The Get Down

An open letter to my dearest-est sister Bridget Christina aka Bridget the Midget aka Apple Boobs aka [in dad’s voice] Brigeeeeeettte!!! aka “that girl

2010-08-14T12:28:00.005-04:00

Dear Bridget,

Do you remember when we were kids and you permanently chipped my tooth by horse-kicking me in the jaw? We were in the midst of one of our epic fights, this time fighting for the last slice of pizza. Till this day, dentists never fail to ask me about it during checkups, after which I always have to explain that I got it from fighting with my sister. The dentist then quickly responds “So I take it she won?” Ha friggin ha Dr. Stone. Whereas a more immature brother might be vengeful for this eternal source of humiliation, I cannot. For me it’s a humble reminder of the torment that my siblings and I made you endure. I used to start fights with you everyday of the week and twice on Sundays. Remember that time Barbs poured soy sauce down your winter gloves? Or when we hid the teddy bear Phi gave you and you broke down searching for it? We put you through hell and yet you’re still the most affectionate, the most happy go lucky, and perhaps the most loving of us all. Though sometimes you’ve had to horse-kick your way out of bad situations, you still persevere in giving yourself to the people you love. Keyword: Perseverance.

Do you remember at the rehearsal dinner when barbs joked that you dress poorly? It’s true, Beej, you dress really poorly. Seriously, you dress a shade worse than Hilda, the bag lady at the 116th street subway station. Even she knows that gaucho pants are out of style. You have about as much fashion sense as a chimpanzee on rollerskates. I’m actually surprised you haven’t put on a hoodie over your wedding dress yet. But where some may see this as a deficiency, I see this as a testament to your true character. You really could care less about fashion because you know these material things are inconsequential in the grand scheme of life. Where others may focus on status and fitting in, you’ve focused your life on disseminating care and love to the people around you. You’ve always been the mother hen to your motley crue of misunderstood friends and family. And in that department, the chimpanzee’s got nothing on you. Keywords: Love and Care.

Do you remember, as a teenager, when you poured motor oil in the tank meant for windshield wiper fluid? Dad was piiiissssssed!!! Some might consider this an example of your carelessness. Some might cite other examples to further support such an argument. They might say things like , hey Bridget your room is so messy that even rats refuse to live there. They might go on to describe how you spend more time on the toilet than the average person spends sleeping. But hey, it’s not because you’re careless, nor is it because you have chronic diarrhea. It’s because you’re a dreamer, an unrelenting romantic, who’s oblivious to the mundane and trivial details of everyday life and would rather spend her time daydreaming or in the bathroom with a good book. Keyword: Romantic.

Do you remember when we were 4 and 6 years old and we used to hide under our parent’s bedsheets and pretend that we were trapped inside an egg?? Yeah, that shit was weird. Till this day I have no idea what that was about. Were we sniffing Elmer’s glue? Anyway, this anecdote has no relevance to your wedding but I just felt like sharing it. Keyword: Random.

Do you remember how I first learned of your relationship with Phi? You were 19, away at Vanderbilt, and you called home and told me you needed to ask mom and dad for permission to fly to Texas. “Texas?” I asked. You told me you’d met a boy the weekend before and you had to go visit him ASAP to see if you could make it work. After laughing for about 5 minutes, I told you not to ask the parents, but that you should just go. Yet you insisted that you speak to them and obtain their permission. Not only did this situation illustrate your filial piety as a dutiful daughter, but it also exemplified how even 10 years ago, you knew that there was something special about your relationship with this guy named Phi, that all your romantic dreams were not merely dreams, but a real goal that you needed to strive for, take bold steps for. And you continued to take those bold steps, persevering through the distance that kept you two physically separated for years. You put your heart and soul into this relationship as you literally moved across the country, from NJ to LA, from LA to Dallas, so you two could finally be together.

Do you remember when Phi called me up to ask for my blessing before proposing to you? Umm yeah, you probably don’t remember that. After avoiding his first five attempts to call and ask me (as I knew it would be an awkward turtle situation), he got me on the phone and told me he wanted to marry you. I asked, “are you sure?” And without any hesitation whatsoever he said “Brian, I’m 100% sure. She’s the one for me.” As a good brother I had to press him a little more and give him a hard time so I questioned him again: “She’s made huge sacrifices for you. Will you sacrifice for her?”

“Absolutely,” Phi said. “I’ll do whatever she asks, anything to make her happy.”

He passed the test. I’ve been brotherless for the last 26 years. I think of myself as a one man wolfpack. But then Phi came into my life, and my wolfpack grew by one. Now there’s two of us in the wolfpack...I digress...

A recent scientific study shows that having a sister leads to a life with less depression and more pro-social behaviors and generosity. That being said, having a sister like you, one that has showed me what it means to persevere and give love unconditionally in pursuit of our highest ideals, is worth even more. I could never fully compensate you for vastly improving my life. It is for this reason that I am eternally grateful to Phi and forever in his debt. He makes you the happiest you've ever been, makes your dreams reality, and that’s all I could possibly want for you, my dear sister. You’ve earned it.

Happy Wedding and Merry Marriage! May you two continue to grow together like a pair of intertwining trees, weathering every storm as you reach for the sky.

Sincerely,
your favorite brother Brian

Grocery Robots! I wonder what the Costco version is like...

2009-12-16T18:07:00.003-05:00

That is one spectacular robot. It's very quick and responsive, seemingly agile, and quite obedient. [We don't need a robot uprising now do we? See Terminators 1-3 or Rosie from the Jetsons when she's angry for reference] Not to mention it's built to resemble a sweet, elderly Asian woman complete with earth tone apparel and the scent of roasted cinnamon. [I think it's the domestic worker model] What could be more endearing? Plus the robot seems to be extremely knowledgeable about grocery items, particularly fresh produce, and handles them with such dexterity. Opposable thumbs, what a great invention! This machine is a fantastic shopping assistant. It fetches items at a moment's notice. It really serves a purpose especially when it's handler is a useless, short dude that can only hold the basket and moves as fast as a pothead. He looks like the product of a one-night-stand between Gonzo the Muppet and a Hoover vacuum. If only we could replace these losers with awesome robots like Mrs. Tanaka here...Even Screech's robot Kevin would be a vast improvement. He can at least make science FUNdamental and does the occasional magic trick.

Dear Brazen Woman on the Train Clipping Her Fingernails,

2009-12-14T13:51:00.005-05:00

I am a rebellious sort and truly cherish the resistance of social norms imposed on our society by hegemons and oligarchs and pikachus. I really do. But that said, there is at least one convention that we ought not defy and as a society continue to uphold: the trimming of nails should take place only in the privacy of one's home or a private business that caters to nail maintenance; otherwise, don't do that shit in public.

I realize that people eat on the train, study on the train, sleep on the train, and all sorts of things they might not otherwise have enough time for. But clipping your nails? Really? You can put an eye out with one of those buggers. Fingernails and toenails alike are notorious projectile weapons. They fling wildly through the air looking for any target to assail. So many glass eyes at a nail salon. You're like a suicide bomber cutting your nails in the middle of a crowded train like that. Any one of us could get hit by the schrapnel. One of your loose finger casings could have easily landed in a cup of coffee, a baby's mouth, or on MY iPHONE! This is not a ticker-tape parade; no one asked for your nail confetti.

Though the smell may confuse you, the train is neither your bathroom or a garbage can, so don't treat it as if it were. Your leftover DNA is not welcome here. You can't simply wipe off all the remaining clippings from your lap and get off at your stop and pretend like that's acceptable behavior. How would you like it if I left pubes all over the seat in your car? Yes, I think that's an appropriate analogy, and the answer is no, no you would not like it. My pubes are filthy.

And just because it's small and compact doesn't mean you should carry around your nail clipper with you for purposes of using it on the go. You use cell phones on the go, eat gogurt on the go, or play PSP on the go. But I have never once been to CVS and seen advertised on the nail clipper packaging "Mobile self-grooming device inside! Cut your nails anywhere and everywhere!"

So I urge you to leave the clipper at home. Your nails can be half a centimeter longer for the next 3 train stops. Really, it'll be okay. But if you continue with this brazen behavior, please note that from now on, I will be collecting all my finger and toenail clippings in an empty mayo jar so that in case we do cross paths again and I catch you in the middle of another infraction, I'll have a jar full of clippings with which to nail you.

Sincerely yours,
Boogie Brown

An Exercise in GREATitude

2009-12-11T11:30:00.000-05:00

So my self-help podcast guy has been teaching me to practice greatitude. [Shakespearean aside: Isn't it ironic that you have to go to someone else for self-help?] You may be wondering what greatitude is. You may also be wondering why you're still reading this. I can only answer the first. Greatitude is an attitude of self-appreciation for being grrrreat...it was invented by Tony the Tiger. Obviously, his positive mental attitude took him places. Maybe I should be a cartoon mascot. Boogie the Brown. I would be an anthropomorphasized color swatch from Home Depot with sparkly eyes and big goofy hands in white gloves. Have you ever noticed that Mickey has really swollen hands? Get that mouse a Benadryl and a straw.

I digress. [Aside #2: Why do we say "I digress?" Why assert what we are doing exactly at that moment? That's like saying, "I am moving my mouth in concert with my vocal cords and brain to formulate words." "I am breathing air." "I am blinking while trying not to stare at your cleavage."] I am continuing my initial train of thought now. In practicing greatitude, one meditates statements that declare one's own greatness. Knowing how humble and modest I am (my friends call me Father Theresa), this was obviously a challenge for me. So I've started a carefully planned regimen to follow. Every 11 past the hour, I pull from my Bag of Greatitude (a velvet drawstring purse with scrap of paper fastened to it that says "Greatitude") a single slip of paper from the bushel within and read aloud from it. Each paper contains a statement of Greatitude. Some examples:

I am a unique snowflake landing atop the tongue of life.

I am a leaf on the wind. Watch how I soar.

I am a butterfuly emerging from its cocoon.

I am the wind beneath my wings.

I am the extra cherry on an ice cream sundae.

I am the clean pair of underwear you find at the back of your drawer that enables you to hold off on doing laundry for one more day.

I am the two by four hoisted into the air by Hacksaw Jim Duggan.

I am the maple syrup that makes pancakes delicious.

I am the flame that illuminates a birthday cake.

I am an endangered animal but in a positive way.

I am the gloss on a woman's lips.

I am an oasis of awesome...an awe-asis.

And so on and so forth. You get the idea. I really think this exercise of greatitude holds much promise. I think it would work wonders for me. But unfortunatley, everytime I draw a slip of greatitude from the Bag of Greatitude and hold it up to my face, I am only filled with anguish and frustration at the awful reminder that I can't read.

I am a perfect example of illiteracy.

[Aside #3: This The Get Down entry is brought to you by Dragon NaturallySpeaking dictation software from Nuance.]

An Exercise in Gratitude

2009-12-09T23:00:00.003-05:00

Many thanks to the elastic waistband on my underpants that prevents me from dropping trou when I least mean to, for example, when it's really cold outside.

Muchas gracias for paper toilet seat covers that make public restrooms comfortable enough for me to patronize with my leftovers. And thanks for being septic-tank-safe so that they go down easy when flushed and a volcanic eruption of my own excrement is avoided.

Danke for the plastic casing that wraps the ends of my shoe laces so that they don't resemble untangled candle wicks. How embarrassing 'twould be were someone to mistake them as such and light them on fire.

Domo arigato to real-life robots that seem to always make everything eleven times better whether it's robot soccer or robot culinary arts or robots dancing the human.

Merci to the little pieces of dirt that find their way underneath my fingernails and provide endless amounts of satisfaction when I scrape them out from under there.

Salamat to human eyeballs' inability to process images viewed in the dark and saving me from experiencing too much sight when walking in on my parents...

A Hallmark greeting card with a big "Thank You" emblazoned in a pink heart goes out to that spot on my back that I can't scratch, without which we would never have long wooden sticks with a replica hand fixed on its end. Those things are creepy AND practical.

Thank ye to British accents which are easy to imitate, hardly offend anyone, and used to make every inane thought of mine sound deeply sophisticated. "If H2O is composed of oxygen, does that mean I can breathe underwater??" never came off smarter.

Good lookin' out to pinky toes so that when your bookie comes calling, you have something to sacrifice without really losing much at all.

Much appreciation to the interweb for allowing me to broadcast my essential musings to the world, but mostly to my friends. Otherwise I would still be handwriting these things crayons and toilet paper and hand-delivering them to everyone's doorstep via my 2-speed Huffy.

Sincerest thanks to my 2-speed Huffy for giving drunkards something to pee on at 3 in the morning.

My deepest gratitude to you chin hairs for being there to stroke. My boss really loves stroking my goatee when she has a great idea.

And finally thank you to you, self-help podcast guy who, while I was benching 12 pounds at the gym, told me to thank every possible thing in the world from the gum on my shoe to the glint of a piece of plastic covering a half-eaten pie on the kitchen counter-top of the UNIVERSE. I'm truly grateful you had me busy thanking the pimple in my butt crevasse so I could avoid thinking about the harsh pain the 6th rep of my first set was bringing on. Thank you.

Oh Aziz...we should hang out sometime...maybe go up to Vermont for a long weekend...have an ice cream together...

2009-12-04T15:33:00.003-05:00

Note to self: Hire DJ to follow you around and play sirens every time you enter a room and "Buh-buh-buh-boooogie Broooooown!!!" every time you make a joke. Hilarity + 5; Awesomeness +15. Going to parties all by your lonesome -23. Yuh-yeahhh!

RAAAAAAAANDY does Impressions

RAAAAAAAANDY on Jacuzzis

RAAAAAAAANDY on Craigslist

Note to self: Doing a little jig while singing the last word of every sentence = GOLD. Me at next month's staff meeting: "I got me's an IDEEAAAAAAA. Let's sell mushrooms to MINOORRRRRRSSSSS. We'll make lots of MONEEYYYYYYSSSS." Yuh-yeahhh!!

A Freezing Morning

2009-12-02T12:00:00.005-05:00

This morning I strolled down to the street corner to greet my Breakfast Guy Juan and his wife who I only know as "ella." And yes, I do view everyone in my daily life as some form of superhero or another. There's Breakfast Guy, Door-Man, The Dry Cleaner, Urinator, Waistbandless Woman, The Pan-Handler, and my favorite Puppet Master. Unlike Puppet Master in the comic books who controls the minds of unsuspecting civilians, Puppet Master dances with marionette puppets in the middle of a crowded Times Square subway station, impeding thousands from getting to work on time and bringing little to no joy to the world. He also smells like pee.

So as I ordered my usual Morning Aneurysm (Mexican chorizo, eggs, cheese, and mayo on a roll) from Breakfast Guy, a tall jovial man sidled up to the food cart flashing a wide smile that felt more eerie than warm. He was dressed in a long black leather trench coat and sported a booted cast on his right foot, most likely the unfortunate result from frivolous merriment and frollicking. He greeted Juan through his perma-smile in a native Spanish peppered with guffaws. Surprisingly, Spanish guffaws sound exactly like English guffaws unlike a Spanish dog bark which goes "guau guau" instead of "woof woof." The man continued to smile and laugh as he ordered breakfast. Juan responded with the universal smile-and-nod often reserved for speakers of a language you don't understand and/or psychopaths. I'll let you decide which was the case here.

As Breakfast Guy prepared the order, the man in the black coat proceeded to joke around nonsensically and belted out a hearty laugh from his diafragem. But then, the most unexpected thing happened. In mid-laugh, he completely froze. His head tilted backward, his mouth open to the heavens, his back arched, and his two hands resting on his protruding belly, all locked in position, motionless, stationary, petrified. Sound no longer emanated from his mouth as his laugh had long since died out. He simply stood there in that mid-laugh pose.

"What the hell is going on??" my internal monologue said. Did Zack Morris call a timeout? Did Evie from Out of This World touch her two index fingers together?? (Have you ever tried doing that action yourself? It's not so easy lining up your two index fingers. Ever trying doing that with another person? I call it a "High One" or an "Alien Kiss," depending on the situation.) Was this the end of a TGIF sitcom when everyone laughs and freeze frames? Was he waiting for the producer to roll credits? Will someone please tell him that this is not a flash mob standing still in Grand Central and that one guy playing statue in front of a food cart is not as cool?

And just like that his watch started again and he continued to move as if nothing had happened. He got his breakfast and laughed while he walked away. And so goes the origin of a new super-person in my life: Mr. Freeze. I hope we cross paths again soon. I hope to one day learn the ways of the freeze frame laugh and apply it in inappropriate situations like staff meetings and Brisses. Juan then handed me my Aneurysm and I walked in the opposite direction, doing the robot all the way to the office. You can call me Mr. Roboto. Binary solo: 0000001 00000011 000000111 0000001111...

Offensive Line

2009-11-30T12:56:00.001-05:00

While sauntering through Herald Square yesterday and test-driving my new pimp-strut (I think it may need a little more dip in the front step), I happened upon a scene of American gluttony near stereotypical proportions. 3 obese women and their one medium-sized friend (maybe she shrunk in the wash) sat around a small circular park table having a fried chicken party. Each rotund woman had her own 16-piece bucket nestled in her lap that she dug into while a grease moustache-goatee formed a ring around her feeding hole. When a bucket was done, she would don it upon her head as her party hat.

The diameter of the table they sat around was only half that of one of the monster-truck-tire stomachs of these Bertha-sized women. It had the effect of making the party look like a trio of walruses and a blowfish hovering over a pre-school stool that served as a countertop for their chow. One woman had bone hanging out her mouth like a toothpick while she gammed away. And there were enough bones strewn about that one might mistake them for grave-diggers. But they were only digging into fried chicken (or Fried C; KFC isn't exactly chicken) with their teeth, and yet, with each dig, they were one step closer to the grave.

Like any good New Yorker, I stopped in my tracks to observe the spectacle with little regard for propriety. I pointed at them and took polaroids too. Sorry, the polaroids are not to be shared; they're for my personal collection of "Awful Things I Can't Keep My Eyes Off Of." I watched as they devoured that chicken as if they hadn't seen food in three weeks, but yet it was clear from the way their butts enveloped their chairs like a tub of playdough over a child's finger that starvation was certainly not the case here. I waited with bated breath to see who the the first to keel over would be.

I do however feel ashamed for critiquing the bodies and eating habits of these women. I do acknowledge the fact that everyone has a different body type from walking stick to frog body to pear-shaped to Abominable Snowperson. But the combination of them all sitting together around a tiny table inhaling buckets worth of fried meat in the middle of Herald Square for everyone to see made the moment all the more absurd and thus, open to ridicule.

Perhaps I'm being too callous. I should instead celebrate the fact that through their fried chicken party, these bold women were simply defying the rigid and ridiculous standards of American beauty (not to be confused with the classic Kevin Spacey film) and in Manhattan no less, an island that has more unsightly skinny people than North Korea (eww concentration camp joke? poor form). So if it's an act of defiance, a counterhegemonic protest, then that I can get behind. However, I refuse to literally get behind one of these women. KFC = Kentucky Flatulance Catalyst.

Fun with Antonyms! Hooray!...or should I say "Aw Shucks?"

2009-11-24T15:45:00.000-05:00

Conan does analogies for SAT prep, I do antonyms for GRE prep. Someone very smart once told me opposites attract. I hope this attracts me a lot of ladies :) Alright! Giggidy giggidy giggidy!

[Note: These are antohymns. Please sing aloud to the melody of your favorite church song.]

trepidation :: confidence

New York Knicks :: success

Sarah Palin :: anything remotely good for humanity

cleanliness :: my dad's toenails-ness

whorehouse :: comic book store

commando :: underpants

thank you :: shiv to the abdomen...and twist

Sammy Sosa :: blackface

delicious :: cream cheese with vanilla ice cream (dairy was a bad idea!)

Pope Ratzinger :: Obi Wan Kenobi

health insurance :: Republican idiocy

Muslim :: Muoverweight

gladiolas :: unhappyolas (Note: my cousin told this joke at his wedding. Yes, that's right, his wedding. Best of luck to his wife.)

butter face :: jelly ass

belly flop :: washboard abs river (a Texas Hold 'Em joke? Really?)

miniscule :: Rush Limbaugh's FACE

dry skin :: wet turkey breast

sense :: this blog

complete devotion to artistic integrity and aesthetic goodness :: Black Eyed Peas

mortal enemy :: my best friend Zombie Teddy!

self-affirming experience :: that time I fell asleep in freshman Bio and I had a dream about Ligers (lion + tiger) and I yelled myself awake in front of the whole class by yelping out loud "Please don't bite me Mr. Pussy Cat!!" to which the teacher replied, "I won't bite...hard."

clowns :: kind-hearted people that make children smile

the beginning of a book :: the end of fun and leisure

cinnamon :: antonym

reading my blog :: curing cancer, ending world hunger, fixing the environment, solving the economic crisis, ensuring world peace, erasing the hate, etc. etc.

Fly Love: Pantalonic Terminologic Question of the Day

2009-11-19T17:50:00.006-05:00

Why is the crotchal opening of a pair of pants or boxer shorts called the "fly?" The comparison of an open seam to an obnoxious insect is absurd. I have never once seen a house fly with genitalia coming out of it. And a fly with a zipper is definitely more akin to a Venus fly trap anyway due to the obvious dangers posed by the teeth of the zipper. But if a fly has teeth, wouldn't it be more appropriate to call it a "mouth?" Then again, if it was called the mouth, it would be much more confusing when you walk out of the McDonald's bathroom and Grimace turns to you and says, "Hey buddy, your mouth is open."

But let's not forget that fly is also a verb, just like sting is at once a rock icon and the action most commonly associated with my biting one-liners (e.g. "Your face smells like something very unpleasant!"). Perhaps fly is a reference to opening the cage door of your pants and letting your woodpecker soar free (and hopefully sore-free). I know why the caged bird sings, but who wants that singing coming from their pants. "Is that a caged bird in your pants or is that just your ringtone?" Hence, the term "fly" is really about letting one's self fly free.

When hiphoppers started using "fly" as an adjective on par with cool, were they making the comparison to the crotchal opening in pants? If so, then the declaration "yo you rockin' some fly kicks!" roughly translates to "Excuse me friend, the fashionable sneakers you are wearing have the same high level of appeal as the crevasse found at the top of a pair pants that hovers near the reproductive and waste organs. Kudos to you."

Isn't it odd that a button fly, when buttoned up, merely subdivides itself into a series of smaller flies? That's like shutting your door to keep people out of your room, but then opening up 5 tiny doors instead for tiny people to enter...Did that one fly over your head? Wordplay!

Dating Dues and Donuts

2009-11-17T15:51:00.001-05:00

Have you ever wondered what you should and should not do on a first date? If you answered yes, then I feel sorry for you. But rest assured, POTUS B-HO has come to save the day..t. When he's not busy bringing peace to the entire world, he gets his administration to issue Dating Do's and Don'ts via this government-sanctioned site: http://twoofus.org/educational-content/articles/dating-dos-and-donts/index.aspx.

I think B-HO should issue similar guides on other everyperson preoccupations like "What to do when you're in a public bathroom and realize your stall is out of toilet paper" or "Magic tricks on a job interview? Tada! or Nah-uh!"

Here is the Obama administration's list of Dating Do's and Don'ts for successful heteronormative, gender-conforming relationships:

Dues:
Take precautions and keep yourself safe. Wear elbow pads, knee pads, bicycle helmet, chin strap, mouth guard, jock strap, shin guards, mythril under armor, armor, chest plate, dinner plate, finger condoms, tanooki suit, and ride in the pope-mobile. That thing is virtually indestructible and can probably destroy demons and vampires should you happen upon any during the course of your date.

Be attentive. Focus very carefully on your date's cleavage or the spinach stuck between their teeth.

Be courteous. Always curtsy after your date says something. "Nice to meet you." Curtsy. "Why are you curtsying?" Curtsy. "Stop doing that weirdo." Curtsy. "I'm gonna kill Mona for making me go on this blind date!" Curtsy..

Remember to have fun! Bring a slip-n-slide. 60% of the time those things are fun everytime.

Follow Up. If you want to see the person again, wait for them by their place of work and follow them home. Then peer into their window while they change into house clothes and watch them prepare dinner. Is that paella you smell? Yes, yes it is. Excuse me, I mean, Si, si esa es.

Donuts:
Don’t be late! But just in case you are, wind all the clocks at the restaurant back an hour right before meeting up with your date. Then convince them that they're extremely early and must've forgotten about daylight savings. If you are late for more than an hour, wind all the clocks back for even more time and convince your date that they must be from the future! Great Scott!!

Don’t discuss emotional or controversial topics. Try not to bring up that time you cried in front of thousands of people after a five year-old made fun of your argyle socks at an anti-abortion rally. Instead, talk about safe, mundane things like the word plug and how weird it sounds when you say it over and over a hundred and three times. Or talk about every digit of the number pi. You'll never run out of conversation that way.

Don’t come on too strong. Try not to lift ridiculously heavy objects like city buses or baby elephants in front of your date so as not to intimidate them with your freakish mutant abilities. However, if your date becomes compromised by an attack from an army of giant wasps from another dimension, use full force to kick some thorax butt.

Don’t hide who you really are. I'm looking at you Clark Kent. Also, don't hide, you know, like behind the bushes or beneath a table or camouflaged as a brick wall. Though there exists sweatpants hot and sick-in-bed hot, there's really no such thing as creepy hot.

Don’t get too physical, too soon. In fact, don't even move a single muscle the entire date. Simply stare the whole time. Just channel Bernie from Weekend at Bernie's. He clearly had a good time AND got a sequel. It'll work for you too.

If this dating guide helped you in any way, I again continue to feel sorry for you.

MiserMatch.com

2009-11-10T12:07:00.002-05:00

My friend recently started dating a woman he met over the internet. No, it wasn't something trite like eharmony or match.com. He instead opted for a free dating service, because that's where all the cheap singles are. Their slogan hooked him in: "Love is priceless so why pay for it?" In other words, "The only thing better than hooking up is hooking up for free."

It's a smart move since you can be assured that the women that use this service are not only cheap themselves, but they're also looking for cheap mates. That is a low bar and utterly attractive to this non-pole-vaulter. A woman found on this site expects no fancy dinners, no cab or carriage rides. She wouldn't even expect to be swiped in on the subway. She'll know to crawl underneath the turnstiles instead. And no broadway shows or even off-broadway shows, just sock puppets over a cardboard box-turned-stage. She won't even shake her head in disapproval when after the show, you put the socks back on her feet.

The only risk you may have to deal with in using a free dating service is the ugly factor. Your spendthrift date may also be looks-thrift. Let's face it, beauty isn't exactly natural. More often than not it's paid for. Hygiene products like skin moisturizers, teeth whitenizers, assorted Zit-Offs, dandruff shampoo-carpet cleaner-all-in-one are all pricey. Hair cuts cost money and so do tweezers, razors, clippers, and other weed-wacking instruments. Gym memberships and healthy foods have a price too. So you may find yourself enjoying a Happy Meal over a milk crate with a pepporoni faced manatee with full beard, brillow pad hair, and a couple spare tires. It's never a good sign when your date asks you to roll them home.

But let's hope both of you are so cheap you've both refused to buy glasses your eyes desparately need. Or that you're trying to save on electricity by having a lightbulb-less apartment. A moonlit dinner is very romantic afterall...but mostly because you can barely make out the schlub sitting across from you. Love is blind for a reason.

Hair-ummm...?

2009-10-25T11:31:00.000-04:00

After searching my nose this morning for candy and other buried treasure, I discovered a single white nose hair (not to be confused with a single white female). Is this an indication of old age? Is my time on this planet starting its slow painful descent to the grave? Am I gradually transforming into Santa Claus?? I did also find a belly on my stomach this morning, but that's nothing new. It would be truly ironic if I were suddenly morphing into St. Nick considering I recently purchased reindeer sausage. I have yet to eat it. I'm saving it for Christmas Eve. I hoped it would teach Santa a lesson for leaving lit coal in my stocking last year and nearly burning down my house (the gingerbread variety).

This single strand of monochromatic nose hair is dangling out of my right nostril like an escape rope for whatever miniscule damsel is trapped in my nasal passages. At first I thought it was finely woven mucus, but upon closer inspection, it turned out to be a long strand of hair-string peaking out of my nose and looking for an eye of a needle to pass through. My immediate reaction was to clip it with a nail cutter (I don't have skissors handy) or to grasp it between index finger and thumb and yank it out like there's no tomorrow.

[Sidebar: If I yank, then I am the yanker and therefore, the hair would be the yankee. If that's the case, who is the yanker of the yankees? A-Rod's girlfriend? Heyyyoooohhhh!]

But then I stared at it for a moment longer and realized how unique it was. This single white strand asserting itself in a bushel of black hairs. How could I destroy this ugly ducking when it may yet still transform into the nose-hair equivalent of a swan? I'm really not sure what that would be, but I am excited to find out. Maybe it'll turn into cashmere. Who knows? Not to mention, I also have the irrational fear that if I yank the thread-like hair, somehow my whole sweater will unravel.

So hanging out my nostril it remains, oscillating in the wind like the pendulum of a grandfather clock. Perhaps it's just my nose that's turning into a grandfather. I hope the rest of my hair doesn't go salt and pepper on me. How odd it would be to have white leg hairs. I could just say I was wearing mink boots. But let's not get ahead of myself. My one nostril hair is enough. I shall call it Snowball. I just really hope this whole white hair thing doesn't start to, you know, snowball.

Germaphobic Waste Management Question of the Day

2009-10-22T12:56:00.002-04:00

The Germaphobe Dilemma (not to be confused with a Germanphobe --one who fears all things bratwurst): When a male germaphobe goes to the restroom to relieve his bladder after having interacted with the filthy city, does he wash his hands first before handling his waste hose? If he does, he runs into the risk of having wet hands while undoing his fly, inevitably covering his crotchal region with water stains. Though he may get the satisfaction of relieving his bladder, he will exit the bathroom giving others the impression that his bladder relieved itself all over him.

To avoid being called Mr. Piss Pants, he may decide to wash his hands first and then go through the process of drying them. In public restrooms that attempt to save the environment by providing blow dryers mounted to the wall instead of sand paper that pass as towels, this could easily become a long, drawn out process. By the time his hands are drip-free, his anxious member won't be.

If the germaphobe has an extreme phobia, would he also be afraid of re-dirtying his hands by touching his zipper, his buttons, his draws, his nethers? He may have to purell after every step of the way. This could be a very troublesome process given that the man-snake is known for lashing out if frustrated by an excessively long amount of waiting. It may spit hot venom all over his pants.

Portable catheters and daily-use disposable rubber gloves seem like the only viable solution for the male germaphobe. The former can deposit into a bag neatly strapped away to his calf. It can double as a heat pack. The latter will help deter any possible human interaction so as to avoid germ encounters since the rubber gloves raise his creepiness level to an all-time high (or should I say low?). Plus in the event he finds himself disrespected for any reason, he can finally challenge his disrespector to a duel since he will be equipped with a glove with which to slap this person in the face. Germaphobes everywhere, you're welcome. I just solved your life.

Funky Cold Nostalgia

2009-10-19T12:36:00.000-04:00

With a certain blogger's birfday drawing near (PS3 or Red Bull BC One tickets please, Birfday Santa), I am inclined to look backwards on my life. Note: Do not try looking backwards while also walking forwards. You may unknowingly run into oncoming traffic, a lamppost, or worse, an exgirlfriend...you know, the one with the herp. OCK WORD.

As far as reminiscing goes, I tend to view my life in the form of a cartoon. My first day at school takes the shape of a Tiny Toons episode. My first crush is an episode of Care Bears (my Care Bear "stare" has never been more inappropriate). My first time playing basketball morphs into ProStars with MJ, Gretsky, and Bo Jackson. My first encounter with a little person: David the Gnome. And the list goes on.

When thinking about my first black friends (of whom I carry pictures to prove to people I'm not a racist), one particular cartoon jumps from my memory banks: C-Bear and Jamal. It features a gullible young boy Jamal and his smooth talking, sunglass-wearing, fuzzy wuzzy teddy bear C-Bear, voiced by real life teddy bear Tone Loc. You may remember him for his visionary and seminal rap hit, aptly titled Wild Thing.

I was gonna say this was my favorite cartoon growing up until IMDB dutifully informed me that it aired in 1996, when I was already 13 years old. Based on this trajectory, that means I hit puberty when I was 24. That sounds about right.

Unlike other cartoons that featured token characters coded as black (read: Panthro from Thundercats, Jazz from Transformers), C-Bear and Jamal put the black family upfront and had plenty of non-white, non-black, non-animal characters to boot. The show also taught me about peer pressure, social problems, and re-enforced the notion that taking the advice of a talking bear is actually the wise thing to do. Ha, and they laughed at me in high school for walking around with a Teddy Ruxpin doll. Those fools.

So when in doubt, trust C-Bear even though he may sound like he's been smoking herb and slapping around hookers. Yogi, Baloo (naked or pilot version), Berenstein, Gummi, or Care are also bearable substitutes. You'll bearly notice the difference. Bears are our moral compass and best friends, but only as long as they have the ability to talk. If however they only speak in roars, I recommend a different cartoon, one that taught me about Latinos: Speedy Gonzalez. Better make quick and "Andale! Andale! Arriba! Arriba!"

The Nighty Nose Def

2009-10-15T11:23:00.004-04:00

It has just come to my attention that a friend of mine has a serious disability. It pains me so much to see him suffer that I felt it was my obligation to inform the world of his condition even though he has not authorized this entry.

I discovered his unfortunate circumstance recently. It all started at a slumber party in my friend's basement last weekend. I brought my Masters of the Universe sleeping bag. It glows in the dark so not only is it kickass, but neon green He-Man protects me from the dark too. My friend's mom made chili and we devoured it like crabs on crotch fuzz. And as these boys-only slumber parties go, the evening devolved into a veritable fart-fest, as in a festival of farting, as in a continuous celebratory display of flatulence. We called it Difwarti (high five for culturally competent puns!).

But there was one problem: my friend, let's call him Luke, couldn't join in on the fun. You may be wondering, does Luke suffer from a mute colon? No, far from it. But he does suffer from a deaf nose. That is to say, his nose knows no scent. So while we continued to release putrid gaseous waste into the air, Luke sat there unkNOSEngly and incogNOSEnt of what was going on. The nose-cripple bastard ruined Difwarti! 90% of the fun comes from making someone cringe at the vile sent emitted from your escape pod (the other 10% comes from the satisfaction of emission), but alas, Luke cringed not. That's when he came out to us and said, "You guys, I've been meaning to tell you this for a long time...I'm nose deaf...I hope we can still be friends."

We were shocked. A few guys even stormed out of the room. One yelled, "I knew you were lying when you said I didn't have B.O.!" As for myself, everything suddenly made sense. I always found it odd that Luke never put his nose up to scratch-n-sniff snickers, but instead just kept scratching, kind of like a pathetic dog trying to get into the house. And rarely did he ever have blue or red marker ink on his nostrils from getting too close to the Mr. Sketch markers. And never once while we were in a public restroom did he laugh at my joke that "damn, this bathroom sure smells like a bathroom!" Then again, no one ever did, except my cousin Borris who can give you a contact high just by breathing on you.

Luke went on to describe his condition to us and how it's affected his life...how he loves hard-boiled eggs and tuna fish sandwiches, how he never knows when to change his baby sister's diaper, how he's tasted spoiled milk more times than he can remember, and how this one time, someone told him to stop and smell the roses, and he cried himself to sleep that very night. This after he surrounded his bed with a roomful of crushed roses and he screamed over and over towards the ceiling "I CAN'T!"

After hearing his heart-wrenching story, I committed myself to finding a cure, not just for Luke but for all the nose-deaf people out there deprived of enjoying the full experience of a warm apple pie. I don't care if it involves shoving smelling salts covered in Sex Panther(made from real bits of panther) up his nose, I will find a way to jumpstart his malfunctioning sense. Just call me Nostrildamus 'cuz I only see his nose in my future.

As for the rest of you, you can learn more about Luke's condition here: http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Anosmia. And I encourage you to donate to my foundation NoseNoLimits.org because you just never know who might be nose-deaf or eye-dumb or mouth-blind or ear-mute or brain-impotent.

Paranormal Activity, I’m Glad You Weren’t in 3D

2009-10-09T11:17:00.002-04:00

excerpt from my review:

I really dislike scary movies (and the Scary Movie series for that matter). When I saw The Ring, it was on HBO at 10 in the morning in the middle of July with the summer sun beaming into my living room, and I still couldn’t bear to see a television screen for an entire month afterwards. I totally went analog and had to read books for entertainment. It was terrible. All the characters sounded like me!...

Read the rest of my review at pinkraygun.com!

The Hand-ler

2009-10-07T11:58:00.006-04:00

Today on my morning commute, I nestled my buns in between two seated passengers on the train. While hunched over with my head down, the man to my left caught my gaze with his peculiar actions. He sat there with his arms rested on his lap, and continuously wafted each of his hands with methodical consistency. And when I say wafted, I mean the same way one might discreetly waft away the gaseous cloud of stank after a public display of fartulence. He would extend his left hand forward, palm turned inward, and waft it with the right hand for three times. Then, he would extend the right hand forward, palm turned inward, and waft it three times with the left. He performed this absurd act over and over for at least four stops. Was it some kind of ritual? Was he blessing his hands? Or cursing the attractive male to his right in a fit of jealous rage? Or maybe he was trying to cool down his palms after handling hot coals? [Tangent: When Santa Claus leaves naughty little boys and girls coal in their stockings, is the coal lit?? That's just cruel Santa. Way to burn down the house.]

It actually reminded me of this one time in high school when we caught the Latin teacher (not to be confused with the Latina teacher, Profesora Gomez) at his desk doing what only can be best described as seated tai chi with the intent to kill. Whatever the guy next to me was doing, I prayed to Jesus (my Chicano friend, not the son of God) that he did not have the intent to kill.

In any case, he was clearly focused on his hand routine. He breathed heavily and in rhythm with his actions as he did it, kind of like lamaze class (uhh, not that I've ever been...). Maybe he was about to give birth I thought. Then suddenly, he sped up the wafting. Instead of three wafts per hand, he went down to two wafts each, and then to one each. My head was spinning watching his hands go faster and faster and faster and then....the train screeched to a halt. He stood calmly and deboarded. "What the hell just happened?"

As soon as he left, I did a seat slide-over. Now, directly seated in front of the window across the way, I could see my reflection. My head had shrunken to the size of a kiwi.

Words with The oGRE

2009-10-05T13:52:00.000-04:00

That's not a hug, that's an abduction.

A passage written almost entirely in GRE vocabulary:
The stolid but stalwart novitiate prevaricated the inimical harangue by fallaciously paraphrasing the elegic obloquy of an urbane and spleen progenitor. However, the impetuous, saturnine, and jejune tyro equivocated inchoate intimations that inveighed veracity and engendered disultory promulgations, fomenting a proliferation of inauspicious opprobrium. The neotitialate remonstrapulated the exigentuousity of the falendipitous resplengence akin to a malifstontae capalictus deronstata and pusillanimous puissant forendent nakamura pluribus unum poughkeepsie duodenum oblongata krzyzewski teppanyaki veni vidi vici optimus expiallodocious pinky toe.

Translation: Fuck Your Life cuz you're not getting a good score on this exam, you torpid-minded ignoramus. Even Ghostwriter can't help you now!

A passage written almost entirely in Boogie Brown vocrapulary:
I don't get it, you walk on a "runway," walk forwards on a "sidewalk," and sit down at the "movies." wtf?

Translation: I need friends, but there are obvious reasons why I don't have so many in the first place. I was so disappointed when I found out that "Paypal" wasn't a rent-a-friend service. Platonic escort FAIL.

Needless to say, I didn't score quite as high on The GRE as Zack Morris did on the SAT (fifteen hundred and two to be exact).

I think Stansbury is calling.

When will the hurting stop?

2009-10-03T11:04:00.002-04:00

The guard at the door made me turn my front pockets inside out. He then had me turn around and said in his coarse blase voice, "now the back pockets." I was at a loss as to how I was supposed to turn my butt pockets inside out. I settled instead for stuffing my hands into each pouch and molesting my own butt cheeks to prove the pockets were empty. I thought my performance deserved at least a 20 dollar tip, but he was no bachelorette party and I doubted a desk jockey like him would carry anything bigger than a five anyway.

After proving I was contraband free, he led me into a sound-proof room with soul-sucking fluorescent lights, and sat me down at my station. Big brother looked down at me from a series of cameras hovering over each station. They broadcast to a bank of monitors at the guard's desk, where I'm sure he looked on like the albino from Princess Bride delighting in every year extracted from my life by "the machine." Where was Andre the Giant and the jerry-curled swordsman when you needed them?....To my knowledge, the former is 6-feet under (but laid horizontally, not vertically; otherwise his head and torso would be sticking out of the plot) and the latter got typecasted and now appears as the omnipresent swashbuckler on bottles of spiced rum. But I digress...

I clicked start on the computer screen, and the game of torture known only as the GRE began. For those that don't know, GRE stands for Generating Responses of Excruciation. It's more like a psychological experiment testing my ability to endure pain for 3 hours than it is an aptitude exam. The GRE (pronounced "gree," short for "grief") comes in the form of a computer adaptive test that adapts to my every move. It's like a Darwinian bird and I'm the environment, and unfortunately, the environment always gets shitted on.

The problem is that the GRE does not function like normal evaluators in our society, utilizing positive enforcement for accomplishing goals and strong performance. It does not give gold stars for sharing my toys or smelly stickers for raising my hand before talking. Instead of high fiving me, The GRE rewards correct answers by sweeping my leg with harder questions! That's like a firefighter that saves a cat from a tree and gets rewarded by being thrown into a lion pit with a bread knife and a half can of spam. It's like winning the 100 meter dash at the olympics, and instead of gold, you get your left leg chopped off and then forced to run the New York City marathon. Abu Ghraib, eat your heart out...too soon?

I frantically clicked away as my body sunk lower into my chair with each passing question. Several times during the test I looked up at the cameras and gave the guard the finger. My brain was getting bruised worse than Kanye's ego at the hands of POTUS B-HO. Images of mushroom clouds erupted in my mind over and over and over. After nearly three hours, it was finished...or so I thought. The GRE decided to throw an extra 30 minute section of "experimental" questions at me. It was the encore to the show that no one asked for. A second helping of Aunt Tom's wild meat surprise while you're still trying to hold down the first serving. But I endured.

At the end of it all, I was slumped over the side of my chair, drenched in my own sweat and other anonymous wastes, my mouth agape and begging in dry whispers for water and/or my mother. A pair of burly men in white lab coats came and dragged me away. I think one of them stole my wallet and flicked me in my teeth. When I came to, I found myself in a barren field half naked (I'll let your imagination decide which half...left or right). I crawled to the side of a lonely road where I stuck out my thumb with a cracked nail. A weathered Chevy pickup pulled over beside me.

The driver leaned out the passenger window and asked, "Where ya headed?"

"Grad school," I replied.

"I see. That explains why you look like shit. The GRE..."

I climbed in and we drove off into the horizon.

Ro-bust

2009-09-28T09:29:00.002-04:00

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!

2009-09-24T12:01:00.000-04:00

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!

2009-09-21T11:33:00.004-04:00

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

2009-09-18T10:10:00.003-04:00

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...

2009-09-17T06:28:00.001-04:00

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!

2009-09-14T11:14:00.001-04:00

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!

2009-09-10T11:45:00.001-04:00

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

2009-09-07T10:33:00.000-04:00

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

2009-09-04T12:06:00.002-04:00

(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

2009-09-03T03:15:00.001-04:00

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.

Hancocking the Blogosphere

2009-08-30T21:55:00.009-04:00

Recently inspired by some riveting travel blogs (mostly my own, circa May 2009, peep the archives), I recently embarked on a journey to the other side of the world on my first ever blog signing tour. It's kind of like a book signing tour except rather than inscribing my name on the inside cover of a 200-page paperweight, ahem, I mean paperback, I take a large sharpie marker and doodle my childhood memories all over your laptop screen. A vast improvement to your personal computer I assure you. Who wouldn't want "Daddy yells at mommy while ignoring me" rendered in perfect felt tip chiaroscuro as their permanent desktop?

And for my especially good looking blog followers, my blollowers, (but let's be real, I have a dearth of those. Good looking people don't read blogs. They get laid.) they get a nice wet kiss on their laptop screen too. You might be wondering if I don lipstick for the occasion to leave a nice lasting impression of my face labias. The answer is no. But I do eat a generously frosted cupcake beforehand which allows me to leave a nice pair of sugar lips beside my rendition of "Kindergarteners throw erasers at my face...when I was a fourth-grader."

The Boogie Brown's Get Down International Spectacular Blog Signing Booty Shaking Body Snaking Tour (that's the annotated title) was extremely extensive and extravagant. I went to two cities. Well actually, two airports. Well, actually, two airport parking lots. Those of Newark Liberty (not to be confused with the equally dreadful New York Liberty) and Narita International in Tokyo, home to their cartoon mascot Kutan. She, he, or it is exactly what I think about when flying to Japan: a cutesie giant potato with arms, legs, and goggles ready to navigate the open skies. And let me just say, there is no sarcasm here. I really do think about giant potatoes when I'm high in the sky.

More insights from my travels later, so in the meantime, konichiwait.

Blog Entry

2009-08-24T17:58:00.003-04:00

There, I wrote one. Satisfied, world? Sheesh!

==============
In other news, The Get Down's stable of summer interns has been mysteriously unlocked, and all the interns unexpectedly liberated, causing undue mayhem in our offices. While we continue to round up said interns with our lassos and free-pizza-bait, we hope you continue to enjoy our previous entries (start with July 2008 and work your way up) until we resolve this pressing matter.

Sincerely,
Boogie Brown

Dealbreakers! Part Deux!

2009-08-07T13:05:00.001-04:00

Cruzin, the bruised craisin responsible for all this broken deal talk, has generously contributed her own list of DB's as she calls them. She is a master DB spotter, so read carefully. Enjoy!

He eats a turkey leg while shitting...DB!

He only engages in sex while dressed up as a beaver...DB!

He's one of the wiggles...DB! (see picture for the Wiggles)

The carpet don't match the drapes...DB!

He takes laxatives as his source of fiber...DB!

His dog makes out with his penis...DB!

His penis makes out with the mirror...DB!

He uses proactiv on his ass...DB!

He's always fooled by and has a conversation with someone's voicemail greeting that goes "Hello [pause] Who is this? [pause] This is a recording..."...DB!

He wears socks with sandals...DB!

His web browser automatically clears its history...DB!

He hits me...DB!

******
Note: Despite the crass humor invoked in today's blog entry, the persistent problem of domestic violence is no laughing matter. To find out more information on how to stop domestic violence, visit the website for the National Domestic Violence Hotline or visit your local library and learn more. Let's break the silence and end domestic violence.

Dealbreakers!

2009-08-05T12:36:00.001-04:00

A few months ago, an article in the nytimes discussed how some people end romantic relationships based on their partner's disagreeable taste in books. "Ugh, I noticed that he read more Camus than Sartre, so I deleted his number," exclaimed one woman who refused to be identified. While this may seem harshly judgemental, petty, and elitist, it can't be denied that we all have our own set of deciding factors that determine if someone gets the bed or the door. Whether it be books, movies, attire, mannerisms, there will always be something that sounds our alarms, forcing us to cry out "NEXT!" These are dealbreakers. There's no comprising here. Comply or fly. I've assembled a list of some of my dealbreakers below. What are some of yours?

Dealbreakers!

Their feet are bigger than mine (Men's 10).

They're pretentious enough to say that they only listen to music without lyrics in it.

They own more cats than they have personal hygiene products.

Their bookmarked websites include dealingwithVD.com and rushlimbaugh.org.

They wear crocs to the grocery store.

They wear crocs.

They have a playlist on their iPod entitled "Best of Yannis, no really, it is."

They have a picture of George Bush in their office and it is completely free of dart holes, bullet holes, or any other holes made from a sharp or explosive object.

They walk around with a bluetooth headset on their ear regardless of whether or not they're talking on the phone.

Their tan melts off in the heat of the subway station.

They only read books with an Oprah's Book Club sticker prominently displayed on the front cover.

When they talk about recession, they're talking about their hairline.

They didn't roll their eyes during Titanic. Instead they cried.

The only thing they collect is alimony.

You could run a hose through the gap in their teeth.

They're still wearing skorts.

They have an unfinished tattoo of Brittney Spears on their back.

The pronounce the H in words like "whom," "what," and "whim."

They wear anything made out of hemp.

You don't know what's dirtier, their hair or their feet.

They make Manute Bol look obese.

They are perpetually stuck in Jeopardy land and say everything in the form of a question?

To protect their eyes from harmful UV rays, they've decided to wear sunglasses at night.

They DVR Gossip Girl.

When greeting a person, they kiss the air on both sides of that person's face.

The word "lotion" has never once made it onto their shopping list. See elbows for confirmation.

They still have pillowcases featuring all five members of New Kids on the Block plus a plush doll of Marky Mark.

Their last name is Palin.

*********
Thanks to Cruzin' (cranberry-raisin that's bruised) for the idea.

The Subway Stalemate

2009-08-03T15:28:00.002-04:00

Subway rider 1: Excuse me, that's some nice nail polish you got on your toes there.

Subway rider 2: Gee thanks.

Subway rider 1: It really compliments your skin tone nicely. May I ask what color it is?

Subway rider 2: Yes, you may ask.

Subway rider 1: Umm, ok, what color is it?

Subway rider 2: Pig's blood.

Subway rider 1: .......................................... [clears throat] I thought so! Really, I thought to myself "that's pig's blood," but then I thought it might be goat blood but then I really thought the hue was more piggish. You can also tell because of the extra bit of texture. When will I learn not to second guess myself and go with my gut?

Subway rider 2: Probably never.

Subway rider 2, anticipating more trivial conversation, looks up at Subway rider 1 who for once has nothing left to say. Awkard silence fills the 6-inch gap between them as the train rumbles on for another five stations. The seven minutes that transpire feel more like an eternity. At the City Hall stop, Subway rider 1 picks up a briefcase and prepares to exit. Subway rider 2 looks on with hesitation.

Subway rider 2: Uh...bye Mayor Bloomberg.

Subway rider 1: Bye now!

Subway rider 1 forces an uncomfortable smile, the kind that most people reserve for when they silently pass gas at a dinner party.

End scene.

Social interaction on the steel trains beneath our fair city remains a confusing and unsettling prospect. Social interaction in any environment can be stressful (ever try flirting with your sky diving instructor while they're strapped to your back and you're both plummeting to the earth at 180 miles per hour? "I think we're falling for each other" is a terrible line). But compounded with the particular characteristics of the subway, and you've got a veritable shitfuck on your hands. (Shitfuck? What's that? A dildo made of feces??)

You would think that an enclosed space overcrowded with human beings literally pressing up their bodies against each another would be conducive to social interaction. Sounds like a typical Saturday night in the LES, right? But it's not, it's different. Instead, we remain completely isolated and detached, like a bunch of commuting North Koreas in the United Nations of mass transit. So when a passenger finally decides to break the communication blockade, it's shocking, jarring, and downright mindboggling (not to be confused with mindscrabbling, mindtabooing, or my childhood favorite, mindkerplunking). It's like talking in the men's room.

[Admittedly though, there really are some characters on the train that you just wanna talk to and ask them, "Why are you wearing Uggs in the middle of July? What is the purpose of your life? Really, what is it 'cuz I am out of ideas."]

Because of this non-social environment, a particular form of conversation often takes place when the silence policy is broken. One person breaches the social divide and makes initial contact, while the other person's anti-social alarm goes off "Stranger-danger, Will Robinson!" This causes the latter to be reserved but cordial, limiting responses to monosyllabic words like "fuck" and "you." The initiator then realizes that they've done wrong and attmempts to retreat from the conversation. But all is futile because they're still on the train together, standing inches apart with nowhere to go. It'd be too awkward to move to the other end of the car, and the next stop is still an eternity away. They both look at each other in silence; neither wants to speak but they can't help but notice the other person now, nervously waiting for them to say something. They're impossible to ignore! Like a pink elephant sitting on your chest swearing he's hetero! The social contract of non-social derecognition has been broken and can nay be repaired. This is officially an upside down awkward turtle with an inappropriate boner kind of moment. And such is the way of the Subway Stalemate.

And the resolution of a Subway Stalemate is always the icing on the awkward cake. When the train finally finally arrives at your stop, do you acknowledge the other person and say "g'bye" or do you immediately hurl yourself through the window of that burning building of a situation and run away for dear life? The former regards the other passenger as a human being, while the latter regards them as one of the four horsemen of the apocalpyse. Decisions, decisions...

Subway Rider Rule #635: In order to prevent forest fires, wait I mean Subway Stalemates, consider boarding trains only while wearing a full suit made entirely of hardened dog poo. This is a surefire way to deter all potential mates from stale-ing with you. Alternatively, you can wear a beard made of live bees and make buzzing noises with your mouth. Or you can stab a person in the throat as soon as they utter a word to you...mentally stabbing them that is, with the dagger called emotion. If everyone followed this crucial rule, then we'd all be able to maintain our complacent, isolated, estranged (opposite of eharmony) selves.

The Funniest Words in the English Language

2009-07-28T15:57:00.002-04:00

In many professional situations that mask themselves as "social" settings, say at the office picnic or the winter holiday party (also known as the "drunk boss dances awkwardly in front of interns" party), you may find yourself in conversation that requires you to be warm and witty but still be able to maintain a healthy balance of propriety. You have to be able to engage your colleagues so as not to appear socially awkward or inept and thus avoid becoming the office pariah (read: Shit-breath Stan in accounting) but without over-engaging and relinquishing decorum so as not to become, say, the office slut (read: Shit-breath Stan has that breath for a reason).

Since I am both a master conversationalist and a master of magnanimous living, I wish to provide you a surefire way to simultaneously engage, entertain, and impress your work colleagues for all such occasions. The easiest and most efficient way to do this is to use words from the following list "The Funniest Words in the English Language." The title of the list is not an exaggeration. Insert these words carefully, gently even, into the conversation and you will surely captivate your audience. They'll approve with smiles and laughter, and you will remain carefully within the bounds of professionalism. Master this office conversation technique and someday you may be the boss that drinks a little too much and embarrasses yourself with the temp at the next work function.

The Funniest Words in the English Language:

cocksure

cockamainy

cock-a-doodle-doo

cocktail

peecock

poppycock

cockacola

cockaine

hot cockolate

coxswain

Hitchcock

Hancock

cockpit

helicockter

shuttlecock

caulking gun

cockroach

Words like "pussyfoot" and "titmouse" are good too but that may be pushing the envelope with HR.

Clearly these words are completely random and have no real correlation other than the fact that they'll get a good rise out of you. If you find yourself having a hard time getting these words into the conversation, try using some social lubricant and a have a stiff drink or two first. Now that you have these tools, straighten up, be direct, and thrust yourself into conversation with the confidence that you can engage anyone. Godspeed.

Join us tomorrow when I present the funniest words in the Sanskrit language.

Fossilitating Our History

2009-07-22T16:16:00.010-04:00

As I'm sure you already know from your google calendar alert, July is National Dinosaur Month. Every year, we use the hottest month of the summer to celebrate the achievements, history, and struggle of these often forgotten behemoths. From PSA's featuring celebrities talking up the contributions of their favorite dinosaurs to free outdoor screenings of The Land Before Time to showcases of traditional dinosaur dancing (the "triceratop hop" is a favorite amongst young people), the month is filled with jurassic-sized learning opportunities that remind us that nothing is cooler than dinosaurs...except maybe robot dinosuars! Robo-sauruses (or is it Robo-sauri?) if you will.

As I sit here writing this, clad in my favorite sweater with a smiling stegosaurus on the chest (it reads "Dinosaur Picnic: I got the plates, you bring the cups."), I'm reminded of my childhood when these giant reptiles ruled my imagination. Other kids spent afternoons dreaming of playing in the NBA or flying to the moon, while I dreamed of becoming an actual brontosaurus. (Did you know that the brontosaurus' nostrils are located at the top of its head rather than beneath its eyes? I did.) I spent hours upon hours doing neck-stretch exercises and eating leaves off the plastic fern in our living room. I wrote emergency evacuation plans in case meteors struck the earth once again. I would tell my mom things like, "I need a bath' cuz I'm exSTINK!" I even dressed up the neighbor's dog like a T-rex and practiced running away from it.

But then, my world came crashing down like a pile of dinosaur bones at the Natural History Museum during an earthquake. In 1993, Steven Spielberg and Michael Crichton made a piece of anti-dinosaur propaganda called Jurassic Park. It's like Birth of a Nation to the dinosaur community. It depicted our Cretaceous friends as violent, savage beasts that threaten humanity with sharp claws, giant fangs, and an insatiable appetite for flesh. It was one of the lowest points in history (second to a certain meteor shower), but because of the outrcry that followed this hateful, ignorant, speciesist movie, the pro-dinosaur movement was truly galvanized. The movement blossomed instantenously just like a tiny capsule submerged in hot water that suddenly turns into a dinosaur-shaped sponge.

Millions took to the streets and demanded equality for dinosaurs no matter how large they were, no matter how small their brains, no matter how dead and extinct they remained. The outpouring of support was infectious. People everywhere wore Che Guevara-like t-shirts featuring a militant Iguanadon or they wore buttons that said "Tip the SCALES of justice for DINOSAURS" and "Spielberg, you'll be dinoSORRY!" The movement was victorsaurious when in 1995 then President Bill Clinton signed a bill apologizing for past wrongdoings against dinosaurs and declared July National Dinosaur Month.

Since then, dinosaurs have been woven into the fabric of our society. "Rex" is ranked number 2 on the most common baby names list. Toronto named their professional basketball team the "Raptors." And last November, we elected our first black/apatosaurus president Barack Hussein Littlefoot Obama. And the rest, as they say, is pre-history.

Happy National Dinosaur Month! Enjoy this clip of Dinosaucers, warring factions of dinosaurs from outer space!

And the winner is...

2009-07-20T11:19:00.000-04:00

Dear World,

I regret to inform you that a tiny but very bright, shining light went out forever yesterday. At approximately 11:18 in the evening, Gadget, the brilliant and beautiful fast-talking, wrench-wielding cartoon mouse of Rescue Ranger fame, died suddenly and unexpectedly.

After mounting an impressive unanimous victory in The Get Down's lovefest contest "Who should I date?", Gadget left her tree domicile in a hollowed out toothpaste tube with wings and flew to Central Park to claim her first round prize, a nuzzle with me. She landed softly on on the west end of Sheep's Meadow, deboarded her vessel, and began to run towards me across the grass. I was dazzled by how refined and graceful she was, running on two hind legs rather than on fours, with her lustrous hair ebbing and flowing in the night wind. As she scurried through the field, time began to slow as if all the clocks in the world were taking a break.

In the corner of my eye, a black and white animated furball appeared out of nowhere and pounced on top of Gadget. I rushed to stop this feline attacker, but it was too late. She had already been swallowed whole. Her devourer turned and looked at me with brazen satisfaction as he picked his teeth with a claw. He extracted a pair of goggles from the back of his throat and flung them at my feet. "Suffering succotash sucka!" he yelled idignantly. With those words, he disappeared into the black night.

It was Sylvester, the cat not Stallone, that did this foul deed of eating a cartoon mouse. I thought he only had eyes for Tweety, but apparently his palate is not quite that discriminating.

But perhaps a conspiracy is at hand. Another attack in an ongoing war between two rival anthropomorphized and iconic woodland creatures with alliterated names: Bugs Bunny and Mickey Mouse. Bugs has always been jealous of Mickey's pants-wearing and Mickey, with his high-pitched voice, has always been envious of Bug's freedom to express himself in drag. Perhaps Gadget was another unfortunate casualty in this decades-old feud.

I dream of a day when Disney characters and Warner Bros. characters can sit down together at the table of brothersisterhood. I dream of a day when Donald Duck, Daisy Duck, and Daffy Duck can realize that they are related ducks and then fly away together in V-formation. I dream of a day when Speedy Gonzalez can visit the Mexico pavilion at Epcot Center and when Darkwing Duck can ride the Batman coaster at Six Flags.

Let us not allow Gadget's demise be for nothing. The best way we can memorialize her is to end the violence, end the needless suffering, and end this war. Just as she brought together old junk to form spectacular crime-stopping creations, so should we bring talking animals together to form spectacular knee-slapping collaborations.

Gadget is survived by a fat cheese-loving mouse and a pair of quarreling twin chipmunks.

Sincerely,
Boogie Brown

P.S. Because of Gadget's untimely swallowing, The Girlfriend Lap Pillow will proceed to the second round of the "Who should I date?" competition. In the meantime, I shall nestle my cheek in the grooves of her thigh cleavage and lubricate them with my mourning tears.

Hot or Not? A discussion on the shades of gray in superficial attraction

2009-07-15T11:22:00.012-04:00

I find it quite insincere when someone calls another person "fucking ugly" when they usually have no intent or desire whatsoever to fuck said "ugly." Perhaps they should refer to such an eyesore of a person as "Keep it on! ugly" or maybe "virgin ugly." I think either of those terms would be easily more accurate and genuine. Interestingly enough, an "ugly fuck" on the other hand is not misleading at all because to fuck said "ugly" would truly result in an exhibition of ugly fucking.

Clearly though, the mere existence of the term "fucking ugly," which henceforth shall be renamed "Keep it on! ugly," implies that ugly is hardly uniform but rather operates on a scale of ugly with "Keep it on! ugly" ranking fairly low. A "butter face" serves as a counter example since such a person may still fall into the ugly category but can maintain an active social and romantic life by luring partners with their attractive bodies. "But her face!" potential targets cry out. It may pose as a deal-breaker for some, but for others, it may only pose a minor setback in a world riddled with shortcomings. Therefore, a "butter face" inches towards the hotness line while a "Keep it on! ugly" remains stranded miles away.

Conversely, there exist varying degrees of hotness (get it? degrees?...WORDPLAY!). For example, "sweatpants hot" is a commonly desired level of hotness in a potential mate. Such a person is "hot" even in sweatpants. But that's not to say said person gets hot in sweatpants because of course they do. That's what happens when one wears heavy cotton-poly blend apparel that is distinctly made to induce heat.

"Sweatpants hot" often holds a spot right below other highly coveted levels of hotness such as "flu hot" (I do not mean that such a person has a fever, but rather they look good even when they are disheveled, snot-covered and bed-ridden with the flu) or "manure hauler hot."
If one encounters a person that can maintain their hot even while getting knee-deep in a heaping pile of hot manure and smelling like cow dung, one should "holler" at this hot hauler.

At the opposite end of the hot spectrum is hotness specific to a region. "Philly hot" (a term renowned fashion designer and aspiring lawyer Michael Jacob knows plenty about) implies that one maintains a level of attractiveness that only seems high on a scale relative to the average person in Philadelphia. This proves to be quite misleading, however, because the city of Philadelphia ranks as one of America's ugliest and fattest cities. Not surprisingly, it is also the home of the much venerated cheesesteak. A person characterized as "Philly hot" unfortunately becomes "New York refuse" or "L.A. lonely" whenever they are a fish out of water. If ever a "Philly hot" is encountered, kindly inform them that leaving the city of brotherly love will only lead to their outcasting from society. Applying the adage "In the land of the blind, the one-eyed man is king" seems most appropriate.

Also at the low end of the stick is "club hot," a frustratingly deceptive hotness level that goes hand in hand with "outdoor ugly." Or in some alcohol-laden situations, "morning after ugly." One must always remeber that dark lighting, loud music, and a claustrophobic's nightmare of a dancefloor teeming with pheromones can heavily skew one's senses and sensibilities. "Club hots" should be approached with caution as they often represent a real gamble. It is in these situations, one should be prepared to employ the flashlight application on their iphone.

Academics and other scientific researchers continue to measure and classify these varying levels of attractiveness. In recent years, the hotness field has branched out as new studies have emerged carefully examining oxymoronic phenomena such as "fat hot" and "model ugly." Hotness studies continues to grow exponentially, but ultimately always remains one step behind a population and society constantly reimagining what constitutes hotness. Perhaps one day even uglies will be fucked.

Who should I date? Part 7 (minutes in heaven or some other shoe-closet equivalent)

2009-07-08T12:52:00.010-04:00

Ah, here we are again, faced again with the eternal question: Who should I date? (or for you snobbish grammaristas out there, Whom should I date? Definitely not you.) This is the seventh installment of our first-round matchups for matchmaking. Unlike past competitions for coupling which there were many a ridiculous competitor (16th seeds if you will), this round features two very serious candidates who will need every single vote to make it to the next round. It's do or date time! Let's get it on! So, dear reader, who should I date??

Gadget
Why I like her: I've watched this petite hottie of an inventor/grease-mouse for some years, since around the age of 6 to be exact. After all this time, I've come to the cumclusion that this wrench-wench is the only blonde I'm interested in sharing my nuts and bolt with (Scarlett Johansson, you've officially been demoted!). Not only is her butt-length hair way hot, but she's got the smarts to match. That's like combining MIT with U of Miami. Who else could create an all-terrain vehicle out of plungers and rubberbands while rocking an hour-glass figure? McGeyver, consider your number taken. And she handles tools like no other mouse this side of Anaheim, and guess what? There's no bigger tool than yours truly. I'm the Black & Decker all-in-one power drill in the toolshed of life.

Also on the plus side is the fact that the only competition in my way is an overweight mouse with a bad Sean Connery accent more interested in getting it on with a hunk of gouda than with a female, and two chipmunks, one of which wears a Tommy Bahama I'm-an-obnoxious-tourist-in-Hawaii shirt everyday of the year and the other who dresses up as Indiana Jones on the regular, thus demonstrating his unwavering grip on reality. Plus their voices are higher than Mike Tyson's on helium. Not exactly Don Juans in the treehouse. Not to mention, I'm at least 60 times the size of these misguided vermin. Don't get it twisted, size matters and I'm a god among ants in this scenario. (Normally, I'm the needle in a haystack or the shoe-string on a plate of crinkle cuts. FAIL)

Did I mention she's a mouse? Getting some tail takes on whole new meanings with her. Gadget puts the FINE back in redefine. Check her badass self at 7:29 of this clip:

OR

The Girlfriend Lap Pillow
Why I like her: For some reason, when she introduced herself to me one winter evening, her name immediately made me think "girlfriend." I admit I couldn't help but stare at her legs all night, but a person's best attribute always stands out and this was her only attribute. I couldn't resist the urge to lay my head upon her supple legs. It was like resting my head against a cloud or a cotton ball or a woman's thighs. I felt like a babe in me mother's lap. Is that weird? Probably. But The Girlfriend Lap Pillow doesn't judge. She only welcomes. She let me sleep there all night and not once did she complain that she was "losing circulation to her legs" or that I was "snoring so loudly I caused an avalanche in the Swiss Alps" or that I was "sucking my thumb like a little bitch that misses his momma and really needs to cut the cord already because he should be a grown ass man but his infantile ways are starting to make him look more disposable than yesterday's newspaper." But no, she did not utter a single complaint, or a single word for that matter. There was only tender, love, and care in her silence...and in her legs. To top it off, she also comes in a black skirt.

One caveat though, I worry that I may cheat on her with a snuggie.

This race is a dead heat (kind of like a zombie fart), so cast your vote now!

Rave About the Machine, Renegades of Junk

2009-07-08T12:09:00.002-04:00

When I was a wee lad (today, I’m a full grown leprechaun), my beloved psychotic aunt would often take me to the Liberty Science Center, a hands-on, interactive playground of a museum that purported to make learning FUNdamental. At the center of LSC stood this impressive structure made up of coiled metal, wooden chutes, pulleys, wires, and brass metal balls. It was a Rube Goldberg machine according to the handy placard beside it. Wikipedia describes such a machine as “a deliberately over-engineered apparatus that performs a very simple task in a very complex fashion, usually using a chain reaction.” It’s kind of like that board game Mouse Trap or that rudimentary alarm system you once fashioned to protect your valuable stash of comic books and Ninja Turtles. In any case, I was fascinated. Its inherent duality of complexity and simplicity just tickled my imagination…tickled it with a broad quill feather. Oh yes, that’s the spot…

For the rest, jump to PINKRAYGUN.COM! Huzzzahhh!

Death Becomes You

2009-06-26T18:29:00.006-04:00

The King of Pop is dead. And no, I do not mean Coke CEO Muhtar Kent. The carbonated captain is still kicking and of course, delivering high fructose corn syrup to the masses. The only thing Michael Jackson, on the other hand, is delivering to the masses is a giant spoonful of mourning with a side of nostalgia. In the wake of his death, people all over the world who were touched in a special place by MJ are memorializing him by being him--they're dressing up as the hallowed entertainer and doing their best impersonations all over the streets. In the circle of life, his death has birthed millions of dopplegangers. The missing glove look, the tip toe and pelvic thrust, the taped up nostril bat-nose look, the soul glo and whitening cream look, the crotch-grab-air-point-air-kick-HEE-HEE. It's everywhere. It's spread faster and wider than swine flu. It seems as though everyone has been making over the man in the mirror as their way to wave goodbye to the Man in the Mirror. If emulation is the greatest form of flattery, Michael, consider yourself flattened...or should I say flatlined? Too soon?

Could you imagine if imitating the recently deceased in both dress and action became standard protocol for mourning the dead? When Ronald Reagan died, Americans everywhere would've slung on their cowboy boots and then proceed to sling crack rock to inner city black folks. When Charlton Heston died, many mourners would have probably drowned trying to part bodies of water with nothing more than a shepard's staff...or a rifle. And I would just feel bad for people when I kick the bucket, buy the farm, bite the big one, drink the coffee, tickle the monster, feed the chicken, smell the cheese, etc. Mourners would just be at a loss trying to take on these dashing good looks and attempting to crack hilariously absurd one-liners. But I suppose, the copy is never as good as the original. The emulation is remembrance not replacement. And I will always be better than you. So here's to MJ, the King of Pop, and to Boogie Brown, the King of Me. May his work live on and his stupid things forgotten, and may my stupidness continue to work and never be forgotten. Peace.

The Day After

2009-06-26T12:57:00.004-04:00

This morning I woke with my sequins-laden, gloved left hand resting calmly on my chest. I stood up quickly, spun around effortlessly and struck a pose in the mirror. I put on my fedora and an open button down, letting it expose my white v-neck undershirt. I stepped outside and each time my feet made contact with the ground, the concrete beneath would light up with every step. I was suddenly joined by little Carleton Banks, dressed identically, and who pelvic thrusted with me through the streets. We descended into the train station, and were about to hop on the boogie and ride it downtown, until we were confronted by a gruff Wesley Snipes. He demanded I dance and show him who's bad. So I kicked the air in the butt and let out an all-purpose "Hoooo!" through the subway tunnels, while the mist and wind from an open air vent blew threw my hair. Satisfied, we left, left for another time, a time when Eddie Murphy was once a pharaoh. After briefly transforming into sand, I emerged, adorned in gold and ready to King Tut the night away. Suddenly, there were thousands of Philippine prison inmates in bright orange at my back, mimicking in perfect unison my every movement. I welcomed their support. It didn't matter if they were convicted felons or not, and it didn't matter if they were black or white. To prove this latter point, I morphed my face into the face of the unique peoples of the world, both female and male, of every skin color, of every background, but all beautiful. For my last face, I morphed into a longtoothed werewolf. Michael J. Fox, eat your heart out. The inmates ironically morphed into the living dead and they rocked all night long. Before you knew it, we were all dancing while the world danced with us. That's the way I made them feel. Finally, I moonwalked off stage left, and let them all scream for more.

Mammarial Idiomic Question of the Day

2009-06-24T14:26:00.003-04:00

Here's a baffling turn of phrase: tit-for-tat. As used in yesterday's NY Times, "...two Iranian diplomats in a tit-for-tat response..." Is this akin to something like toys-for-tots? If so, who are these alleged tats and why are they getting all the tits? Are tats really the tit-deprived population of our society, warranting the need for the donation of tits?

Or is tit-for-tat closer in meaning to something like a money-for-guns program? If so, then where can I go to exchange my tats so I can get more tits? I would like to make good on this truly beneficial program.

And when we talk about tat, are we actually just abbreviating the skin mural better known as a tattoo? If that's the case, then I more readily understand a tat-for-tit, as in one made for a tit like perhaps a bullseye tattoo or maybe a one-eyed smiley, but tit-for-tat is a little more baffling. Is it that there are certain kinds of tits that are better suited for tattoos? Do the colorful employees of Miami ink look at a pair of chesticles and just declare, "Now that's a tit-for-tat!" and immediately endow the set with an ink masterpiece?

...In other news, it's been recently discovered that daytime drinking heavily degrades the quality of blog-writing...

To Make Change-Omelettes, One Must Break Change-Eggs

2009-06-22T11:41:00.000-04:00

At around Egg-thirty this morning, I went out and purchased a 6-holster carton of eggs from the local Chicken. As breakfast preparations are usually left to my able staff (read: my mother, who sleeps in the cupboard under the kitchen sink), I was caught off guard when I unpackaged my package of oval ova and found that instead of being their usual egg-shell white (yes, I keep color squares from Home Depot), they were the color of coffee and milk (Light Sienna #3245K). It was like the first time I saw black Barbie and I uttered to myself, "Wow, MLK, you can rest in peace now 'cuz racism is over!" From black Jesus to black Santa to black Barbie to black President and now to black eggs, our society has really come of age and we are truly post-racial. Well, I suppose the eggs weren't really black; they were light skin. But so what, our President is half-white. Nothing's perfect. But back to the topic at hand, now we as breakfast consumers have the option to raise our unwhite kids on unwhite eggs so they learn to love themselves and their colored eggs. Do you know the sound of a black egg when it's cracked open? I do. It's the sound of equality...Egguality.

But just when you thought the world had nothing more to surprise you with, there of course was one more twist on all this eggcitement. With my thumbs firmly wedged in the crack of the black egg, I broke open the shell to release its slimy contents onto the skillet. The grand unveiling of Yolk and Friends was made even more eye-opening with the startling reveal that Yolk was in fact not black or light sienna but rather it's usual sunnyside yellow and the eggwhites were still, well, eggwhites. The moral of the story? Despite our differences on the outside, we're all truly the same on the inside. Eggs are eggs and ultimately all come from the Chicken (or did the the chicken come from the egg?). So deep...and delicious! Bon eggatit! (hehe, I just wrote egg a tit, kinda like egging a house but only instead of a house....You get the idea.)

Politically and Socially Relevant Nomenclature Questions of the Day

2009-06-19T12:14:00.001-04:00

Does the KKK Grand Wizard refer to his bike as the Cycle of Oppression?

Would Funkmaster Flex ever drop a bomb for North Korean rapper Kim Jong ILL?

Does the kid of a transgendered parent call his mom "See-through" cuz she's trans-parent? (Ok, so I admit, I stole this joke from a Swedish meatball)

Would grilled non-free-range beef from the Middle East appear on a menu as Gaza Strip Steak?

Do rebellious teens of the Cherokee Nation drive off the reservation in Dodge Rams?

At the end of his speech today, did ruling cleric of Iran Ali Khamenei say to the protesters, "Ayatolldyahso! The election wasn't rigged!" and then proceed to "nyuk nyuk nyuk" his way off stage?

Does the president of France ever sit on a plush leather couch in front of a roaring fire while in sweats and bunny slippers and say to himself "Man, I'm feeling Sar-cosy right now?" Probably not. I'm sure his inner monologue is in French, unless he's got language settings like on Facebook. Maybe he's set to Pirate. "Arrgh matey, I hope I don't get Sar-scurvy!"

Transformative New York Question of the Day

2009-06-12T13:21:00.000-04:00

Has Times Square transformed from a pedestrian nightmare into a loiterer's dream??? Strolling by on a late Thursday evening, rather than be overtaken by dread and disgust by the sight of meandering tourist throngs (not thongs, which would be equally dreadful) which is what usually happens, I was struck with immense curiosity and by extension, much cat-killing. Up and down Broadway was an iridescent array of shiny, plastic lawn chairs strewn about, hundreds of lawn chairs. 'Did I stumble upon a Florida retirement home convention?' I wondered. Judging by the lack of floral-print short-sleeve button downs, the answer was decidedly no. Instead I witnessed teenage urbanites sitting and light-gazing in their emo way, old-timer New Yorkers comfortably seated while chewing the fat (don't worry it was saturated not trans), yuppy transplants crackberrying in the glow of neon lights, and a group of 20-something year old boys seated in a circle and hovering over an imaginary bong. 'If only we were in Amsterdam,' their longing eyes said. It was a sight to behold.

No longer was there the hustle and bustle of NY's fabled image, but instead, hundreds of idling people--much to the chagrin of our Puritan forefathers and foremothers (eat that, prudes!)--who were so chillaxed I thought they might bust out the hustle. All they needed were some red plastic cups and Uncle Roger's county famous bbq sauce. New York, she's a changing. From foot traffic to butt traffic, sitting is the new black, and lawn chair is the new 20. We're bringing lazy back.

And with this transformation of Times Square: The Traffic Melee to Times Square: The Sloth Center, I can only look forward (since my eyes are on the front of my face, not the back) to what other opposite-day changes the city has in store. Will they transform Central Park into a demolition derby and monster truck rally arena? Will Park Ave apartments get gentrified and be replaced with methadone clinics and Korean groceries? Will white people drive their own cabs? Will I ask a homeless guy for money and then refuse when he offers me bread? Who knows what the future holds?

Crap Super Powers!

2009-06-09T14:20:00.003-04:00

(compiled from twitter entries. you're not following me on twitter yet? what kind of lame internet stalker are you?)

the ability to armpit fart without using your hands

the ability to leap over tall couches

the ability to ambi-turn

the ability to appear on the jimmy fallon show

the ability to teleport only to the state of Delaware

the ability to break an ankle in order to become a supreme court justice

the ability to shit a squirrel

the ability to look into a crystal ball only to watch your girlfriend cheat on you

the ability to gain 50 pounds immediately when seeing your ex lover

the ability to hear what it sounds like when doves cry

the ability to chew broken glass in situations when u say "i'd rather chew broken glass than be doing this"

the ability to not be Gary Coleman

the ability to communicate with jungle monkeys while your friends do cool things like control fire, earth, wind, water...

the ability to live in your mom's basement while all your friends get super successful

the ability to turn anything you touch into BLOOD!

the ability to see the future of only Vanilla Ice

the ability to ruin Watchmen by making it into a movie

the ability to commit ventriloquist flatulence and throw your farts across the room

the ability to make people seem not racist by being their token non-white friend. I'm looking at you Clarence Thomas!

the ability to twitter while at work

the ability to communicate with guidos

kinda like cyclops: the ability to shoot party streamers from your eyes. "it's always a party when you blink"

the ability to always have entrance music playing when u walk out of an elevator

the ability to lift objects a tenth of your weight

the ability to only access your super powers through a free beta iphone app

the ability to have that nerdy guy with the glasses and the entire verizon network follow you wherever you go

the ability to laugh at your own jokes when no one else does

the ability to express emotion by projecting emoticons on your face

the ability to finish second in everything

the ability to be smoking hot but only be able to attract douchebags

the ability to get ice cream headaches while eating hot foods!

the ability to READ!

the ability to give birth to sextuplets and make your husband hate you

the ability to be fooled twice, with no shame befalling you

the ability to expend all your creative energy on twitter while getting fired for neglecting your work

A Penny For Your Thoughts

2009-06-05T15:14:00.004-04:00

I just came back from the bathroom, and apparently someone dropped a penny at the bottom of the urinal. How does that even happen? Pennies are small but pee holes are smaller. I could see releasing liquid copper, but a whole, unscathed penny? Really?

Then again, perhaps the penny pisser was a European Union citizen and thought he had to pay to soil the urinal (which can cost 50 cents at certain train stations). Either that or he's mocking the value of American coin currency given its status relative to that of the Euro...

Or maybe all the accumulated urine at the base of the urinal is actually transforming into flat Abe Lincolns!! Is that how the US Mint produces these monetary nuisances? Is that why everyone finds them annoying, cuz they're made of pee??? Someone blow the whistle and stop the presses! We got piss pennies in our pockets!!

Eurotrippin: the morning after

2009-06-02T17:33:00.010-04:00

After the two-week baguette binge that was my European vacation, I found myself abruptly awoken by the noonday sun, alone on the floor of my New York apartment, half-naked, dehydrated, and confuddlizzledingly asking myself "What the hell happened?" I had a migraine of memories jammed into my head, and they needed sorting out. After days of nursing myself back to health during this withdrawal period--during which time, I visited ZARA almost everyday whenever I desperately needed a fix of Euro-crack--I've been able to put the pieces back together and make sense of it all...kind of like a Real World reunion episode. Here are my lasting observations from Europa:

Hot women work regular jobs just like in the movies!
Don't you despise Hollywood and it's bastard child the porn industry for deluding us with fantasy worlds where uber-attractive people work everyday jobs? Halle Berry as a poor single mother? C'mon, why doesn't she just go be a supermodel?? (I admit, I stole this last joke from a comedian I don't remember. Joke piracy!) But the truth is that they were really just presenting us the reality in Europe and re-dubbing it for us monolingual idiots into English. I came across so many 7s, 8s, and even 9s on the hot-o-meter sitting behind kiosk counters, clicking tickets on trains, and even intimidating city denizens as tough cops on the street.

In Paris, we tried to take our picture with a couple of female police officers. When the foxxy police officer unfurled her throaty, accented voice and told us photographs with them were "forbidden," I not only jizzed my pants but the pants of every 2-legged homo-erectus in a 30 foot radius. Europe gives hope to super-hot people everywhere, essentially telling them, "You shall not be pigeon-holed. You too can be just as mediocre as everyone else if you want to."

Go to Europe, get tongue-bathed!
Where were Americans when brains were handed out? Probably busy quibbling over which Yale alum they'd rather have a beer with or coming up with ways to imprison people for pant-sagging. In the meantime, Europeans got their learn on! The average person over there speaks a minimum of 10 languages including English, American slang, and the universal language of looooove (Virginia, you got nothing on Europe). Even 7 year old German kids stopped to ask us in perfect English if we needed help navigating the Munich subway system. (This was after they tried asking us in perfect Chinese, Vietnamese, and the Micronesian language of Kiribati.) Train conductors repeated everything in at least 3 languages. Could you imagine if conductors in the U.S. were required to have such linguistic abilities? Amtrak would have more success employing parakeets than Americans.

And biggups and respect to all the immigrants over there. They are truly the most cunning linguists. In the U.S. they'd usually only have to learn English. In Europe, they have to be fluent in like 20 other languages on top of English. They're practically the Rosetta Stones of the continent and were able to learn it all without the help of MUZZY.

Chillin' is the most successful franchise
Forget Big Macs, Quarterpounders with cheese, 20 piece nuggets, Whoppers, Croissanwhiches, Frosty's, Jr. Bacon Cheeseburgers, Gordita Burritos, Taco Supremes, Orange Mocha Frappaccinos, Stuffed Crust Pan Pizzas, Chicken and Mashed Potato Bowls, 10 Patties 10 Buns Animal Style, or any other glorified hot pocket that's cooked in a dirty microwave and gushing with cheese, cholesterol, and more hormones than me as a teenager (or me as a 25 year old for that matter). Mass produced for the masses and massively consumed to make us massive, fast food is the fascist franchise in America. Find one on every block in your neighborhood and follow the trail to your every artery.

And yet, in Europe, the only thing that comes fast are their trains (none of this languishing on a musty platform waiting for 30 minutes for a train that they forgot to tell you isn't even operating). Sure, the golden arches may have a presence (I'm talking McDonald's, not McDougal's), but the real franchise king is a refrigerator 'cuz everyone over there is straight chillin! (WORDPLAY!) They have as many chill spots (which ironically are wi-fi hotspots) as we have fast food chains. Whether it's sipping a cafe at a corner bistro for 8 hours, or guzzling a litre of bier in a garden for 10, or just breathing at an Amsterdam coffeeshop for what felt like 10 minutes but was really the entire day, Europeans know how to relax and just kick it.

We live in a society where America runs on Dunkin Donuts coffee (note that neither Dunkin nor Donut is spelled correctly, d'oh!), while they live in a society where governments mandate vacation time and direct deposit you holiday funds for holiday funnnn. Why wasn't that in the stimulus package? "Dear POTUS B-HO, I've been a good boy all year. Please send me Caribbean cruise cash, or Bahamas beach bucks. I wanna be chillin like a villain god-willin. Sasha and Malia got a puppy, I want a vacation. Peace, BB"

Eurotrippin Joint #4

2009-05-24T09:49:00.002-04:00

Brown from Amsterdam here, taking in some purple. The sky is blue, the water is green, and the elephants are a delightful turquoise. The people are white but are only as tall as my thumb. My thumb however is the size of the mooon! I hope to traverse the canals soon perhaps riding atop a pink unicorn. And at some point, have a run in with Van Gogh or Vermeer. Maybe they'd be down for some Sun Chips and Hendrix.

Last stop: the airport

P.s. The toilet bowls are oddly shaped here. The hole of water sits closer to the front of the seat. So when u pee aiming for the center like good little soldiers do, the bowl collects a puddle of piss and slowly overflows creating a cascading waterfall in to the actual water hole. It's so absurd to see, kinda like this entry.

Eurotrippin 3rd partstag

2009-05-22T12:58:00.003-04:00

Greetings from Munchen, home of Oktoberfest in may. It's official, I'm now guilty of a BWI--blogging while intoxicated. 2 beer gartens plus beer hall makes Boogie Brown a silly boy. I am this close (my index finger is just slightly hoverin above my thumb) to doing my Hitler/schwarzenegger impression in the middle of the train station.

I've also decided that Munich is the equivalent of DC and silver spring, MD but instead if politicians, they have liters of beer. They're so huge I could practice synchronized swimming in the glasses.

I've also decided that women here are also quite large, vertically at least, and often make me feel like a toddler looking for his mom. I wonder if they ever get the urge to pick me up and burp me before u cry and crap my pants.

Final observation, spoken Deutsche sounds straight up evil. I hear two Germans talking and it's like they're plotting to steal the Ark of the Covenant. At the mere sound of "gutten morgen" and I commando roll into the bushes and whip put my beretta with silencer. But in reality, the liters of beer keeps everyone here sedate. The only evil plot there is is to occupy your heart with pig fat and sauerkraut. Mission accomplished.

Until Amsterdam snitches,
Boogie Brune

Eurotripping Part Dos!

2009-05-19T14:09:00.004-04:00

Hola chicas y chicos! Greetings from Barceloners, the city that I have officially dubbed San Angelesfornia. If Paris is the New York of Europa just with grand ol´buildings and long phallic bread, then Barceloners is the amalgated west coast complete with crunchy hippies, skaters, sunshine (pronounced soon-she-neh), curious disdain for the spanish language, and wafer-thin women (I´m looking at you Olson twins\hermanas identicas).

So far I´ve learned that the architect Gaudi is probably the root source of the word gaudy because his buildings are the epitomy of that word. I never knew you could make a church that looks like melted marshmallow and a park out of mosaic-tiled reptilian statues.

Furthermore, keyboard layouts are deviously befuddling for American bloggers such as yours truly, El Cafe de Bugi. For one thing, the question mark is not where it should be. If I were to ask questions using the key where that interrogative punctuation should be, my preguntas would like this: Donde esta el bano_ Por que el ciel es azul_ Que el fuck____ Quien es tu padre___ See, messed up. My questions look more like Madlibs. Additionally, there are crazy things i dont understand like ççç¿¿ÑÑÇ¿ÑÇ¡¿

Finally, for a city that prides itself on late night fiesta-ing till 6 in the mornin, there´s a surprising lack of post-club businesses catering to the liquor-induced hunger pangs of many an adolescent partyer, un fiestero if you will. I could sell uncooked slices of spam served on a toothpick, and easily corner the market and amass a small fortune. I could also do the same selling used bathwater in large orange cups that are actually my used sweat socks. The thirst must be quenched in Barceloners!

Onward to the damn of Amsters!

Eurotrippin!

2009-05-17T06:15:00.002-04:00

Bon jovi from France snitches! For those that don't parle the francais, that means good jovi from the land of lovers. Aside from mastering the language that sounds like you're trying to talk while your tongue is numb, I've learned a number of fascinating tidbits from our neighborly Statue of Liberty gift-givers. For example, Parisians love their McDonalds and are willing to wait in long lines and shell out 9 bucks for Royal with cheese. See Pulp Fiction for translation.

I've also learned that French iPhone users don't buy unnecessary casing for their expensive handhelds. Instead, they're economical and use a latex condom for extra protection that still allows for sensitivity. I shit you not, the touch screen still works through the lubricated film while protecting the phone from VD and pregnancy.

Lastly, I've learned that Paris is not Tokyo and the likelihood of random bystanders understanding English is far greater. I really can't get away with blurting out random interjections on a packed subway car like "my nipples are on fire!" or "French people fear America!" Fortunately though, my only punishment was to be dressed as an ostentatious clownish Louis the XIV and parade around the Arc De Triumfe on a unicycle. That was fairly tame. What's else you got for me Frenchies?

Onward to Barcelona!

Oxymoronic Peanutty Question of the Day

2009-05-05T12:05:00.000-04:00

Lucy: You're only eight years old and you're balder than a chemo patient.
Charlie Brown: Good grief!
Lucy: Plus that wack t-shirt of yours makes it look like your stomach has a giant mouth with razor sharp teeth.
Charlie Brown: Augghh! Good grief!!
Lucy: By the way, do you happen to have an older, wittier brother named Boogie?

I've spent an absurd amount of my young life pondering over this catch phrase of Charlie Brown's. What exactly is good grief? This oxymoron makes less sense than Pauley Shore in a David Lynch movie. (Too obscure? Let's try that one again.) This oxymoron makes less sense than finding a poop in your refrigerator. "How did that get there?" It ranks right up there with "clean coal" and "nice Uggs."

So if Charlie Brown thinks grief is good, does that make him some kind of perverted masochist? Does he say "good grief" in a raspy porn voice? Is that why he continues to try to punt the football knowing full well that Lucy will always pull the ball away right before his foot connects causing him to flip over and land ungraciously on his back? And when he utters "good grief" afterwards, he really means the pain is goooooood.

When positive things happen to Charlie Brown, does he say "bad delight"? "I won the lottery? $1,000 everday for the rest of my life?? Aw, bad delight!!!" "Me and the little red-headed girl are getting married. Bad delight!!!"

Is there any sort of grief Charlie Brown would consider bad grief? Like the polar ice caps melting? Or the last episode of Friends?

And why do we always refer to him using his full name when everyone else is just Linus, or Lucy, or Franklin (token black guy)? Is it so we don't get him confused with Charlie and the Chocolate Factory? It kind of reminds me of Asian people with monosyllabic first and last names--you just gotta say the whole thing.

Did you know...

2009-04-29T12:37:00.004-04:00

Cats consume more fecal matter in a year than the average human produces in a week.

A single Hot Pocket contains enough cholesterol to fill the entire swimming pool at Disney World's Coronado Springs Resort.

In medieval times, clowns initially painted their faces white to mock fair-skinned people of European descent. Medieval whites often had spherical red noses.

The muscle used to control the curling of your toes is called the sphincter muscle.

First U.S. president George Washington was often referred to as "Quarter" because he could consume one quart of milk in under 3 seconds, faster than anybody else in the land.

The iconic Eiffel Tower in Paris is named after an ancient form of copulation involving 3 people which the structure resembles.

At the first Academy Awards Ceremony, only two films were nominated for the Best Picture category; they were parts one and two of the same story--The Bible.

South Dakota earned statehood in 1893 when the federal government realized North Dakota had no complement.

Philadelphia received the moniker "City of Brotherly Love" in 1932 when homosexual incest reached a peak during the Great Depression.

The hit television show Friends is loosely based on the real-life friendship between Spanish dictator Francisco Franco and his red parakeet Ricardo.

The idea of solar power originated on the science fiction drama The Twilight Zone which prompted government-sponsored scientists/fanboys to make it reality.

Pi or 3.14 is the exact number of garlic cloves it takes to ruin mom's spaghetti sauce.

The idea of America being a "melting pot" was coined by chef turned sociologist Raymond Rubarb who once wrote recipes for "Indian Stew," "Negro Soup," and "Chinaman Cheesecake."

The average amount of time spent on this blog is equal to the amount of time it takes a neuron to travel from the brain to an index finger, giving the appendage the command to click on something else.

Defurries!

2009-04-22T18:24:00.004-04:00

Colleges, grad schools, law schools, etc. often subscribe to an odd practice in which eager-beaver prospective students gain acceptance to such prestigious institutions only to chicken out by deferring their admission for a year. Upon describing such a situation, envious friends of the deferrers inevitably remark that had they known of this option, they too would've preferred to defer. Instead they cry themselves to sleep every night, with a bottle of Jack and Jergens, knowing that their lives are basically over. FAIL.

But what if other things in life could be deferred but we were just unaware of the option? Why not try it out just in case the possibility actually exists? That way we can prevent future wallowing by putting off stressful things and instead take the time to find ourselves either by hoing it up in foreign countries, or hitchhiking/getting kidnapped across the US, or patiently waiting for that Tanzanian prince to pay you back 1000 fold for that small lump sum you wired to him.

Here are a few examples of situations you may want to try out the deferral policy:

"Thanks Doc, I think I'll defer that liver cancer for a year."

"What?? Your pregnant??? I think I'm gonna defer you for a year...or 18."

"Yay, dairy-laden dessert! I'll defer you until I'm closer to a toilet."

"Hand over my wallet? Uhh, I'm deferring this mugging for a while, at least until after I train with Master Roshi and perfect the Kamehameha."

"Yes, the throne of Gandor is quite the honor. But I'm gonna have to defer so I can bang my elf bride for a few years. You wouldn't believe what those pointy ears can do."

"Nice to meet you Grim Reaper. Let's defer this encounter indefinitely...No go?...Hey! Look! A burning blimp is crashing into that building!" ::runs the other way::

"Hello day-of-first-date zit. I'm deferring you from my nose to my ass. Don't worry, it's cozy down there."

"You wanna get back together? I defer! All the single ladies, all the single ladies! Put your hands up, oh ohh ohhh oh oh ohh! Cuz if you liked it, then you shoulda put a ring on it!! If you liked it then you shoula put a ring on it..."

And the winner is...

2009-04-22T12:33:00.006-04:00

In a startling turn of events, as Shaved-head Cassie went head to spud with a Potato, the two competitors for companionship suddenly combined their powers in the midst of heated combat, combining to form a super-mega-awesome-mecha-happy amalgam of themselves: Shaved Potato-Head Masshie!! Excelsior!!!

In the beginning of the match, the I-need-Britney-like-attention-since-I-have-no-career-so-I-shaved-my-head-but-just-halfway-cuz-I-lost-the-nerve-and-realized-I'm-not-white-trash pop singer was neck and neck with her starchy adversary, or neck and potato rather. They traded blows for hours while exchanging excessive trash talk..."Hey small fry, Idaho fucking sucks!" "Hey Cassie, even I'm more famous than you! You can't even get a cameo on the Surreal Life!"

But after the 11th hour of altercation and unnice words, the impossible happened. As Cassie thrust a peeler at Potato while Potato sat there like a sack of potatoes, a glowing green aura emanated from this unlikely pair and lit up the sky in a blinding flash!!! "When your powers combine, I am SHAVED POTATO-HEAD MASSHIE!" It was beautiful. More beautiful than a single snowflake falling adrift on a baby's button nose. More beautiful than the whale songs of a lovelorn humpback. More beautiful than when Hot Rod unleashed the Matrix of Leadership to light their darkest hour...

And there she stood. 12 stories high, packed with empty carbs and multi-racial hotness. The mere sight of her caused many to faint, while a few others, who just couldn't even fathom such a perfect concoction, had their heads explode while trying to grasp the situation. It was glorious. Now all we need is Jessica Alba to combine with a cheeseburger (preferably animal style).

First Round Winner: Shaved Potato-Head Masshie
Hot Potato - 1, Anticlimactic ending - 0

Fun with Flirtation

2009-04-17T12:24:00.005-04:00

I once picked up a girl in a bar. She then yelled in my ear, "Put me down!"

I once kicked game to a girl at this party. She kicked the LA rapper right back to me.

I was once hitting on a girl in the park. What else could I do? I was up at bat and she wouldn't stop lying on top of home plate. I guess my cleats in her leg didn't help.

I once tried to holler at this shorty at the mall. The dwarf girl told me to lower my voice.

I once macked it to this female at the library. She said, "Sorry, I'm a PC."

I once solicited a prostitute. She gladly stepped into my vehicle. I then dressed her in the finest apparel and took her to swanky functions, the opera, and even a polo match. In return, she melted my icy heart and made me a better person. She later went on to put on a memorable performance in Erin Brokovich.

Who should I date???

2009-04-14T16:43:00.009-04:00

Here we are again in Round 1, Match-up #6 between two possible mate matches. This week's Cuddle-buddy Contenders are equally strong and show no signs of easy victory (however, their easiness is another question). This one's a veritable tossup folks! The decision lies with you, dear reader...Who should I date?

Shaved-head Cassie
Why I like her: I saw her rolling with Diddy (they were in giant spherical hamster cages a la American Gladiators) at the MJ vs. Prince party (Prince won with an assless-chaps fatality) last Saturday. This tells me two things. One, she clearly has impeccable taste in dance parties/music, and Two, she has very low standards for male companions. Enter: Boogie Brown, the epitome of low standards. I am the limbo champion when it comes to backbending beneath the yardstick of decency. A perfect match I say. Who could pass up a beautiful woman that likes to slum it? It's like putting Kobe beef into a hot pocket...irresistable.

And you may deduct points from her datability score because of her bold (read: sociopathic) half-Sinead hairdo, but think again. It actually magnifies her attractiveness. It's like she's saying to the world "oh yes, even post-op lobotomy patients have the right to look like music video vixens. Even though they're missing some gray matter, they can still be trashy human beings like everyone else!" I'm all down for a righteous woman with such moral compass and conviction. A half-bald beauty with a half-heart of gold...le sigh...

OR

a Potato
Why I like her: You can boil em, mash em, stick em in a stew. A potato really goes with everything. She's the type AB of the vegetable world. And wouldn't you know it, I'm the type O of the dating world. If that's not star-crossed, I dunno what is. From french fries, waffle fries, tater tots, baked potatoes, potatoes au gratin, hash browns, kettle cooked chips, so on and so forth, something tells me this is one companion that I might never tire of 'cuz she's always finding ways to reinvent herself. Plus she fits in my pocket.

And she has beautiful eyes...many, many beautiful eyes.

So cast your votes peoples for who should advance to the next round of dating dilemmas. But please, keep the crass jokes about Potato-head to yourselves.

Herbally Steeped Questions of the Day

2009-04-13T17:32:00.005-04:00

Do you ever drink tea and forget that the teabag is still in the mug so when you reach the final drop you mistakenly get a soggy sack of leaves in your mouf? Yeah, that never happens to me either.

Have you ever asked a portly man with more back hair than your Aunt Bob for a teabag and gotten a miffed response complete with flared nostrils instead? Yup, didn't think so.

Do you ever go to a pool party and jump into the hot tub wearing shorts that are actually a mess of tea leaves strapped to your body and ask people "who wants some chai?" Of course not, I would never do that either.

Have you ever brought a boiling pot of Jasmine and a set of cute porcelain cups with smiley faces on them to a basketball practice declaring that "There's no I in TEAM but there sure is TEA"? That's preposterous, and I highly doubt any of us would take the time out to carry out such a ridiculous visual pun.

The Ol' Switcheroo

2009-04-09T19:51:00.000-04:00

New York is a city made for wandering. Though slow strolling along city sidewalks invites sneers and shoves from natives, aimless journeying into unfamiliar neighborhoods is nothing short of life-affirming. Such a sojourner breathes in the forgotten delights of a city that has yet to stop living. And that person is rewarded with rejuvenation.

But then, our protagonist, our Odysseus, must go home. He descends below the city's surface into dark tunnels where the bizarre awaits. He stands on the platform in anticipation of his iron chariot while thoughts of splendor, remnants of his travels mixed with impurities about his Athenian wife and trove of concubines, occupy his mind. He is oblivious to his surroundings. The train roars into the station and welcomes its new passengers with open doors. Odysseus, lost in his own musings, fails to notice he boards this particular train car alone even though there were scores of commoners on that platform with him.

And suddenly, aboard that subterranean vessel, he is seized back into reality as he realizes he is under attack. But he noticed a moment too late. The steel doors have shut behind him, while onlookers in the adjacent car watch in knowing anticipation, and some with typical New Yorker glee, of the imminent onslaught. For them, it’s like watching a Trojan approach a woman from behind at the bar, knowing full well she’s a Medusa on the front.

Our hero, trapped on this speeding torture chamber, quickly takes stock of his surroundings. He is joined in this peril by a small family of ignoramus from the country side, perhaps Kentuckia. The fools stand before Odysseus, hands covering their faces paralyzed in horror by their fate. There is no hope for them, especially in those khaki shorts. He must save himself.

Looking beyond the family, he acknowledges the source of their pain sitting in the corner. A disheveled old man, cloaked in tattered black, he emanates the awful mist that permeates the car and besieges our protagonist, or rather, our protagonist's nose. It is the most wretched and vile stench to ever befall these lands. It grips the passengers and squeezes their lungs shut. For Odysseus, it is even worse than the foulness he inhaled when Dyonidas thrust him into a mound of minotaur dung at the battle of Theoda. It is worse then the rotting flesh piles at the bottom of Xerxes' caverns. The stench is even worse than that of the Cyclops' Sunday morning haletosis. It is the vile smell of pure evil itself.

"What wicked wizardry is this?" Odysseus wonders. "This unassuming man mutters to himself. Perhaps it is a spell he's chanting. Or maybe directives to his invisible army of stench gremlins, stenchlins if you will...Oh gods, it smells like butt cheese in here. I think I just threw up a little in my mouth."

But Odysseus has stared adversity in the eyes before and does not succumb so easily. He covers his nostrils and breathes only sparsely through his mouth. If he can minimize his intake of the rotten-egg-in-a-diaper stench, he can survive by waiting only a few moments to the next stop. Our hero positions himself at the opposite end of the car from the beacon of B.O. and presses up against the cold steel doors. His face turns red as each second he endures feels like an eternity in Hades.

Suddenly the death car halts abruptly, and the Kentuckians fall over and shatter into a million finger licking pieces. The doors slide open and out races Odysseus onto the station platform, gulping in the fresh air, his eyes welling with tears, and yelling at the top of his lungs, “Gods! It smells like Sex Panther in there! It’s quite a formidable scent!”

And with no time to waste, he sprints around, weaving through other passengers and hops into the adjacent car just before the doors close. He made it. The Ol’ Switcheroo never fails. He peers through the train window and sees in the next car a new set of country folk, trapped in that chamber of death, suffocating from ass inhalation. “These poor people. They don’t know that that car is run by the ATA—the Ass Transit Association. May Zeus have mercy on their souls.”

The bearded old man in the corner laughs to himself in triumphant pleasure. For only $2.00 he’s found himself a spacious new home complete with Promethean fire in the winter and the winds of Zephyr in the summer. And moreover, he gets to torture the very same wealthy city dwellers who often neglect his existence and deny their complicity in his destitution. Retribution indeed. Little do they know, this man is Zeus himself. Oh that Zeus, always the prankster.

Decree CCXV for riders of subterranean chariots: Never board a seemingly empty train when the cars beside it are packed, lest you too find your nostrils besieged by odors more foul than a Gorgon fart saved in an air tight jar for 5 thousand years. Should you find yourself in this predicament, your only chance is to perform the Ol’ Switcheroo. Otherwise, you will smell like poo the rest of the day. It’s kind of like after having Korean barbecue, except that you don’t get a delicious meal first, and you don’t smell like bbq, you smell like poo.

Elongated Vegetable Etymological Question of the Day

2009-04-08T00:44:00.005-04:00

Why is 'squash' the only vegetable that functions as a verb? Then again, I suppose you could always 'cucumber' somebody but that's probably inappropriate and/or kinkalicious, not to mention painful...well, at least for this non ex-con.

So which came first, the vegetable or the verb 'squash'? Probably the verb right? Because if you named an action after the vegetable squash, wouldn't that action involve turning into a yellowish, firm, phallic plant? "I squashed you" would have a completely different meaning. The subsequent sentence would have to be: "You are now a colorful, edible, penis-substitute."

But since we know the action is that of crushing something and making it go splat, I would assume the vegetable came second since a squash can be squashed and go splat. However, many vegetables and fruits have this quality (e.g. tomatoes, strawberries, schnozzberries). And so do many insects. And small defenseless woodland creatures. And infants...well, with enough force. All these things could be 'squashes.' But yet only the boner plant gets the designation of 'squash.'

And how come there are no phallic vegetables used in the sport 'squash'? I mean, you got the balls, might as well throw in the..........And 'squash' seems like an inappropriate name for the game anyway. It's more like 'tennis confined in a cube' or 'too upperclass for handball? let's use rackets and air conditioning'. The real sport of 'squash' should be about squashing squashes until they're completely squashed. Either that or launching squashes off the roof at bald people. Yeah, that's right, Baldism.

I could google you all night long

2009-04-02T12:58:00.001-04:00

Google has radically changed the world through its robust search engine and vast array of free, user-friendly software. Unfortunately, sometimes its products work too well. Not only does google list likely search terms before you finish typing, it also lists your most recent searches, revealing to any guest on your personal computer your most secret online pursuits. These searches often indicate clandestine desires, innermost fears, closeted fetishes, guilty pleasures, and also laughable ignorance.

In hopes of using online transparency to come to terms with my delusional self, I now share with you, "My Most Embarrassing Google Searches" of the past 10 days:

men's thongs
used women's thongs
Sailor Moon fan fiction anthology
tight sailor outfits sale
schmegma smell
plant porn, ficus fuck
lyrics I'm too sexy
magic tricks picking up women
Happy Ending New York
back hair hereditary
mouth sores webmd
personalized double-edged light saber with authentic sound effects
cougar match.com
Tribeca "over 40" bars
Joey Lawrence cardboard cutout
"youth in asia" definition
tips holding in flatulence dates
nipple-hair tweasing regrowth
craigslist friend for a day hugs
elevator conversation prompts
grow watermelon stomach by swallowing seeds

Let this be a warning to all you curious and inquisitive web surfers: Don't forget to clear your search history, and wash behind your ears! WHOAH!

The Definitive Definition of PWNED

2009-03-31T14:52:00.002-04:00

Dear POTUS B-HO,

Please make this guy your PWNED Czar. Maybe he can help us PWN Kim Jong-il by catapulting Dikembe Mutombo into the stratosphere so he can smack those missiles out of the air. He would then perform his obligatory finger-wag and get called for an automatic technical. That would be some massive geopolitcal PWNage.

Either that or stamp a permanent red-ink "PWNED" on Sarah Palin's face.

The end.

Sincerely,
Boogie Brown

Who Watches the Workers?

2009-03-26T12:46:00.008-04:00

Yesterday, El Presidente hosted a live streaming online town hall forum. 'Net-heads (as opposed to net-head, i.e. a fellatious act with Vince Carter) submitted questions online that were voted on by other 'net-heads. The most popular questions were addressed by B-HO.

I really wanted to submit the AOL chatroom-inspired question "A/S/L?" Either that or "Mr. President, can you once and for all please provide the definitive definition of 'PWN'?" Unfortunately, I got sidetracked finding out my Mexican wrestler name (me llaman EL GIGOLO MISTERIO) and forgot to submit anything.

In one response to a question on public school reform, The Rock Obama recounted a conversation with Bill Gates about using video recordings of teachers to analyze their classroom performance, similar to athletes reviewing game tapes. And I thought to myself: B-HO is a total voyeur...and the most likeable Big Brother ever.

Could you imagine?? Cameras monitoring your every activity in the workplace?? And then you have to review the game tape with your supervisors???

"Wow, Jimster, two straight hours of scrabulous? That is highly unproductive, and you failed to utilize the open triple word score. FAIL."

"Meg, why did you clip your toenails at your desk and save all the clippings in your bottom desk drawer? That is highly unhygienic."

"Cornelius, watching youtube videos of people FAILing at life like that toddler getting kicked in the face by a breakdancer in Times Square is not considered research...By the way, can you forward me that link?"

"And as for you Kat, don't ever lend me one of your pens ever again. That's just down right filthy."

"Jesus, The Brian, we're not paying you to write blog entries all day! ...But perhaps somebody should. You're one talented dude. Cowabunga!"

Let's hope the new administration doesn't one up the PATRIOT ACT and start spying on us at work under the guise that it'll improve our performance. Because otherwise, we might have to actually start doing...gulp...work.

So You Think You Can Get Down With The Get Down?

2009-03-23T12:32:00.019-04:00

In the midst of interpersonal communication, people ask me all the time, either with cautious self-awareness, "Are you gonna blog about this?" or with blind confidence, "You should blog about this." And my inner monologue often responds with the question: "Waitaminute, did I leave the oven on??? Damnit! Nobody likes burnt cookies! NOBODYYY!!!"....Once the voices in my head quiet down, I remember that I am in the middle of a conversation and that the person(s) in front of me have requested that our moment together be launched from reality and into virtual insanity. For some reason, people want to be memorialized this way, that their consciousness be captured in literary eternity, and like a Shakespearean sonnet, live beyond their own mortality. Either that or the fuckers think they're funny enough for The Get Down.

So you want me to swallow your conversation cakes and shit out an entry? Is there a lot of cream in those cakes? because I just might. Afterall, I am lactose intolerant and prone to writer's block (it's like a lego stuck in my brain), so who knows, perhaps I will.

To help you on this journey, I'm providing you some surefire tips (Is there such a thing as unsurefire? Like an ambivalent flame?) on getting your ass into my blogosphere (not to be confused with my Blog o' Spheres, my online journal solely about the spherical things in my life--basketballs, tennis balls, semen balls, grapes):

Tip # Uno: Scruples? Forget them. Instead, try taking Screw Pills and just let your words fly. If the shit that comes out of your mouth is nastier than what comes out of your ass, you're probably on to something. (Could you imagine a shit literally coming out of your mouth??? hahaha, holy shit that'd be amazing!)

Tip Number Dos: Practice those pop culture references! You make something instantly funnier by the mere mention of Alf from the planet Melmac or Balky Bartakomus from the island of Mepos. Or if you prefer, constantly quote hilarious lines from movies rather than using your own words. Trust me, they're probably a lot funnier than anything you'd possibly come up with. Try starting with Mel Brooks or Will Ferrell. "I'm Tits Mcgee?"

Teep Tatlo: Be punny! Be Big Pun (just don't die...of fatness...too soon?). Be mindful of your grammar and use proper PUNctuation. Be a liberal PUNdit. So eQUIP yourself with all the lame PUNchlines you got and don't forget good comedic timing--be PUNctual--and you may find your words Getting Down.

Tip F-F-F-Four! Introduce me to all your single, attractive female friends. (single is optional)

Tip Numerical Cinco: Apply to be an intern at The Get Down.

Duties include: writing entries and giving me 100% of the credit, Sisyphusian tasks such as rolling a boulder up a hill over and over, looking up the word Sisyphusian and adding the definition by hand to a single square of toilet paper so that my Word of the Day TP includes this obscure term, tickle fights, more tickle fights but with strangers while I watch ominously from afar, transcribing the complete works of Judd Apatow into Aramaic (I always wanted to know what it would sound like if Jesus said, "Nobody's gotten a handjob in cargo shorts since 'Nam.")

Qualifications: complete obedience and submission to the Boogie

Tip Numbro 6: Wear a life jacket because life jackets are good protection. "Yeah, like stheatbeltsth in a car!"

Simply master these 6 things and you immediately increase your chances of making it on to The Get Down from about 0% to 1.2%. Happy blogging!

Fun with Online Communication Questions of the Day

2009-03-19T14:35:00.008-04:00

Does Will Smith run a secret wordpress where he writes entries as "I Am The Legend of Blogger Vance"?

Does Parker Brothers run a live journal about board games under the name "Bloggle"?

Does Oscar-winning director of Crouching Tiger and Brokeback Mountain post online about how he's a fuckup in life as "xAnga Lee"?

Does the wife a former Democratic Vice President tweet constant status updates about the environment as "Twipper Gore"?

Can I instant message the rehab reject, black-soul imitating singer "AIMeeWinehouse" and tell her to lay off the smack?

Is America's Best Dance Crew as articulate with their words as they are with their bodies when they live journal as the "Jabbabloggeez"?

Can I find the twitter page of London white-boy rapper under the name "The STweets"?

Does the baddest badass in history Chuck Norris send SMS messages as "Walker Textas Ranger"? The only text you will ever get from Chuck Norris is 'Look behind you.' This is also the last text you will ever get.

Can I friend the dejected Giants wide receiver "Plaxo-co Burress" over an online social networking site and remind him to keep the safety on?

Does the pope only follow one person on Twitter because he believes in "monotweetism"? However, that's a concept I still don't understand because the 'one' person is really three people updating. He says that I just need to have faith in the "Holy Tweetnity."

And the winner is...

2009-03-18T13:00:00.004-04:00

It's a historic victory today as we have the first hands down, unanimous decision in the "Who Should I Date?" love connection competition. The people have spoken, and they agree: they really don't give a crap about their ex-girlfriends. In fact, some are straight up vindictive and seem to subscribe to the belief that dating me would be just punishment for their former lovers. I don't see how that line of reasoning makes any sense considering that I am the world's greatest lover since Ma-Ti of the Planeteers..."HEART!"....on second thought, most of his "heart" went to an adorable monkey Kukuphat in a not-so-beastiality way whatsoever....Whatever, my statement still stands.

But anyway, the people seem to think better their ex than their current. So be it. As long you don't suddenly get jealous by your ex's newfound adoration for me, my wordsmithing, and my uncanny ability to make even the most mundane moments awkward ("oh my, Ex-gf's mom, you have a great handshake. I bet that grip is how you found your husband"), then it's all good in the hood.

So congrats to the reviled ex for being our first unanimous victor in this vaginous competition. She's luckier than you think. And I probably won't "rip her a new one" as requested by one jaded voter, but I will B my L all over her T's. (translation: B=Broil; L=Lemon-marinated pork; T's=Thermal insulated state-of-the-art ovens...She's got a great kitchen.)

====
In a post-game interview, your current girlfriend expressed no sense of deflation over the matter.

In Your Dreams!

2009-03-13T17:39:00.007-04:00

While nodding off in my cubicle with my head knocking into the wall every 10 seconds, I suddenly came to the realization that yes, in fact, Trix really are for kids. Silly rabbit, when will you ever learn?

That lucid moment between dreaming and waking led me to a second realization, namely that for the past two nights, Barack Obama, POTUS B-HO himself, has appeared in my dreams. And no, these were not dreams of the illicit variety that leave me lying in bed wet and covered in shame. These were the typical atypical dreams that weave together many strands of consciousness, creating a new reality that is both familiar and wildly insane. Kind of like when you're high off absinthe and find yourself making out with your best friend's girlfriend, only she's later revealed to be her mother and not actually her.

In the first cameo by our President, on a Gran Torino-like lawn, he was sadly gunned down by the same Asian thugs that took down Clint. "You bastards! You killed Barry!" I yelled. I then remember my mind's eye, omniscient as it is, following Hilary Clinton as she scrambled into the house trying to find cover. Only it wasn't exactly Hilary. She looked more like Marilyn Monroe with a goldilocks afro. And even more frightening, I percieved her as the First Lady. I never felt so emotionally distraught over a Clinton before.

The next evening, again 'Bam the Man snuck into my dreamscape. This time he served as some sort of guide at what I think was a museum. Or maybe it was a church. Or a White Castle. I really don't know. In any case, his main role that night was to speak very condescendingly to my office's most condescending, know-it-all employee. He layeth the smack down on her, belittling her while explaining a map on the wall. I think my subconcious was telling me that next time I need to talk back to a co-worker and cut em down to size, just call El Presidente (translation: The Presidente) and he'll take care of it. I wonder if he's also available for family reunions.

As cool as it initially was hosting the POTUS in his guest roles as assasination victim and tour-guide asshole, I am disconcerted by the fact that this guy's face is truly ubiquitous. He shows up everywhere. On people's chests, on shirt lapels, in store windows, on magazine covers, framed on walls, on my boxer briefs, on the boobtube (the word "boobtube" is a lot awesomer than what it signifies btw; c'mon, a tube full of boobs!), and now you can see him 24-7 since he haunts your dreams too. Kim Jong Il, Fidel Castro, meet your match. B-HO puts the 'brother' back in Big Brother, and now he's the biggest brother on the block.

I used to be overly concerned and paranoid about the PATRIOT ACT enabling the government to look at what books I borrow from the liberry, but this is on a completely new level of surveillance. Barack Obama isn't just checking my liberry records, he's actually in my mind checking my fantasies! It's like he appointed Rick Moranis to the head of Fringe sciences and had himself shrunken down to the size of a lego. Then he crawled into my ear canal while I was sleeping, and now the sly bastard is wreaking havok in slumberland. It's only a matter of time until he starts invading my waking life consciousness and starts controlling my actions. It's like the opposite of Being John Malkovich--Barack Obama Being You!

Next thing you know I'll be talking....gasp....professorially! And I'll start giving loved ones....gasp....fist bumps! And ohmygosh I might actually start....gasp....being a productive member of society!!! The end is nigh, folks, the end is nigh...

Who should I date? #5!

2009-03-12T12:50:00.007-04:00

It's March Madness folks, but the madness is just continuing here at The Get Down. Bracketology doesn't only pertain to basketball; it's also about the competition for companionship. We have 64 women competing head-to-head in a do-or-die tournament for the ultimate prize: my everlasting affection (and by everlasting, I mean about 3 weeks worth). We've already witnessed a few upsets, some cinderellas, and monumental beatings as several competitors have advanced to the second round including the Green M&M, Eva Mendes, Wonder Woman, and the Lucky Golden Money Cat Found in Chinese Restaurants. And here we are again, in the midst of yet another heated first round matchup (as opposed to ketchup). As usual, the readers decide their fate. So, who will it be folks? Who should I date??

Your Ex-Girlfriend
Why I like her: She really despises you for breaking up with her via a post-it note, and your current happiness is burning her inside, not to mention that that chlamydia you gave her is burning her outsides. She wants nothing more than revenge by emotionally cracking you open with an emotional sledge hammer. So what better way to get her last laugh than to have a fling with your best friend...Me! There's not a thing she wouldn't do with me just to get back at you. I could take her to Comic Con, a 3D animated movie, a Magic: The Gathering tournament. There's nothing she wouldn't do...Not to mention, that while you two dated, I secretly longed for her. That's a weird saying, "longing" for someone. It's not like she made me get taller. Then again, maybe only a certain part of me got taller, HEYYOOOO!!! And no worries about the chlamydia. I already have it from borrowing your towel.

OR

Your Current Girlfriend
Why I like her: I've witnessed how happy she makes you, and I want in. It's not everyday I come across a woman like her. She's teeming with a quiet confidence that lets you know everything's gonna be ok. She's always there for you in your times of need but never crowds your personal space. She's gentle to the touch but firm enough to support you. And she really goes with the flow. You can take her anywhere, on business trips, on vacations. It doesn't matter because there's no stress with her, only relief and release. And she's the first airhead that I could really appreciate. It's not fair that you keep her entirely to yourself, locked away in the false bottom of your closet. How could you be so inhumane? She mustn't be hidden away. Someone like her could make the whole world a happier place. One look at her, and you just gotta smile.

Toxic Withdrawal Non-Question of the Day

2009-03-04T16:40:00.011-05:00

She dumped you for another man---nay, another woman, and not just any woman, but Martha Stewart. You got laid off--nay, you were fired for secretly buying Saved By the Bell memorabilia with the company credit card. Boy were they pissed when it turned out that those Buddy Bands were knockoffs. You came home to find that your dog shat on your only pair of Jordans--nay, your only pair of contacts. Now you only see shit. You opened your mail to learn that you're being evicted--nay, an archeological team has discovered your home is built over sacred Navajo burial ground and that ghosts have been scratching themselves with your toothbrush while you sleep. This just isn't your day--nay, it just hasn't been your decade.

Who are the only friends you turn to? The 3 J's of drowned sorrows: Johhny Walker, Jack Daniels, and Justin Timberlake of course (you like to bring sexy back while you drink). The ensuing amount of debauchery is enough to sink a small island in the Pacific; you're drinking a flood and crying a river.

You awake the next morning to the jackhammering chirps of small birds while the sun is bitch-smacking you worse than Slickback...ahem, excuse me, A Pimp Named Slickback. You are lying on the curb outside of your building with your blog and twitters hanging out while the joggers hop over you like you're mere dog shit.

And then it hits you. That incessant pulsation in your abdomen, the uncontrollable sweat dripping down your neck, the ubelievable pounding in your head as if your brain is trying to escape that sinking ship...here it comes...it's in your throat...you can't suppress it...you just gotta...PROJECTILE VOMIT ALL OVER THE STREET!!! And you're still wretching on the curb. You don't even feel relieved. You're actually quite dizzy right now and all you can smell is the hard-boiled egg you had for breakfast two days ago.

You, sir, are hung-over. That of course is very different from being over-hung. Only animals in the horse family are over-hung. And hang-over is also not like a fly-over modified. It's not like you're holding onto a rope strapped to a plane flying across the Garden State. Nor is it like a layover (which rarely involves getting laid) or a sleepover (which sometimes is the result of getting laid). No, instead, you're "hanging" your body over a toilet, a bathtub, a balcony, expunging last night's liquid courage out your face-hole until your eyes are bloodshot and you pass out.

You also have a rain cloud of misery "hanging over" your head for the rest of day because you, sir, feel worse than Charlie Brown. That cloud is following you like a jealous ex and pouring acid drops of hurtin' all over your dome. It ain't leaving until you get rid of the toxins still "hanging" out in your body and "over"-staying their welcome. You raid the fridge for gatorade and leftover pepperoni pizza. You sandwich three slices together and dip them into the neon blue sea of electrolytes. You throw it down your mouth and swallow like a Hunt's Point hooker. Before the Itis kicks in, you stumble to your bed--nay, you crawl on your stomach while having flashbacks of 'Nam (i.e. last night's car bombs with your Viet friend Phoek). Now, as you lay there nestled in Egyptian cotton, with half your body "hanging over" the edge, your heavy eyelids "hanging over" your vision balls, you remember that once upon time, week in and week out, you used to do this...for fun.

Suck My Tweets

2009-03-03T14:35:00.004-05:00

First it was AOL profiles. Next was Asian Ave. Then it was Friendster. Followed by Xanga. Then MySpace. Soon to be dominated by Facebook. And subsequently Blogger and sometimes Youtube. Now it's Twitter. Yes, that's right, I'm on Twitter (http://www.twitter.com/Boogie_Brown). It's official folks, I have no social life. (But I suppose that was the case pre-CompuServe days anyway.) I am completely hooked up to the Matrix right now, and any and all resistance is ultimately futile. You might as well call me Boogie Borg. (Yes, a Star Trek TNG reference right after a Matrix ref. I'm really embracing my inner geeksta.)

I am now transforming my daily mundane thoughts and experiences into cyber descriptions of my mundane thoughts and experiences, and guess what? They go straight to your cell phone! Now I can annoy you from anywhere in the world! This is clearly the work of some deviant megalomaniacal super-villain. Lex Luther wishes he created something half as twistedly brilliant.

I haven't quite mastered the 140-character tweet yet, but I think I'm doing moderately well. Here's a sample of some of the twitterific tweets you're currently missing out on:

"Do you ever wonder what it feels like to be on the other side of a Care Bear stare? I'd prolly jiz out a heart."

"I wonder if Mike Tyson is on twitter. Who wouldn't want updates about his threats to stomp on your children's testicles?"

"If i were to get a face tattoo, it'd be microscopic so that from afar it looks like a mole but under magnifying glass you'd see my portrait."

"Ugh, in Philly. Don't get me wrong, I like Philly but it's like the training bra of big cities."

"The woman that just walked by me had the deepest voice I ever heard. Waitaminute..."

"I think dmetri martin is biting my shit...not to say he's a fecal eater, but that his comedy seems like it straight from me blahg."

So hurry up and let me tweet you all day into twitterdom, yout twitterful little twitt. (http://www.twitter.com/Boogie_Brown)

Resumes Revisited

2009-02-27T17:17:00.008-05:00

At my office, an intern applicant cited "Stella Artois" as one of his outside interests on his resume. In fact his resume was written on a napkin. Needless to say, he's hired, and I now report to him.

It never occurred to me that an "Interests" section on the resume was a good idea. To me it always seemed unnecessary, irrelevant, and unprofessional. I usually try to stick to work-related skills on my resume like "5 years of bear-grappling" and "2002 World's Deepest Throat," but after some convincing from co-workers, I've decided that an "Interests" section can help make a candidate stand out (assuming they can't boast unique skills like "Kung-Fu grip model for GI Joe action figures").

So, as I am retooling my resume for this rising recession, I will be adding some of my most interesting interests. Let me know if you think these will help me stand out in the eyes of an employer (read: new pimp).

Interests:
-Scavenger hunts
-people that remind me of fruits
-palindromes
- racecar
-that moment right before you remembered a person's name hours after the conversation in which said person came up
-the color perrywinkle
-breakfast burritos, ice cream sandwiches, and dessert pizza
-public hair
-...yes, I do mean public
-The Dread Pirate Roberts
-the discovery of new moles on my body
-unusual idioms, e.g the devil's in the details (yikes! Satan!), by the skin of my teeth (your teeth have skin? those aren't teeth), chewing the fat (barf!)
-Time Travel
-people who hold open beverage containers with the same hand their wristwatch is on
-think about that one for a second...
-all things homo: homographs, homonyms, homophones
-Uranus
-the burping sound of tupperware
-"Friends Forever"
-Suppressing laughter after witnessing someone slip and fall
-Christmas lights in September

What are your resume "interests?"

Lily and Jim

2009-02-26T13:09:00.001-05:00

Condiments indeed! Not to be confused with condom mints. Those are something else entirely. Ask you mom about 'em.

Botanical Ova Question of the Day

2009-02-25T14:16:00.000-05:00

Am I the only one surprised that an eggplant isn't a shrub with hard-boiled chicken eggs growing from its branches? And I was so hoping to pair it with the breakfastsausageplant, a little cheeseplant, and sandwich it with some Englishmuffinplant. How very disappointing.

Instead of chowing down, I guess I'll keep myself preoccupied by wondering which came first: the chickenplant or the eggplant.

The Doctor Dilemma

2009-02-23T17:25:00.015-05:00

In my online quest for a primary-care doctor (via zocdoc.com), an emergent fear suddenly jumped my brain and wouldn't let go. This doc directory provides profile pictures of every latex-gloved candidate, and eerily enough, I found myself face to face with the next potential person to hold my ball sack. It's a much more daunting process than I ever imagined.

I've never chosen my physician before. Ever since I can remember, I saw the same middle-aged Greek doctor (let's call him Odysseus) with cavernous nostrils and Sam Eagle eyebrows every year for my regular physical. But his office, adorned with pastel teddy bears and acrobatic clowns, hardly seems appropriate for me anymore. Plus it's in a faraway land called Joisey. The journey there is fraught with demon-spawns and uncomfortable encounters with parental units, so I dare not venture there for a checkup.

This leaves me in a bind since I'm accustomed to only Odysseus exploring the nether regions of my body. My mother suggested I see her physician friend, but I'd rather not have Auntie Joanie poking a flashlight into my interior designs. The only other option? Find someone on the internet of course. And in net-like fashion, zocdoc compiles lists of potential doctors complete with star ratings, user reviews, quotes, google map links, and the ever important, all-telling profile picture. I wonder if these doctors fret over their profiles the way I do with my facebook. "Can you tell I work out from this pic? Does it say 'cool but not too cool to be silly' or does it say 'self-absorbed and trying too hard?' Sigh...Maybe I should just post a pic of Obama to show how politically aware I am and how I'm not a racist?"

The availability of their pictures presents a new a dilemma. I inevitably weigh their history of education and patient satisfaction against the stereotypical conjectures that come up with this immediate visual information. It's almost like I'm people-watching in Union Square. Dr. Mellon-head looks like a football player. I bet his giant hands would make my penis really feel like a twig and berries. Dr. Doogie Howser would be like having your freshman year roommate check you for scoliosis. Dr. Smoking is too hot to be a doctor, and I'd be afraid that her mere touch would make me embarrassingly aroused...I wonder if she's single. And then there's Dr. Pedophile...

The site also equips me with additional racial information that wouldn't otherwise be gleaned from a surname. I see one black doctor out of a set of ten white guys, and I almost feel obligated to support him. But then there's also the Southeast Asian looking doctor and you know I got to support my sister. Then again, she kind of reminds me of this girl in college who was so petite that at house parties, she would drunkenly climb into the drying machine to prove her hobbitness. I don't think I could possibly see this doctor with a straight face.

It all boils down to what a person values in a doctor. Does one prefer cold objectivity and even colder hands? Or does one prefer a gentle bedside manner that can still smile while breaking the news that you have herpes? Is an older woman a better choice because she's reminiscent of a matriarch? Or is the younger man preferable because he can relate? In the end, the final choice a patient makes is mostly indicative of the patient themself.

So what does it say about me when I ultimately choose the doctor that most closely resembles Super Mario? But who better to check the plumbing than thee plumber himself?

Dear State of Hawaii,

2009-02-23T12:53:00.005-05:00

The election of your current governor proves that your residents will not vote on the basis of looks and that your pleasant islands are indeed a safe haven for the uglies.

I regretfully admit that were she a male governor, my scrutiny would probably be less severe. But let that only be a testament to the redeeming power of the aloha spirit. In all other corners of our superficial, sexist, and misogynistic nation, she would be a veritable outcast and stoned upon sight. Yet, Hawaii is the one place where even a Jim Henson reject can rise to a position of leadership. Telly would be so proud.

Her uncomfortable smile, looming at the airport, greets visitors to the islands, a symbol of amnesty for those afflicted with Paper-Bag Face. Foreign produce is not acceptable in Hawaii, but apparently everything else is fair game. I think a marketing campaign targeted to bridge trolls, Orcs, and Janet Reno, alerting them of this acceptance, would do wonders for your tourism industry.

It's truly a beautiful state, not necessarily because of your scenic locales and clearly not because of your population, but rather because of your openness to all, regardless of looks. And thank goodness your state is a bunch of remote islands in the middle of the Pacific, far away from everyone else.

Sincerely grateful,
Boogie Brown

And the winner is...

2009-02-19T15:04:00.002-05:00

(sung to the tune of Smelly Cat by Phoebe Buffay)

Moneycaaat
Mooooneycat
what are they feeeding you?
luckycaaat
luckyycat
it's not your faaault

sexy. sassy. sad. gold.

What can I say folks? We're in a recession. I need a lover that brings me luck and money, not one that I have to spend money on.

Stay tuned for the next round of 'Who Should I Date?' where we match up your ex-girlfriend against your current girlfriend.

Alphabet Soup Monster!! Ahh!! Letters!!!!

2009-02-12T16:38:00.008-05:00

Does the internet scare you? (Aside from when you click on this.) It's easy to get lost in the chasm of acronyminous language that plagues the 'net' when you are unfamiliar with the digital lexicon at play. It has it's own grammar, vocabulary, syntax--all of which takes centuries to master. Fortunately for you, we here at The Get Down are older than dirt and smarter than Socrates' lovechild with Aristotle, and more importantly, we feel your pain. It's that blend of sympathy and patriarchal charity (read: superiority) that has encouraged us to develop this helpful webtionary for your benefit, so you can one day master the language, navigate the net, and remember that we're way smarter than you. So we give you the Indespensable Internet Acronym Guide For Daily Communication and Validation. Let's get started shall we!

jk - jerk

IMO - emo...don't leave me alone near a razor

IMHO - I'm a ho...don't leave me alone near your spouse

BTW - knockoff beamer, for the wannabe guido

NSFW - contemporary of ACDC and INXS

OMFG - Original Mothafuckin Gangsta

OMG - Original Mother of Gangsta, who later got f*cked by rival gangsta

A/S/L - Amputated/Severed/Lacerated

TTYL - that's how we spell 'Title' on the street...uh, Eye meen str33t.

TTFN - that's how we say 'Bye' on the street...Ta Ta For Now! Toodles! ;)

STFU - dyslexic Stuff

TLDR - Tight Lipped Doctor...the kind Tony Soprano would use

PWN - if a nerd says this to you, consider yourself their subordinate

BRB - Bolshevik Rhythm & Blues. e.g. "When you hit that ceiling, oh, we need concensual healing...get up, get up, get up, get up, let's revolt tonight. Wake up, wake up, wake up, wake up, let's put up a fight."

GTG MTG - girl to girl...and one cup

LMAO - ladies Love MAO Zedong

lol - egg sandwich sideways

ROFL - the sound you inevitably make after licking a cat clean for an hour (a la Angela from The Office)

New Editions! (These are brand spanking new acronyms that haven't reached the mainstream yet, but we're giving you the inside scoop on the new lingo so you can be online cool. You're welcome.)

OPB - office-poo break

UNICORN - a single kernel from the cob

SWAYSRPCIDGAS - Stop whining about your stupid relationship problems cuz I don't give a shit

IWBGH2CAB - Is Wayne Brady gonna have to choke a bitch??

Hi, how are you? - I'm cyberstalking you. Nice vacation pics ;)

Who should I date? Part Fwhore!

2009-02-10T12:48:00.009-05:00

(the whore of course being me, not any of the contestants...except for maybe the Green M&M. Word on the street is that that green shell ain't hard to crack.)

After months of hiatus, during which time competitors in this contest for commingling are thoroughly tested for contagious diseases such as Emptyheadedness, Self-Absorption, and Gonorrhea (curiously called 'The Clap'...when you catch it, does a mischievous gnome come out and applaud?), the first round of match-ups will now continue with our fwhoreth competition between two of the most talked about contestants. As always, it's up to YOU to decide the outcome...Who should I date? and bestow all my tender goodness to. (oooh, ending a sentence with a preposition! I'm such a rebel!)

Who should I date?

Catwoman
Why I like her: First, let's be clear here. I'm not talking about the real Catwoman. I'm delusional but not completely unrealistic. Selina Kyle is clearly out of my league, her whip truly frightens me, and let's face it, Bats got it on lock. And usually a goalie would never stop me, but Christian Bale in the cape and cowl dropping F-bombs in my face is a real deterrent. I don't want him to call me unprofessional.

And I'm also not talking about the strange 60-year-old woman with more cats than relatives that lives next door. She's the cat-lady. And smells like gouda.

I'm talking about the Catwoman imposter to the right. I actually met her at the circle jerk known as Comic Con. Let's add this up: attractive female + loves comics + @ comic con + in a leather catsuit + not afraid to be nerdterviewed by Boogie Brown and Demken = viable partner in love. If there is a better woman out there, please stand up...and try on the catsuit.

I can see it now, her dressed as Catwoman, me dressed as Darkwing Duck, in the cramped aisles at Forbidden Planet, and we both reach for the last copy of Astonishing X-Men #25. She claws my face, I spit in her eye, we tussle on the floor for a while until we lock eyes and realize...that this is what it sounds like when doves cry. I wonder if she has a light saber...

OR

The waving golden cat at every Chinese food spot you ever been to
Why I like her: For some reason, I gaze into this kitty's eyes and I feel lucky. If that's not a reason to be with someone, then I don't know what is. And she's always there for me, I know just where to find her--any countertop opposite dead ducks hanging in the window. She really welcomes everyone too. No matter your race, gender, or class, she will wave to you hello and wave to you good-bye because that's what a beautiful, open feline she is. I think I need that in my life. She's also great to go to rap concerts with; she just can't help but "fan the flames."

And last but not least, I can see myself reflected in her. She really allows me to see myself. I never knew I was so golden!

The best thing I saw at NY Comic Con...

2009-02-09T14:51:00.003-05:00

...was not this:

It was this outrageous, eggtastic show:

Thu Tran, i love you.

I was trying to live-blog from the epicenter of nerdtivity all weekend, but I was again thwarted by an overloaded and overwhelmed cellular data network. Apparently all the nerdistas were clogging the network by twittering about how many times they jizzed their pants running into a Princess Leia or really, any female for that matter.

I did however get a lot of great nerdterviews on video which will hopefully be posted in due time (but not overdue time or premature time). Until then true believers, let's have a Food Party!

Rectal Root Word Pronunciation Question of the Day

2009-02-03T13:17:00.000-05:00

Why isn't "canal" pronounced "cay-nuhl," you know, like "anal" with a "c"?

Why isn't "analysis" pronounced "Anal E. Sis"?

And of course there's "analog." "You wanna do what?? Anal?! Ohhh geee!" (<---insert Minnesotan/Fargo accent here)

Twitter me this, twitter me that

2009-02-02T16:06:00.005-05:00

I have just been informed that I may have to begin twittering for work. And no, twitter is not some euphemism for an illicit sexual deed, as in "I caressed her blog, and she twittered like never before." Twitters are those automatic updating feeds on the everyday ongoings of people's lives, often serving as a reminder that even the most celebrated and revered are hopelessy mundane at the daily level.

I can only imagine the type of riveting mass updates I would be paid to deliver every hour from my office desk:

"Hmm, it is 9:30. What will I have for lunch today? Menu pages!"

"This paper clip ladder is going into the Guinness Book of World Records! I could climb down the Empire State Building on this thing!"

"20-minute power nap on the toilet...so refreshed! Hope Wanda who sits by the bathroom doesn't give me the judging I-know-you-just-office-pooed eyes."

"Head down + furrowed brow + highlighter in hand = looking busy. Little do they know that I'm just drawing neon green puppies in the margins of my office-mate's planner. You just got Atomic Dogged!"

"hehe, this game is great: http://www.break.com/games/icebreaker.html. It makes me feel like Jason Strathorn in Crank."

"That's not what I expected Human Tetris to look like. I was anticipating a video of people falling on top of one another in neat little stacks."

"Time for a real office poo...and maybe another toilet nap."

"Just got caught dancing in the elevator, again. I tried playing it off as if I were stretching, but really, who stretches doing the Kid n Play?"

"New ad campaign for candy cigarettes: Need a smoke break but hate smoke?"

"If I keep printing out 20 page documents, it appears as though I am doing important work. Clearly I am willing to sacrifice the environment to maintain the ruse of productivity. So be it."

"Googling my name produces innapropriate and unflattering results? How do I resolve this?"

"Ugh, my leg just fell asleep. Lucky leg!"

"Sitting in this chair for 8 hours straight probably has the same effect on my ass that snorting coke has on my brain :)"

"What if I snuck viagra into my co-worker's vitamins? Do you think he'd get a raise?"

"Time to leave! Peace out! Lights out!"

A Random Survey of Facebook Statuses (or is it stati?)

2009-01-30T15:49:00.005-05:00

Cornelius is baking blueberry muffins for his muffin :)

Wyatt is OMFG! Another STD?!

Geneva is conventioning...

Mortimer is eating baby corn...Is this what it feels like to be a giant?

Chastity is wondering how many times she can make her birth name ironic in one night.

Wolfgang is thinks facebook is terribly pedestrian. aSmallWorld here I come!

Percy just jizzed my pants watching Wolfgang swallow a pickle!

Anastasia hopes her cookie doesn't take away her muffins after he finds out I gave Wyatt herpes.

Koramina is snickering at the term "stimulus package."

Dante is in hell right now.

Abraham thinks God is mean :(

Hannah has never actually been to Montana before.

The Brian needs to get compensated for his talents...

A silent but expressive epidemic

2009-01-28T14:23:00.007-05:00

Have you checked yourself lately for gesticular cancer?

Do wine glasses often fall victim to your descriptive hand motions over rousing dinner conversation?
Do you talk as if you're conducting the New York Philharmonic?
Do you find yourself grabbing words in mid-air as they're released from your mouth?
Have you ever poked an eye out while simply asking for the check?

If you answered yes to any of these questions, then you might be at serious risk for gesticular cancer. Consider trying the following treatments to address this egregious affliction:

The warmer your hands, the better. Keep them close and intimate to the interiors of your pockets, the underside of your thighs while sitting, or the snug crevasses of your underarms.

Technology is your friend. Tape record your insightful, witty, and informed comments before attending social gatherings. Bring a lightweight tape player with you and play your pre-recorded thoughts, while you keep your hands and mouth busy by overdoing it on the cheese and crackers.

Board games are the enemy. Playing certain board games can only catalyze gesticular cancer to rapidly spread. Refrain from participating in any and all of the following lethal leisure activities: Charades, Guesstures, Cranium (and its variations), Pictionary, Taboo, Balderdash, and $10,000 Pyramid. Stick to games like Solitaire instead. Corollary: No more watching Yo! MTV Raps.

Poison Sumac. Bathe in it. Before you know it, your body will be blanketed in rashes so big you'd think your name was Job (from the Book of). Such maximized itching can only result in incessant scratching, ultimately keeping your hands preoccupied and your body unfit for social contact.

Gesticular cancer is no joke. Don't take risks with your health. Get tested. Your gesticles are counting on it.

Female Prefix Question of the Day

2009-01-27T16:54:00.006-05:00

Why don't we pronounce "Mrs." as "misters" since it's written as the plural form of "Mr."? If I were to read "Mrs." without pronouncing it out loud, I would assume that the English language is trying to tell us that a married woman is really equal to two or more men. Is it 'cuz she's got at least twice the balls to be married to that guy?

(That guy of course being this guy.)

(Is he nipping?...Are Japanese folks offended by that participle?)

But then when we say "Mrs." aloud, it's pronounced "Misses." WTF? So Mrs. Kittencaboodle is really the plural of Miss Kittencaboodle, as in Misses Kittencaboodle? She's twice or more the Kittencaboodle??

So "Mrs." is both plural of "Mr." and "Miss?" Then is it simply true that upon marriage, Miss Kittencaboodle suddenly transformed into 2+ men and 2+ women and is ultimately the ultimate multiplying hermaphrodite?? Twice the vaj and twice the schlongo??? Fuck Super Saiyan mode, it's all about Mrs. status!

And finally, what about the more contemporary, pro-feminist, non-marriage specific "Ms." which is pronounced "Mizz." What exactly is a Mizz? Sounds like something Snoop would come up with. "I smizzed this blizz and now I'm out of wizz. Gotta bizz to the dizzealer and cop mizz chrizz." Whizz yizz thizz abizz thizz shizz?

P.S. If you were to flirt with Mr. T, would you go up to him and ask, "So is there a Mrs. T? I pity the fool!"

Handsy Question of the Day

2009-01-23T16:42:00.005-05:00

Why are people who are 'handsome' attractive while people who are a 'handful' considered problematic? I guess a little hand is good (and by little, I mean some, not like a dwarf hand), but a maximum of hands is bad. I wonder what the max number of hands is to be considered 'ful.' Personally, I think anyone with more than two hands would freak me out, even if it's just an extra thumb. I guess for me, +2 hands = handful.

And so if 'handsome' is good and 'handful' is a problem, then what about 'handless'? This kind of person probably likes to play soccer and only soccer. It's also ironic that someone who's 'handless' can't use 'handles.'

Wouldn't it be weird if someone had a third hand but no third arm?

And why was Thing from the Addams Family called 'Thing' when clearly clearly that thing was a hand? Oddly enough, Thing was very handy around the house.

And yes, this entry is exactly the same as the one I wrote about the differences between awesome and awful.

My president is black but his house is all white

2009-01-21T12:45:00.006-05:00

Unfortunately, my live blogging experience at the inauguration of inaugurations was unexpectedly cut short when all cell phone data service was shut down. According to an anonymous friend with connections to the Secret Service--let's call her Deeper Throat--a unique EMP ray was activated on the mall to disconnect wireless service in the fear that someone might set off a cell phone bomb, or worse, send their closest friends picture texts of the event and fire off a crass display of e-bragging. Then again, it's possible that the reason for the disruption was that all 1.8 million people there were live blogging too and as we all know here at The Get Down, too much blogging can really shut down anything: office productivity, a work day, social life, a wireless network, etc.

All in all, it was a grand, historic day. Not just because we inaugurated the nation's first black and multiracial president, but more so because it's the first I've been able to endure below freezing temperatures for over 8 hours without pissing out ice chips all over my pant leg. If I can do that, then anything is possible these days.

I have three favorite moments from the inauguration. First is the benediction from Rev. Cat in the Hat who intoned the following piece of poetic justice:

"we ask you to help us work for that day when black will not be asked to get in back, when brown can stick around ... when yellow will be mellow ... when the red man can get ahead, man; and when white will embrace what is right"

That's genius,
I mean this.
How profound
to rhyme in bound
during the inauguration
of the first black president of our nation.

Second was when the million or so people left on the mall waved "good bye" and "peace out muthafucka" to The Idiot George W. as he flew over our heads in a helicopter on his way to a place called Oblivion.

Watch at 5:05

And last but certainly not least was when the man himself looked up after the inaugural address and gave me a wink and the index finger pistol point as if to say "you know what i mean, pahhhtner." No, I don't mean Barack. I'm talking about Jay-Z. After which point his hat turned into a giant bear and mauled Dick Cheney's face off.

It's a new day for America.

Inaug Blog

2009-01-20T08:40:00.000-05:00

I made it in! Still pretty far but I have the Capitol stage in my sights. I could use a little more Jumbotron though, not to be confused with Jumbo Tran, vietnam's answer to Big Pun. A band is playing faintly in the distance. I could use some amplification though. What's up with inauguration unplugged?

inaugural idiocity

2009-01-20T07:44:00.002-05:00

The girls standing in front of me lay down newspaper on the ground everytime the line stops. No, not to sit on, but to stand on! I asked if they're trying to keep their pumas clean. But no, they read that if they stand on newspaper they'll stay warm. Apparently they read this in a newspaper. I told them that I read that if they put the paper on their heads they'll be safe from radiation. They're head to toe in newspaper by now.

Inaugurate On Your Face

2009-01-20T06:42:00.003-05:00

The last time I waited on an immobile line like this out in the cold before the sun was up was to get a Wii the day it came out. Hmm, Wii or Bam? Does POTUS match up? Does he have motion sensor capabilities? If I swing my fist, will he punch your mii in the face?...Things to ponder for the next 8 hours.

Inaugurate Your Face

2009-01-20T06:22:00.002-05:00

Howdy folks, this is your friendly neighborhood blogger Boogie Brown reporting live from the insanity in DC. It looks a lot like Manhattan trying to evacuate in the midst of an alien attack, complete with sirens, helicopters, and cattle herding. Let's hope this day doesn't end like that movie Cloverfield: straight up awful. Only thing worse than a million new yorkers decimated by alien death rays is a bad speech from Bam the man. More blogging later.

Comic Con 2009: A plethora of lonely men, perpetual strangers to the touch of woman

2009-01-16T14:33:00.008-05:00

Today I came down with a case of the buttyflies. Awaiting in my email inbox was an anouncement that none other than Joss Whedon--creator of Buffy, Angel, Firefly, and Serenity-- would be a guest of honor at this year's convention of comics (no, not the funny kind). The email reached out to me and uttered, "This is it, true believer!" What else could I do but surrender my credit card info in exchange for advanced tickets to this nerd rodeo, this homage to geek mecca...Geeka, if you will. I can already smell that heavenly concoction of poor hygiene, distressed newsprint, and brace-face flatulence. The nerds are upon us and no one is safe!

I sometimes forget that I am among their ranks, perhaps having been deluded by Mysterio's trickery or a sinister spell from Sarumon. But I quickly take stock of my environment, my lair, and am easily reminded of my nerdicity:

1) Even my Spider-Man doll wears X-men tighty whities. Yes, doll. Not action figure. The action figure is still sealed in it's original packaging and not available for additional under garments.

2) Every pimple on my acne-besieged face is named after a crew member of the Starship Enterprise: Geordi LaForge and Deanna Troi on my chin, Mr. Data and Lieutenant Worf on my temples, Commander Riker on my cheek, and Captain Jean Luc Picard sits on the bridge (of my nose). And whenever the Captain looks like he's about to burst, I always interpret that as him about to say, "Number one, engage!"

3) Anytime my morning bagel gets burnt, I let out a yell to the gods, "FRACKIN TOASTER!"

4) I have a wanted poster from the state police of Michigan with my mug on it. It's real. It's a precious reminder from the Detroit Con (in the biz, we call em Cons, ya know, short for convention) of 2000 when I shoved a wannabe Wolverine into a Pikachu so I could get a picture with the real Batman (at the time, Val Kilmer). How do I know it wasn't the real Woverine? He was in a wheelchair! So obvious! The real Logan has a mutant healing factor and would never need one of those! Duhhh!

5) On my desk, enclosed in a plexi-bi-carbonite glass case, is a special edition, limited printing, director's cut, leatherbound, hardcover, doube-sized, remastered, 50th anniversary issue of the first appearance of Captain America's sidekick's canine's apprentice Uncle Sam. According to the certificate of authenticity, it's #48 of only 349 copies printed in the world. Eat that, Comic Book Guy.

6) On my left butt cheek sits a tattoo portrait of Optimus Prime, gun in hand and ready for action. Beneath him is the inscription "Transform and roll out!" And yes, you're right, true nerds fear pain more than the opposite sex, so don't worry, the tattoo is not real. I re-draw Optimus on my ass every morning with a sharpy and a complex arrangement of mirrors.

7) For my 25th suprise birthday party, I was deceivingly taken to a comic book store in order to distract me while my entire family dressed up as Super Mario World characters. Someone was even Birdo from Super Mario 2. When I entered the party, I leaped over a fireball and landed on Bowser's head, ultimately disposing him from the bridge. Unfortunately, I immediately learned that the Princess was actually in another castle...

There you have it. Undeniable proof of my nerditude. If you're interested in joining me for this grand occasion, let me know and I can forward you the application to prove your own geekature. The passing of this nerd litmus test will of course be followed by some obligatory hazing. Hope you have an affinity for light sabers! They have oh so many uses!

Movin' on Up

2009-01-15T11:51:00.009-05:00

After years of living out my fantasy life as a refugee, I've decided to graduate to a better living by paying more for a nicer apartment because let's face it, I'm worth it (maybe it's Maybelline!). But in order to afford the pricier habitat, other parts of my life will require serious changes. For example, in addition to my regular 9-5 job, Imma hafta get my hustle on and slang some rock, kiiiiiiiid! I also plan on auctioning off my virginity on ebay. How much do you think I can get for the greatest 3 seconds of my life? Stealing toilet paper from the office will also be necessary. I plan to smuggle it out in my pant leg kind of like Tim Robbins in Shawshank. Maybe I can get Red to help in exchange for a carton of Newports.

My social life will see drastic changes. No more buying drinks for the ladies. Instead I'll get them ice chips and spin em around 15 times on a swivel chair. That should do the trick. And to take care of my own inebriation, I intend to shoot rubbing alcohol directly into my veins. And if I start to bleed, I'll just use the rubbing alcohol to wash the wound too.

I plan on introducing the world (minus the Philippines, Guam, and Hawaii) to the Spam diet. Spamwiches, Spamburgers, split Spam soup, Spam salad, Spamberry ice cream...you get the idea. Best part about Spam is that it's like Lambus bread: one bite will fill me up...with 1300% of my daily value of sodium. The tricky part will be keeping my heart beating during meal times (a wet fork to the electric socket oughtta do it). But you know, you gotta risk big to win big. Unfortunately though, I may become what some societies refer to as a "fat ass" and start engaging in "fat ass" activities like "breaking chairs, stools, and toilets" and "scaring young children," but I'm not one to fight change. That requires too much energy. I'll probably succumb to the itis before reaching that point anyway.

Lastly, my biggest expense will have to come to a dramatic stop. No, it's not eating out, taking cabs, or buying corporate coffee. It's not designer clothes, exotic vacations, or alimony for a stripper named Areola Divine. My biggest expense: buying vowels. Do you know how much vowels cost these days?? $250 for every A, E, I, O, U (but fortunately never Y) that I use. Pat Sajak is the biggest thief in American history. He's jacking my wallet! For this blog entry alone, I had to spend $1,250. At this rate, I'm gonna land on bankrupt pretty soon. So from this point on, n mr byng vwls, k? Wsts mny thts ndd fr xpnsv apt. Sjk cn sck my blls!

[Note: If you're interested in taking over my current apartment, it's available at a low price. Don't be deterred by the refugee comment above. I was actually referring to my first apartment which I vacated in 2007 after a flash flood nearly drowned my teddy bear Gandalf! For some reason, the "You shall not pass!" line doesn't quite work with rising storm water.]

[Note for the note: The previous note was written before the vowel ban came into effect. It's not like I'm breaking my own rule immediately after making it. I mean, I guess I am breaking it now, but I had to explain the note above...rgh fck, k rl brkn, lst tm, prms. vwls r dn. cnsnnts nly.]

Poetry for the Monday Morning Quarterback

2009-01-12T17:27:00.007-05:00

eli you punk ass
thanks for ruining oh nine
do you have autism?

and thanks to you plax
for giving black on black crime
new meaning, genius

donovan mcnabb
your whole name takes up one line
of football haiku

long john covered legs
feels like a lover's embrace
if lover was dwarf

"sartorial" means
related to fashion, clothes
i learned today

the haiku above
has no connection with sports
just being pedant

Caked Out Question of the Day

2009-01-09T17:00:00.000-05:00

What does it mean to have my cake and eat it too? Honestly, is it even my cake if I'm not eating it with my mouth? What do I do with a cake that I'm not eating, stare at it? Try to absorb it's spirit with my mind? Dig into it looking for a nail file to help me break through these prison bars?

Does this phrase also imply that since eating my own cake is uncommon, I eat cakes that aren't mine? Why would I eat other people's cakes? Why does this phrase accuse me of being some sort of cake-thief? That's just absurd. Is "cake-thief" just a euphemism for calling me a lecherous fatass with hot-dog-like fingers? As if I went around the table and started eating everyone else's cake, without of course eating my own, 'cuz I only sniff mine so I can remember the scent and find it's counterparts to eat.

Breaking B-HO Related News!

2009-01-08T18:07:00.004-05:00

This just in: New York City webslinging vigilante Spider-Man is reported to be none other than First Lady Elect Michelle Obama. The evidence is conclusive. The trademark fist bump often traded between soon-to-be President Obama and his wife Michelle to channel their supernatural powers is seen here to be used with the masked arachnid guy...woman. Also note the way POTUS 44 pauses, employs ellipsis (the three periods denoting artful use of suspenseful silence), and then calls the crime-fighter "partner." Clearly, he is referring to his life-partner MO. Those aren't pectoral muscles folks, those are boobies.

Late Breaking News! Daily Bugle photographer and Queens native Peter Parker is actually a post-op transexual and transracial and now currently married to the next leader of the United States. Suddenly, the red and blue tights don't seem like an odd apparel choice at all.

"I bet I can get those Spidey senses tingling with this one finger...partner."

Resoloot!

2009-01-06T12:46:00.008-05:00

Most people are full of shit when it comes it to New Year's resolutions. They say things like no more chocolate, or no more alcohol, or no more chocolate alcohol. Then two days after January 1st you find out that they OD'ed on mudslides and white russians and crashed into a tree. Don't worry though, they don't drive and only crashed by walking with their eyes closed. And walking under the influence is not a crime yet, it's only frowned up...or smiled upon if you subscribe to schaudenfraude.

But unlike these shit-full people, I only make realistic New Year's resolutions, ones that I can keep. I've devised this list of original resolutions that are guaranteed to make life better in this new rotation of the earth around the fire-monster.

New New Year's Resolutions:

1) Sew the holes in my pants pockets (or at least staple them shut). Dimes and pennies keep slipping through and careen down my pant leg into my socks. I'm tired of my leg feeling like a coin slide game at the boardwalk. '09: the time to fill that hole!

2) Give my keychain lego man a new right hand. He doesn't have to be an amputee in the new year, especially when I can steal the c-shaped hand from a lego cop or a lego underwater explorer. Either that or I should just rip out keychain lego man's left hand so at least that way, his OCD maniacal need for symmetry doesn't drive him insane. It's all about balance in the '09. ( I think I only applied the article "the" before '09 because of the show "The OC." get it? The Oh Nine?)

3) Curb my alcoholism by experimenting with harder drugs. Snow will take on a new meaning this winter and crack will no longer refer to the cleavage between the two hemispheres of your ass. Hardcore drugs: my anti-alcohol in '09.

4) Go to the gym regularly...to use their shower. The drain in my bathroom's tub keeps clogging and something tells me that wading around in my own filth does not make me clean. Instead, I should be showering in front of strangers at the gym like Old Man Withers and Uni-nut. Gotta keep it so fresh and so clean in '09.

5) Try new diets for a better, healthier me. I hear the pizza diet is really effective. A slice a day keeps the skinny away, I always say, while reclining on my duvet, drinking a glass of cabernet, dreaming of a pizza buffet. I stole this bit from Adam Sandley...I'm really looking forward to having a doughier body and smelling like cheese all the time. Aged mozzarella, the new fragrance in '09.

6) Wipe my own ass after taking shits.

7) Do more reading...like of the gender classification printed on bathroom doors, or over the shoulders of people text messaging on the train, or in my bowl of Alpha-bits cereal. Reading is FUNdamental and fun can happen anywhere. Literacy, it's the new fad in the '09.

8) When meeting new people, don't apologize that my hand is wet having just washed them and shake their hand anyway and hold on for as long as possible. That way, they won't ever forget me. I'll always be that mysterious gentleman with a grasp like the ocean. Aqueous encounters in 2009!

9) Learn a new language, preferably the language of love. But if that class is full or has lofty pre-reqs, I'll sign up for pottery instead. That Demi-Swayze pottery scene is like the epitome of love, so I'd say that's a perty good stand-in. Besides, what female could say no to a hand-made ash tray or multi-purpose bowl? None worth knowing, I always say. Pour one out for love pottery in '09.

10) Replace all the pens in my office with glitter pens because even in a mechanical, banal office setting, everyone deserves to smile, and nothing pulls up the ends of your mouth quite like glitter does. It's kind of like seeing your name on a Christmas stocking, only it's everywhere. GLITTER signature! GLITTER memo! GLITTER pink slip! GLITTER OH NINE!

4 Truths and a Lie

2008-12-18T11:00:00.005-05:00

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.