Ro-bust

I drew this while waiting in line for the IMAX screening of Harry Potter 6 (i.e. "Dumbledore is Dumble-dead!"). Needless to say, not only does this indicate the extent to which I am a nerd (level 12, with +3 scimitar and -5 TI 89), but it also illustrates (punned!) how lugubriously pessimistic I am about the future....the future of robots! Not to mention the fact that I'm totally exploiting the plight of quadraplegic robots for a good laugh. How ableist robotist of me! I'm going to robot hell...a locked room with no wall sockets! Oh the agony!

Beware...the FUTURE of the FUTURE!

In the not too distant future, ramen-cooking robots will be responsible for spitting in your soup. Spit will come in the flavor of motor oil. Instead of finding a band-aid in your meal, you'll find a piece of duct tape. Then a panhandler will enter the restaurant. His name is Johnny 5 and he just wants some input. More input. And while the jukebox is playing Digital Getdown by N-Synchronized, please refrain from doing the robot. That's just as bad as donning blackface and doing a tapdance. However, at the end of your nourishment session, you can finally, proudly say "Domo arigato, Mister Roboto!" without coming off as a racist prick (or should I say screw?).

Beware...the FUTURE!

In the near future, cutesy but stoic little puppy bunny furball heads will rule the planet. They will enslave our hands and make us play typing games. "130 words per minute? Pitiful. Repeat....283 words per minute? Pitiful. Repeat...You mispelled tatterdemalion. Prepare for death." Because these puppy bunny furball heads remain tacit they will send electric charges directly to our brains via USB ports (minimum requirement: USB 2.0) that deliver the message to continue typing out words that are highlighted...in our MINDS!


This Get Down entry is brought to you by the letter Y and Crazy Pills, America's favorite over-the-counter halucinogen.

Animal Attraction

Every morning I walk to the train station. Never to actually take a train, no, but I go to watch suited self-important people get mangled by closing train doors. It's a delightful way to start any day. On the way there, I often encounter the myriad sights, sounds, and smells that New York has to offer. The sight of brown-skin women pushing strollers of pasty white babies, the sound of souls being crushed by corporate jobs, the smell of exhaust and refuse emanating from sanitation trucks. It's pure sensory bliss. And it goes great with coffee.

Today on my morning walk to the train station, I came across a middle aged woman (but not a Middle Ages woman; that would be so much more impressive) who came a across a tight-jeaned fellow walking his miniature dog--a doglet, if you will. She stopped and exclaimed to the entire block what an adorable doglet it was. She then got down on both knees and proceeded to stroke his back (the doglet's back, not the tight-jeaned fellow's). "She needs friends," my inner monologue said. And then, suddenly, in a hideous display of affection, she started making out with the canine, tongue and all.

"What a great way to start a day!" she said to anyone listening. Apparently, the best part of waking up isn't Folgers in your cup, but rather doglet tonguelet in your mouth.

It was like a combination between watching your parents make out and sitting through a PETA video of a pig slaughter. That's just not right. I'm all for interracial love, but I'm sorry, I'm still closed minded when it comes to inter-species spit-swapping face-sucking sessions. And yet she was taking so much joy out of her moment of bestiality foreplay. That may have even been the most upsetting part because really, what is worse than witnessing another person's happiness? Can I get some schaudenfraude up in here?

In utter disgust, I kept walking, my right hand cupping the side of my face to serve as temporary blinders from the show. But then, as I approached the stairwell to the train station, a pigeon took a huge dump on my chest. Cleveland steamer? Really? Damn, these animals are getting kinky.

At least one...

I'm not sure what to make of this one yet. It's a follow-up to last year's First Asian Boy, which apparently didn't work because this track has less boasting and more beseeching (GRE word! someone's taking Kaplan). But I suppose "...at least $#&% one" is still a better line than "I'll pay you for it." I can't wait to see what lubetube music video comes out next summer. I predict we'll see George Takei on a Casio keyboard using the maracas preset while singing "thank goodness I prefer guys, otherwise I wouldn't get anyyyy. My hetero bros can't get girls, that's why they're drowning in hennyyy..." Le sigh.

A Rose by Any Other Name? Chyeah Right!

I just saw the summer feel-good foodie movie Julie + Julia (damn blogger won't let me use an ampersand; even Vana White uses ampersands! Blogger, you are officially less classy than Wheel of Fortune). The title character Julie, by associating herself with the world renowned Julia (Child...no relation to perennial/alcoholic Knick point guard Chris Childs...shouldn't it be Chris Children?), is able to maintain a thriving blog where she had thousands of fans who left her dozens of comments per entry. (Ahem, ahem. Leave me comments. I know there are people out there reading this; they tell me so in the real world. But I don't care about the real world. That's why I blog. Tell me online by leaving a comment. The silence is killing me!) Her blog ultimately leads her down a path of success, celebrity, a bestseller, a feature film, a cocaine addiction, a failed marriage and burnt down house, a run-in with the law for soliciting prostitutes, and eventually an obligatory meteoric rise back to the top. I can only dream of such heights.

So to emulate Julie, and to catapult The Get Down upwards, I'm considering changing the title to associate myself with something or someone awesome. Here are my top choices so far:

Brown + Braun (as in the electric shaver)

Brown + Brawny (as in the paper towels)

Brown + Sienna (as in the popular crayon choice for people of color skin tones)

Brown + Brown v. Board (as in the ever popular Supreme Court case that ended school segregation, or something like that)

Brown + Brow (as in that hairy bush resting above your eye; whether high or low brow is up for debate, but considering I use the words "poop" and "testicle" consecutively in the About Me portion of this blog, I'm leaning towards high.)

Boogie + Booger (as in America's favorite nose candy)

Boogie + Boogia (this one will have to wait until someone named Boogia cures cancer)

Boogie + Bookie (as in the guy who takes your money for every Monday Night Football game)

Boogie + Boobie (as in the universally preferred vessel for milk)

Boogie Brown + Booger Brow (as in that sticky bush resting above your eye, constituted of the accumulation of wet snot...high or low?)

Please vote for the title you want to see! Until then, I will be training Meryl Streep to mimic my colloquial accent and the nasally way I say words like "comeuppance" and "bunghole."

the mess You're In!

Pouring your own urine into a small vial is like handling liquid uranium. It's the most delicate, high pressure task you've ever taken on. This is not pouring out a foamless glass of Sam Adams or funneling new shampoo into your roommate's bottle of Head & Shoulders so he won't know you wasted all of his while washing your secret teddy bear collection. No, this is hot piss you're handling. Your own hot piss. Not only is it infinitely nasty, but you still feel beholden to care for it gently, like an ugly baby you never wanted.

It's an intense procedure that makes your heart stop with every passing second. It's like defusing a bomb for the FBI. One false move is all it takes…You grip the plastic vial in your left hand, tilting it precisely at 45 degrees. You nervously hold the warm paper cup in your other hand, a few centimeters above the vial, and begin to tilt it ever so slightly...oh no, you have an itch on your nose that you can't scratch!...

And don't even get me started on how that cup came to be filled. The terror in my eyes rose exponentially as the liquid rose in the cup, quickly rising to the top, and then, inevitably, menacingly, spilling over. Audible screams from a bathroom are never a sign of anything good.

"Oh shit!"

But the fear is ironically irrational. It's not like you haven't touched your own urine before, as if the splashback from the urinal never graze your hands, or as if you've never been wildly drunk on New Year's Eve in Steve's basement pissing all over yourself because you momentarily forgot how fly zippers worked.

I watch closely as the volatile waste slides down the barrel of the tube like liquid gold. As soon as the vial fills, I cap it off like catching fireflies in a jar. I flush the leftovers, and then ring my shirt from all the sweat. More liquid waste. Then I exit the bathroom like a pro, calm and collected, and hand over the vial to the lab tech, passing the baton with more care than the US Relay Teams. Mission accomplished. Now time to have blood drawn...::faints::

Chips on My Shoulder

While playing food matchmaker, I sorted through dozens of potential munchable snacks to pair with my lonely, unattached sandwich. I tried not to judge based on their appearance too much, instead weighing more heavily on the content of their character. My sandwich deserved something lean, healthy, and with more in the bag than just hot air. The usual suspects were destined to disappoint. Lays potato chips were all sauced up on high fructose corn syrup, and some of them were even baked! No artificial substance abusers for my sandwich. Sun chips, Wise chips, and even the ethnic Tostitos were all the same. And don't get me started on UTZ chips. How does one even pronounce that name? Uhhts (rhymes with butts), ooots (rhymes with boots), or is it pronounced like the worst medical conditions, in acronym form, U-T-Z (like a UTI with zing!)? It was beginning to look like my sandwich would be alone for the rest of its life (which approximately ended at 1:30 this afternoon and was shortly followed by a food coma).

Then, just as hope was nearly all lost, a light blue package caught my eye...after I threw my eye in the air. It introduced itself as "Flat Earth: Baked Veggie Crisps." I was intrigued by the name, and by the large ripe tomato pictured on the bag hovering beneath a fluffy cloud. "It's like chips, but made from veggies, that are flattened, like the earth, that floated down from heaven...??" I thought to myself out loud. Then, I turned it around and checked out its backside. No high fructose corn syrup listed. 10% of my daily value in Vitamins A and C. A good source of fiber! This could be the one my sandwich has been waiting for. Before I could second guess myself, I purchased the Flat Earth and rested it in my lunch sack (but not my nut sack; that's reserved for almonds) right next to my sandwich to let them get acquainted.

Next came the moment of truth. Seated in the middle of the park on a My Little Pony blanket, my picnic spread out before me, I reached for the little blue bag of chips and ventured to find out, "are you the one?" And the answer is definitely helllz noo! They tasted worse than tear gas in Ecuador. Forget veggie chips or earth chips or whatever these deceptive little things were, I'd be more satisfied eating paint chips. They tasted just as processed, excessively salty, and unhealthy as all the other chips in the sea. Where were the fresh organic ingredients and rich flavors I so hoped for? On a farm five hours away perhaps. Then I realized, these little suckers were from Plano, Texas and brought to me by none other than Frito-Lay.

I haven't felt this cheated since Kelly left Zack for Jeff or when mom told me there'd be no presents for Christmas 'cuz Santa was too busy being drunk. "But I was so good this year!" "Good at being a brat! Now eat your string beans!!" All that time I was hoping that Flat Earth could be the answer to Lays chips, the counter to the culture, the David to the Goliath, standing up for health-conscious, anti-corporate consumers that still wanted snack food that wouldn't cause bloating. And instead, it turned out to be just the opposite. I thought they were competing with Frito-Lay, but they were Frito-Lay, pretending to compete with itself. They were the devil in disguise; and I didn't notice the horns sticking out.

Pictured on the bag, right above the fluffy cloud, is the silhouette of Babe the pig with wings on its back, soaring in the skies, as if to say "yah, when pigs fly, buddy...hehe snort..." And the slogan for these deceptichips which I failed to notice on first glance: "Impossibly good." Yes, that's right because it's impossible that these could be considered good. And they're "naturally flavored." If something has to be "flavored," it usually means it ain't natural. But I should've been clued off by the name in the first place. What in the world does Flat Earth mean? Clearly, Colombus settled that debate centuries ago. So the only thing it could mean is that idiotic corporate marketers are pandering to the organic food snobiety using fake buzz words like earth and veggie and fresh. I'm surprised they didn't just package the bag in processed hemp. Or stick a picture of starving brown children on the front and say some of the proceeds will go to somebody's children somehwere in the world, but mostly Plano, Texas.

Insincerity rings true in corporate America. Who are they kidding with this euphemistic Frito-Lay moniker? They're more like Fried-Fuck.

The Use of Emoticons: Mostly Con

(today's entry comes from guest contributor "A to the J," the shortest Roman alphabet there is)

I casually began my daily inbox ritual - deleting my cousin’s chain letter, fearing my horoscope (what’s the “life-changing event” today? I thought my morning visit to the toilet was big enough), saving the 6-inch Extenza Limited Time Offer Ben and Jerry’s coupon – when the streamlined process came to a jarring halt in the face of this (no pun intended):

:(

I’m confused. What is that? Sanskrit? Cuneiform? Two dots chasing an elbow? Before my eyes stood that modern form of communication, that undeniable way to convey your feelings electronically: an emoticon.

Cute. Yes. Believable. No. I don’t know many people who can turn their head 90 degrees to the right, let alone frown while doing it. If it was to the left, maybe. If this was from my tree frog Jethro, definitely yes (she is quite flexible. As for her name - don’t ask.). But, in this email’s context of setting up a man-date with broheims and brosephs this thing was like Andre the Giant at a 5-year old’s birthday party or Jenna Jameson at church. Out. Of. Place.

I do see the silver lining. It’s fast and economic. Also, these displays abound in their original homelands of Japan, Korea, and China. The use of such by a man, moreso a white man in flannel, highlights – in a sense - the embracing of Asian culture worldwide. But, just like Colonel Sanders wanting to give Wendy a taste of his crispy strip, it ain’t right. I communicate in fist pumps. I speak in grunts. I write with blood (or blue and black ink). But, never will my inner sanctum be expressed short-hand through the strategic use of punctuation. In this case, yes, the use of an emoticon was striking. Unfortunately, it was a strike out.

-A.J. aka Aoogie Jrown

Fashion Foreign

While roaming the hallways of Narita International, looking for more of my blollowers to satisfy with a warm hancock (Note: yelling "Get Down anyone? Get Down?!" at an airport is a good way to make new besties with handsy individuals in uniform), I couldn't help but notice that GI Joe must be really popular in Japan because everyone was dressed up as Storm Shadow. Though these were the laziest cos-players I've ever seen since they never wore the complete costume, only the mask and the eyes. Where was the PDiddy white outfit and requisite sword accessories (accesSwordies)? That's like wearing the t-shirt with the tuxedo print on it rather than wearing the actual tuxedo. Pitiful.

I did think to myself (I assure you, this phenomenon does occur from time to time) that only in Japan can droves of people walk around dressed as lazy ninjas working for Cobra Commander and nobody thinks twice about it, or once for that matter. Many young Japanese also sometimes dress up as goth clowns, little beau peeps, and Koreans. No looks of disapproval, no shame, only awesome.

If it were socially acceptable, I too would walk the streets of New York dressed as a ninja. Shoot, if it were socially acceptable, I would walk around in a full onesie too, everywhere. And a onesie preferably with the square button-down butt-flap in the back, not because I think it's particularly useful but more because I've always wanted to be able to shit while in my pants without shitting my pants. Well isn't that quite the paradox?

I wonder though about ninjas. Were they also cos-players, merely dressing up as hyper-germaphobic surgeons? Maybe they covered their faces to keep bacteria from spreading? That seems practical.