelevant Linguistic Question of the Day

Would you ever call a well-pressed shirt irony?

...oh the irony!

Religulous

You would think being hogtied, blindfolded, and gagged would be a weekend of fun...but nay, 'tis not, especially when you think the safeword is 'banana' but it turns out there is no safeword. Outrageous, I know, but my captors were not out for fun; they were out for Christ. I was kidnapped and taken to...waitforit...Church...gasp...on a Sunday...yelp...for mass...ohgodwhy! Scarier than fiction, I tell you. As soon as they hauled me through the arches, I thought my skin would start to melt from eternal damnation. Fortunately I was given a chance at redemption. They removed my blindfold and shoved a white piece of paper in my face. The bold-face Helvetica at the top read 'A Spiritual Quiz.' "This is your last chance heretic!" snarled the gangly priest at the altar, laden in shadows and intrigue. I feverishly took the paper and answered as best I could. I'm the cram king, but sadly, no amount of last-minute-in-the-hallway-outside-the-classroom cramming could've prepped me for a quiz of this magnitude. Needless to say, I failed with flying colors. "Don't cross me," the priest muttered as he graded my piss poor paper. It was at that point, that by the good graces of determinism, karma, Kwaanza, and all things not Catholic, a busload of 12-year-old altar boys arrived, filtering into the church. I saw the distracted look of the priest, and I ran for dear life, escaping the clutches of organized religion. And I lived to tell the tale. I was saved.

And fortunately for you, dear reader, I snatched up my quiz before I ran away. I have provided it here for your approval:

A Spritual Quiz

1. Have you recently thanked Jesus for all He has done for you?

I recently sent him an e-card from someecards.com. It read “Thanks for informing me that my mailbox is over its size limit.” He hasn’t emailed me a response. I don’t think he appreciates it, Mister “I’m the Son of God and Savior to the world.” Can’t even send a ‘you’re welcome’ to us average Joes, huh?

2. Do you regularly say your morning and night prayers?

I pray to the porcelain god many a morning and night. Oh, Mr. Flushy…always there for me. [Note to self: when you’re lactarded and addicted to alcohol, white Russians are the best idea you’ve had since shaving your pimples to make them go away.]

3. Do you say a prayer of thanksgiving (Grace) before your meals?

“Rub a dub dub. Thanks for the grub. Yay god.”

4. Do you turn to Jesus in prayer when you are troubled or depressed?

Only if you call Zoloft “Jesus.”

5. Do you pray for friends and others who have serious problems?

No, I simply stop calling them friends.

6. If a person is having difficulties, do you encourage them to pray?

I encourage them to man up / woman up, and get over it! Illiteracy isn’t gonna fix itself.

7. When you visit a sick person, do you say a prayer with them?

Why would I visit a sick person? Gross. Now where did I put my ‘Outbreak’ full-body rubber suit?

8. Have you read the Bible during the past week?

No, sorry, I wasn’t in boys school detention or prison last week.

9. Do you contribute to your church and deserving charities?

My church is 6 inches high and made of legos. Just yesterday I gave it rotating seats, a retractable roof, and a lego batman priest. I’m considering taking it apart and making it into a spaceship. It can fly to the earth’s legorbit and explore the legozone. After the launch, I can look to the sky, shade my eyes with my hand, and say, "it's legone."

10. Does Jesus Christ occupy the number one place in your life?

No. This guy does:

“3, 2, 1…1, 2, 3…what the heck is bother me??” There isn't a single life experience he hasn't helped me through. You'll always be number one in my book, Big Guy...Got any cheeeese?

Eggroll and Two Dumplings...Huzzzahhh

I dedicate this to my teenage cuzin who complains to his dad that all the Asian girls go after white guys. Rock on, cuzin, rock on.

And to crossover guys all over the world, yes we can.



"like Dante Basco on old black shows"...Ashley Banks, I'm looking at you.

And the winner is...

...Eva Mendes, the mildly attractive actress from such Oscar-worthy films as Maid in Manhattan, The Cell, and The Wedding Planner...wait, what? Eva Mendes isn't in any of those movies? Who the hell is Eva Mendes then? Ah well, she's gonna get trounced by the Green M&M in the later rounds anyway. But in this first round matchmaker matchup, she narrowly squeaked by the perennial joke-butt Sarah Palin aka "Soon to be the most cliche Halloween costume of 2008." It seems that female voters really carried Eva across the finish line after having some strong throwup-in-mouth reactions to the competition:

D: ugh

eva mendes duuuuh

me: u dont want me to take one for the team?

D: well, no - because i'm your roommate

and it'd be weird to have her walking around the apt wearing only your dress shirt or something

me: good answer

whatabout only my dress pants
[apparently for D, it would not be weird to have Eva Mendes walking around in only my dress shirt...would it be weird if I were walking around in only Eva's dress shirt?]

L: uhhhhhhh

u made me throwup in my mouth

after that Palin pic

me: its messed up ur hormones

L: the palinator M: i'd go with eva mendez cause she's hot and has a brain

M: screw palin. dumb b***h

me: haha, thanks!

how do u know eva has a brain? M: compared to palin, ALMOST everyone else has one

Most of the male voters on the other hand went for the Alaskan Ice Queen with such comments as these:

M: You should date the Maverick. Maverick Maverick. Maverick!

me: haha

she'll like that i shoot from the hip

M: if she can stand up to big oil, can she stand up to big penis/make big penis stand up? [why does M know about my penis size? big is a very relative term anyway]

Despicable. Females just had different criteria:

B: i vote for eva. i saw her at friend of a farmer one time and shes very pretty in person

and i wanted her coat

[apparently women love friends of farmers...there's just something about tilling soil and planting seeds...]

So Eva advances. But how long can she last in this royal rumble of love? ForEva Eva, forEva Eva??

"the reminder" video

here's an important video i helped make with a half bottle of scotch, a roll of aluminum foil, and my two hand puppets Leopold and Dr. Octagon. shouties to filmmaker Corinne E. Manabat.

(it's better to watch in high def via youtube's own site. that way you can see all the details of Leopold's mouth...tongue hair!)

this just in...

i spotted a guy on the street today outfitted with Uggs, a brand of hideous female boots appropriately named after a groan. first the polar ice caps started to melt, then the economy hurtled toward oblivion, and now this. beware, tomorrow we'll be bombarded by a swarm of locusts, and next week, i'll pray for the souls of all you first-born children out there. it is truly the end of days.

+

Who should I date?

Eva Mendes
Why I like her: She’s hot and I’m attracted to hot. She's still a rising star, not yet on the level of JLo or Angelina, so if I get with her now, down the road when we get into arguments I can always pull out the I-supported-your-career-when-you-were-a-nobody card. Dispute settled. And I for one prefer to be on equal footing with my romantic companion...my romanion, if you will. Power dynamics are cancer to a relationship, so it's good that Eva is clearly in my league. She's just a tad bit uglier. I can live with that.

OR

Sarah Palin
Why I like her: If it’s discovered that she’s having an affair with me, that’s just one more scandal to throw on top of her pile o’ screw-ups that is her burning blimp of a campaign. Imagine if polaroids of me in a moose suit licking the stilettos of her dominatrix outfit made it to the front page of the Times. Bye bye McShame. Hello Cougar Hall of Fame. I'd be taking one for the team. Barack, just call me Maverick cuz I'm your wingman.

Top 3 titles for our 'leaked' home-movie sex-tape:
“Cuntry First”
“Palin’s Poopergate Investigation”
“Tina Fey Does It with Asian Guy”

The Seat Slide-Over

Silver bells. Hear them ring. It’s Christmas time in the city... You just spent all afternoon trudging in the freezing rain, buying the best knockoff apparel for your family (because they’re worth it, and you spend 2/3 of your paycheck to live in an apartment built for Hobbits). Soaking wet and blisters on your feet, you lug the bags underground to the subway platform. Your Northfake is still dripping and leaves a urine trail in your wake. The A rumbles into the station. A million people deboard the train and trample you without concern. But at least you made it onto the train, finally dry and warm, with the promise of home only 23 stops away.

You’re effing tired (not to be confused with fucking Tired, as in Mr. Tired, the gap-toothed gentleman behind the counter at Gristedes; fucking him is a bad idea), and you need a seat. Low and behold, there’s only one left and it looks like you’re riding bitch. There’s a portly man lodged on one end of the seat bench, and a woman next to the pole-divider at the middle of the bench. You do a cost-benefit analysis, and decide you have to, so you nestle your little butt between them and give your cheeks a rest.

But now you got Grimace to your left, and he looks like he’s eating the Hamburglar. On your right is Old Woman Withers, who looks like layers of herself kept melting on top of each other until she was satisfied that she resembled Jabba the Hutt. She also smells like pure gasoline. And she keeps staring at you with her one eye. You’re huddled in between, trying to keep your knees together, your arms together, your shoulders together, so as to avoid physical contact with the Jello-giants next to you. But it’s pointless, the A train’s in hydraulics mode and is jerking forward the way Shattner talks. Each time it jerks, you get crushed worse than a sumo wrestler’s diaper.

At stop 13, Grimace gets up to leave. Despite being intoxicated by gasoline fumes and charred Big Macs, you recognize an opportunity when you see one. Without hesitation, you do the one thing you possibly can to redeem your humanity—you slide over to the left. And with that one simple seat change, you can breathe the crisp air again, you rediscover what it’s like to have space between your balls again, and you remember that freedom is a privilege in this world. Nevermind that the seat is warmer than a Dutch oven and covered in sesame seeds; it doesn’t matter. You’re free. That is the magic of the seat slide-over…keeping New Yorkers sane since 1883.

Going from riding bitch to sliding over to the best seat in the car (i.e. the end of the bench against the rail, so you’re assured that no one can sit next to you on at least one side of your body) is the American Dream realized. Best of all, you get to enjoy someone else’s discomfort as they’re forced to sit between Old Woman Withers and your fat bloated ass. (‘Milk was a bad idea!’)

But God forbid the bench was just recently scrubbed down and doesn’t have enough accumulated dust to make your slide-over smooth. Instead the friction between your butt and the seat makes it sound like your ass is erupting. Then again, what better way to prevent other passengers from plopping down next to you, then to clear the air with your derriere.

Take heed, however, that taking pleasure in other people’s pain will come back to haunt you. One of two things will happen as a consequence. Either A) it’ll be too late for you when you realize that you are now sitting in front of a subway map when someone does the lean-in-and-look on ya, and now you got some guy’s stubbled face 2 centimeters from your own. Or B)Lonely Planet doesn’t inform the tourist sitting to your right to do a seat slide-over once Old Woman Withers gets up, and now the anti-bath European is polluting your air space.

This brings us to Subway Rider Rule # 690: Never get high off your own supply…Woops! Wrong set of rules!...Always do a seat slide-over when the opportunity arises. It keeps the world in balance, and the universe aligned. The seat slide-over saves lives. It's what Chuck Norris would do...after killing the guy next to him with his fists.

And Subway Rider Fun Tip #106: Pretend to be the rider that forgets to seat slide-over. Then, when someone standing proceeds to sit down in the vacant spot, slide over there as fast as you possibly can, so that they end up sitting in your lap. Who ever said New Yorkers aren’t friendly? When the person looks at you in confusion and shock, smile and say “wakka wakka wakka!” for bonus points.

And the winner is...

…in a decisive and portentous (SAT word in the house!) first victory, the Green M&M! She devoured Ashley Banks, hit single and all. “Mannn, she’s weak….last week!” Despite support for Ashley on this blog’s droppings section from lawdamercy (who wisely pointed out that Banks is the human option, albeit fictional) and a whisper campaign against the Green M&M about her supposed lactose content (detrimental to this lactard blogger), the chocolate treat with eyes and legs lead the way with aggressive on-the-ground support. The people have spoken. And they say that I need a woman with a tough exterior (ever toss an M&M into the air and try to catch it with your mouth, only for it to crash into your teef like a kamikaze pilot on crack? Shit hurts meng) but also so sweet on the inside that she makes you say “Mm.” She also tastes good with ice cream.

Stay tuned for the next first round face-off for my affection (i.e. dating me for 2.5 months till I realize I’m not ready to be serious)!
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BREAKING NEWS: It has been discovered that the Green M&M only has 4 fingers on each hand (see campaign photo from previous entry for evidence). I dunno if I can date a woman with only 8 fingers! Which one's her ring finger?? Could she properly greet me at a Star Trek convention or would it just look like she's throwing up the shocker? Aww man.


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Romantic Possibilities Question of the Day

As an ever-maturing young man, I'm beginning to feel the desire for the sustained companionship of a young woman (give or take half my age + 7). I've carefully considered numerous candidates for whom I can fulfill the role of Boogie Beau. I think the most efficient way to narrow down my choices is to arrange an NCAA Tournament bracket of 64 eligible women and have them face off in pairs. Blog-readers may realize their electoral power by answering a simple question for each round of romance rivalry: Who should I date? Most votes (in the electoral college) wins.

In this first round, of these two candidates for cuddling, who should I date?

Ashley Banks

Why I like her: She can sing and looks hot in a Dippity Doo Dog uniform. Because I know I’m more manly than ex-bf Tevin Campbell. And she’s already dated Rufio at least twice. She’s definitely into the lumpia. (see the movie Fakin’ Da Funk if you don’t believe me) Plus the girl is mad rich and can bankroll my career as a professional man of leisure. “Fill banks like Phil Banks.”

OR

The Green M&M

Why I like her: She’s got great eyes and she’s made of chocolate. Let me repeat that in my best Joe-Biden-repeating-a-point voice: She’s made of chocolate.

And if anyone ever accused me of being racist, I could just tell them “Hey, I’m not racist. My girlfriend’s green…and made of chocolate.”

Facebook Etiquette Question of the Day

Would it be poor form to invite people to a funeral over facebook? How come evite doesn't have an option for 'wake' or 'cremation ceremony?' The RSVP options would be:

Yes, I'm ready to get lit.
Maybe, you should ASHk me later.
No, I'm already dead fool.

When my dad first told me he wanted to be cremated, I wondered what flavor of ice cream he would be best as. Probably something with nuts.

A Call for Change

We are in troubled times. We find ourselves in the midst of a global economic crisis, buttressed by wars without end, and heightened by a rapidly deteriorating environment. The stratifications between the rich and everyone else, the mainstream and the marginalized, and the first world and the third world are at their most ominous extremes. And yet we have the opportunity to change the course as the election for the American presidency draws near. Tonight we'll watch the two candidates, as that sense of urgency continues to teem from our depths and move us towards the ballot box. With such big decisions looming, I wanted to take a break from nonsensical humor and devote myself to a serious matter that warrants attention in these direst of times…What’s the deal with people bringing you something from their vacation abroad, only to rub your face in the fact that they went on vacation and you didn’t?

Seriously people, you go on vacation and you bring me back a memento…so I can remember something I have no memory of! All it’s gonna remind me of is the fact that I did not go on your beautiful trip. That’s just mean, dude.

“You woulda loved seeing this beach with the….and going to that outdoor….and eating those great….” Yeah, thanks, I get it. You did all these things I love…without me. That makes me feel wonderful.

And you may try to justify it by saying that you were thinking of me while you were away. In reality you were thinking of how much you could torment me by leaving me a reminder of YOUR trip, not mine. Stop trying to spread your happiness in my cave of despair. I know you’re just trying to set yourself up for that moment when you visit again 3 years from now, see the little Kremlin snowglobe on my desk, and say “Hey! I remember this! It’s from that time I was in Red Square! Oh that’s right, you weren’t there…”

Even worse than the little shot glass that says 'Jammin in Jamaica' or the 'I got Lei'd' novelty license plate is the postcard in the mail. It usually features a scenic locale, gorgeous architecture, beautiful women, and a message on the back that says “Wish you were here!” Translation: You aren’t here suckaaa, but I am! So malicious. The evil postcard is the lowest of the low because it’s a reminder of your vacation while you’re still enjoying it! At least with other stuff you give me in person, I know that your fun is over. But with the postcard, it’s like your fun is never gonna end. And while you’re out in the sun, inhaling foreign culture, and washing your ass in a bidet, I’m stuck picking up your dog’s poop with my plastic bagged hand, watering your stupid ficus, and visiting your grandma at the home, making her believe that I’m you. She’s a sweet lady but MAN is she handsy!

A harder slap to the face, I know no other. It’s like being a sidelined Jeremy Shockey while the Giants win the greatest Super Bowl ever. It’s like your best friend being married to Jessica Alba and telling you in explicit details what a freak in bed she is…and then showing you actual video of them doing the horizontal monkey mambo. It’s like when your mom mutilated your imaginary friend Mr. Magic-Bone in the garbage disposal because she didn’t realize he was only an inch tall and still standing on your plate, nibbling at your leftover chicken. The horror!...wait, that last one has nothing to do with anything. It’s just sad.

So the next time you’re touring the Great Pyramids atop a camel and you think to yourself, “gee whiz! Boogie B would love this!” please do not write me a postcard to brag or get me a false memento of your memory. Leave these tease-trinkets there. Instead, get stung by a scorpion. That I would gladly remember with fondness. Ass.

The Vice Presidential Debate Drinking Game aka Drink Till Palin Sounds Intelligent

Every time someone blurts out “man, she really looks like Tina Fey!” everyone yell “Lizzz Lemonnn” in your best Tracy Morgan impression and have a lemon drop shot.

Every time you have an impure thought about the MILFiest VP candidate of all time, make the sign of the cross over your wine glass and have a sip of the blood of Christ.

Every time Joe Biden mentions “Amtrak,” drink a shot with your party, one right after another, like a domino effect (or a waterfall or a train going round the bend). Before taking your shot, look your shot glass in the eyes and say “I choo-choo-choooose you!” Accompanying train-engineer fist pump is optional.

Every time Sarah Palin is quiet for far too long because she’s stumped by a question she can’t answer, the whole bar must have a moment of silence…for the last bit of Republican hope that just died.

Every time Sarah Palin mentions that John McCain chooses “Country First,” drink a redbull and take a dump in the nearest toilet. Then point at it and say, “Look, red [state] bullshit.”

Every time Sarah Palin defends her foreign policy experience by alluding to the proximity of Alaska to Russia and/or Canada, hug the person next to you and have a gulp of their drink. It doesn’t matter if you don’t really know them.

Every time Joe Biden makes a bad joke (e.g. “The only thing dumber than the McCain economic plan is your baby…..ewww….awkward turtle…”), do your best Fran Drescher cackle and sip your drink through your nose.

Every time someone says “pork barrel politics” or “earmarks,” buy a round of Blue Label Johnny Walker shots for the entire bar and put it on someone else’s tab. Go up to that person, pat them on the back, and say “Thanks taxpayer! Giggidy giggidy giggidy!”

Every time someone mentions the war in Iraq or Afghanistan, have a jaeger bomb or car bomb and try locating that country on a map. (If Sarah Palin mentions a war in Japan, have a sake bomb, slap your forehead, and yell “D’OH!”)

Every time Sarah Palin says John McCain showed leadership on the bailout plan for Wall Street, suspend all drinking activities and go directly to the office…until your co-workers tell you to go home ‘cuz you’re useless.

Every time Joe Biden says Barack Obama showed leadership on the bailout plan for Wall Street, write the bartender a $700 billion check. Don’t ask too many questions.

Every time a candidate invokes the word “change,” switch seats with someone and drink their drink…unless it was Sarah Palin who said it. In that case, pretend to switch seats with somebody, steal their money, and go back to your original seat and drink.

Every time you think to yourself that this is the stupidest shit I’ve ever seen, leave the bar immediately and book yourself a one-way ticket to Canada. (Note: If you don’t know where that is, just remember that it’s the place that shares a land-border with the state of Alaska.)

Sarah Palin's Facebook Page (click to see full)