Good evening and my vibrator ran out of batteries, forcing me out of my masturbatory coma/literary hiatus.
Back by popular complaint, first let me say that you are the most loyal, bored, obnoxious friends a girl could as for. So, after the 3rd or 4th, "I have nothing to distract me from my crappy office job anymore," I have re-dedicated myself to my late night ramblings. Just. For. You. Feel special.
That said, it's actually the middle of the afternoon. No, i'm not starting to relinquish my nocturnal habits, but when I tried to save this post last night at about 2am, blogger when sharktastic on me and devoured it whole. (because it was so delicious.) Apparently I should be running home at night and backing up.
But despite all these trials, I have perservered; I'm back, boreder than ever, and ready to tell you about the time I drove my car into the back of another car. Wooooohoooo!
That time was last Friday.
Returning home from a night of debaucherous birthday celebration in good ol' Toga town, NY, I was headed back to Massachusetts to make work at 4. Needless to say, I was exhausted, be-sweatpantsed, and feeling the familiar effects of the morning after. However, the sun was out, the road was clear, and I was making excellent time; despite being worn out and well, me, I was in a pretty good mood...
And that's when I made my fatal mistake. (duh duh DUHHHHH). In my infinite brilliance, I pulled into the Lee rest stop off I-90 for a quick bathroom run. And--lets be honest here--a medium fry.
Ok, a happy meal. With a toy.
I made this decision regardless of the fact that I HATE stopping on my way home, the fact that I was still full of Country Corner goodness, and the fact that- here's the kicker- I totally could have held it. Alas. As I eased off the ramp, I pulled into the parking lot making a right turn, indicating in hindsight that I couldn't have been doing more than about 5mph. But for drama's sake, let's say I was doing at least ten times that, and that I was on fire. So, speeding and flaming like a [insert gay joke here], I locked my sights on a spot to the left.
Now, let's pause here moment to examine the scenario. To my left, there was a parking spot. A parking spot. One lone miniscule spot, squeezed between the two least convenient vehicles available in regular transit. To the left, a Ford F-3billion roughly the size of a firetruck. To the right, a crookedly-parked SUV, whose tail end angled in towards the truck with all the subtlety of a dog in heat. (This metaphor especially apt because my car will shortly bury its nose in that SUV's ass). On the OTHER side of the aisle, there were roughly 10 consecutive empty spaces, enough room for me to pull in sideways. In an eighteen wheeler.
It would have been perfectly easy, beauuutifully easy, to pull into one of these empty spots. But no. Instead I went for the awful spot. The impossible spot. The hail mary of parking spots, which for the record should only be attempted in the most desperate of circumstances and under direct supervision of a lifeguard. Perhaps it was not the logical choice, but it was a whole 30 feet closer to fatty french-fry fantasticness. And as I eased my way around the ginormous Ford Monstrosity, carefully monitoring my left side to properly negotiate the difficult turn, I thought, "Daaaaaaaaaaaaaaaamn, I'm smooth."
Unfortunately, my car was thinking, "The HELL you are..." because it seized that exact moment to collide with the rear fender of the SUV on the right. Needless to say, I was not monitoring that side quite so carefully. Awesome. The crunch of exploding plastic and the cold harsh scrape of styrofoam against steel shocked me out of my congratulatory reverie, or mental victory dance, if you will. Backing up into one of the many EMPTY spaces behind me, I saw that the damage to the SUV was minimal, and briefly contemplated getting the hell outta dodge.
HOWEVER, upon inspecting my own vehicle, my clever escape was foiled. Where the corner of my bumper should have been, there was now an empty hole. Cables hung from what formerly was my parking light and directional, one shattered and the other embedded safely in the broken bumper, which was embedded safely on the ground. When I called my father to assess the situation, I described it as follows: "Its like...if your eyeball popped out, but you didn't lose it. It's just kinda dangling there by all those strings." As I stood, staring into the gaping socket, I noticed that my bumper consists entirely of hard plastic and styrofoam (except of course in the spot it struck the SUV, where it is made of plastic and NOTHING). It certainly is reassuring to know that in the case of a more serious head-on collison, I have styrofoam to protect me.
I would love to continue this tale of woe, regaling you with further embarassments like the myraid of guys who came over and swore that they could "catch the guy who did this," at which point I would bashfully inform them that "no, thanks, I did it myself." But my ADD has stretched this yarn out over yet another day and its now 1:30am, which is nearing a reasonable time for sleep. And so, in dramatic conclusion, I took a half hour nap in the car just to spite the world, disconnected the wires, tossed my broken bumper in the trunk, and drove on home.
Maybe if youre good, next time I will tell you about how we fixed said light and bumper using duct tape, bungee cord, magic marker, and...a shower curtain. In the mean time, have a safe thanksgiving and look out for drivers like me.
Sunday, November 19, 2006
Sunday, October 22, 2006
Tuesday, October 10, 2006
Sharktasmic
Good evening and this picture...
CAUTION: Leaving this wrapper unattended could lead to the suffocation of strong sad!
(Psssh... http://www.homestarrunner.com/vcr_ss.html)
What IS this?! Warning: this product may transform you into an oral sex doll? It might turn your head into a road sign? You may become a round peg in a square hole?
If only I could remember what the product actually WAS, we could all safely avoid it...
Oh well.
Tuesday, October 03, 2006
Dad, Stop Reading My Blog and other children's stories
Good evening and I totally forgot I had a blog for a few days there. whoops. I must have been too busy doing NOTHING because I have no life and I live with my parents. right. that must have been it.
Tonight I would like to discuss with you the concept of scientific conversion, which in my mind conjures up images along the line of -
Stop. Hammertime.
We interrupt this regularly scheduled program because there's an ad on the TV for Cellflirt. For those of you who do not stay up watching comedy central all night long (diving for the remote should Mind of Mencia spring unexpectedly upon you like a ninjapuma), Cellflirt is the paragon of hot steamy sex. And by sex I mean of course cell phone erotica that does not involve any actual sex. However, unlike the mom-and-pop phone sex operations of yore, wherein you ring up ol' Fanny Mae and get your tele-phreak on live and in person (sort of), Cellflirt has advanced sex into the next generation of telecommunications: text messaging.
In the beginning, there was sex; boring old-fashioned sex where you actually had to SEE and FEEL and SMELL (and taste!) the person you were gettin' nekked with. Fortunately, the genius of Alexander Graham Bell rescued us from this atrocity by bringing us phone sex... Either that or the graham cracker, I'm not sure which. Regardless, this invention rendered the other person extraneous to the equation, sparing you from having to see their orgasm-contorted face or experience any of those other lame "senses." The end result is that you were finally free to engage in a little do-it-yourself lovin whilst being aurally pleasured by a complete stranger- No Partner Necessary! (Void Where Prohibited, Some Rules and Restrictions Apply). Unfortunately, the crumbly nature of phone sex (or was it graham crackers?) caused a number of complications (read: ants), forcing telesexuals to come up with a new solution.
Enter Cellflirt. By simply texting 'Relax' or 'Tease' to 44321, you can now engage in some hot late night action with someone you can no longer certify is even a member of the desired sex. For all we know, there's a computer at the other end, programmed by some D&D nerd to randomly reply with one of 135, 214 sensual responses guaranteed to make it worth the small fortune theyre charging you.
Horny texter: "Tease"
SexBot5000: "Oh Baby. I'm so horny."
Horny texter: "Me 2. What R U wearing?"
SexBot5000: "Nothing."
Horny texter: "Me either."
SexBot5000: "You find a +2 Dagger of Glendor's Wrath. "
HornyTexter: "Huh?"
SexBot5000: "Nothing baby, dont stop."
All questing aside, it seems the point is to suspend this sort of disbelief: people text it up with invisible partners so that they dont have to settle for what they can get in real life. So let's say, just for a second, that there actually IS a hot young blonde or 5 on the other end of your connection, as the commercial implies. Just how are you supposed to conduct any, uh, business, when your paws are all tied up texting? I mean, personally, were I to spend actual money texting one of these hotlines, the button I would be pushing would not be found on a keypad.
Well. That post did not go even remotely where I intended, but it was an exhilarating ride nonetheless. Join me next time I remember, when we will discuss important matters concerning weights and measures and boobs. No lie.
In the mean time, watch out for ants.
Tonight I would like to discuss with you the concept of scientific conversion, which in my mind conjures up images along the line of -
Stop. Hammertime.
We interrupt this regularly scheduled program because there's an ad on the TV for Cellflirt. For those of you who do not stay up watching comedy central all night long (diving for the remote should Mind of Mencia spring unexpectedly upon you like a ninjapuma), Cellflirt is the paragon of hot steamy sex. And by sex I mean of course cell phone erotica that does not involve any actual sex. However, unlike the mom-and-pop phone sex operations of yore, wherein you ring up ol' Fanny Mae and get your tele-phreak on live and in person (sort of), Cellflirt has advanced sex into the next generation of telecommunications: text messaging.
In the beginning, there was sex; boring old-fashioned sex where you actually had to SEE and FEEL and SMELL (and taste!) the person you were gettin' nekked with. Fortunately, the genius of Alexander Graham Bell rescued us from this atrocity by bringing us phone sex... Either that or the graham cracker, I'm not sure which. Regardless, this invention rendered the other person extraneous to the equation, sparing you from having to see their orgasm-contorted face or experience any of those other lame "senses." The end result is that you were finally free to engage in a little do-it-yourself lovin whilst being aurally pleasured by a complete stranger- No Partner Necessary! (Void Where Prohibited, Some Rules and Restrictions Apply). Unfortunately, the crumbly nature of phone sex (or was it graham crackers?) caused a number of complications (read: ants), forcing telesexuals to come up with a new solution.
Enter Cellflirt. By simply texting 'Relax' or 'Tease' to 44321, you can now engage in some hot late night action with someone you can no longer certify is even a member of the desired sex. For all we know, there's a computer at the other end, programmed by some D&D nerd to randomly reply with one of 135, 214 sensual responses guaranteed to make it worth the small fortune theyre charging you.
Horny texter: "Tease"
SexBot5000: "Oh Baby. I'm so horny."
Horny texter: "Me 2. What R U wearing?"
SexBot5000: "Nothing."
Horny texter: "Me either."
SexBot5000: "You find a +2 Dagger of Glendor's Wrath. "
HornyTexter: "Huh?"
SexBot5000: "Nothing baby, dont stop."
All questing aside, it seems the point is to suspend this sort of disbelief: people text it up with invisible partners so that they dont have to settle for what they can get in real life. So let's say, just for a second, that there actually IS a hot young blonde or 5 on the other end of your connection, as the commercial implies. Just how are you supposed to conduct any, uh, business, when your paws are all tied up texting? I mean, personally, were I to spend actual money texting one of these hotlines, the button I would be pushing would not be found on a keypad.
Well. That post did not go even remotely where I intended, but it was an exhilarating ride nonetheless. Join me next time I remember, when we will discuss important matters concerning weights and measures and boobs. No lie.
In the mean time, watch out for ants.
Saturday, September 30, 2006
Wednesday, September 27, 2006
When In Doubt, Make a Fart Joke
Good evening and a huge pile of crap that I dumped in my parents kitchen before I took off for California, hoping that it would put itself away and maybe find me a job while i was gone. Unfortunately, neither of these events occured. Make that a useless pile of crap.
Regarding this less than graceful cross-country transition, I miss the west coast for a myriad of reasons. Most importantly, that there are more hours in the Californian day. Apparently, I will go to bed around 3am regardless of time zone; however, on the west coast, I get up 3 hours earlier than here...although that may have resulted from actually having something to get up for, which is not the case here in Massachusetts, unless you really really really like watching the leaves change.
Yes indeed, I am currently leading a thoroughly purposeless life, a life which I try valiantly to hide from by sleeping until about 3pm each day. My current residency in the basement aids this effort by preventing any offending sunlight from infiltrating my fortress of darkness until well into the afternoon. At this point, I drag myself upstairs to face whatever glorious activities and brilliant opportunities this sunny day -brimming with potential- has in store for me. Liiiike...taking the car to get inspected.
Today I took my Geo Prizm on over to Pro-Lube to try my luck at getting her a new inspection sticker. I made sure to take the highway over, despite the fact that the street driving directions are as follows: exit driveway, turn right at end of street, go straight for 10 minutes. My mom thought it might help to open the ol' priz up first, get her all warm and ready for that sweet inspection-action. Honestly, I would never send my girl in there to have them poke her engine cold: even a place called Pro-Lube still has to get her purring first ...Of course, my car sounds more like feline leukemia, but the same rules apply. Mostly, I just prayed that the engine wouldn't blow up and I'd have enough gas to make it two exits down 91.
As luck would have it, I successfully arrived at the inspection station, just in time to be squeezed in as the last appointment of the day. This privelege may or may not have been affected by the smallest t-shirt and the biggest fake-titty bra i own. Regardless, this left me with a good hour and a half to peruse Car and Driver magazine and ponder my own crapulent existence. (I would like to take this opportunity to note that while Car and Driver seems like something cars and drivers would read to share a communal bond, cars cannot, in fact, read, making this a stupid title for a publication.)
As I sat there, willing myself not to drink the complimentary coffee because a) i try not to consume things simply because they are available and b) its a fucking GARAGE, I began to wonder how I would measure up to a state-mandated inspection. If I had to show up at a service station once a year to be re-certified as a functioning member of society, would I pass? Would any of us? What would the requirements be? Like car inspections, would people inspections differ from state to state? Would you need to be more environmentally-conscious in California? Below a certain height in Massachusetts? Shit, in New Mexico you can get away with anything! A car is inspected to make sure it is safe for the people in it, the people sharing the road with it, and the environment. Can we all say that about ourselves? Year after year, can any of us consistently say that we aren't even slightly detrimental to ourselves, our friends, or the world at large? Does this questioning thing remind anybody uncomfortably of Sex and the City? fuck.
As I waited, hopelessly torn between Aidan and Big, I measured myself against factors that could possibly be included on the state inspection checklist for life. Employment? nope. Positive contribution to society? nuh-uh. Social skills? i have a freakin blog. Money? HA! sniff... Sense of humor? Metric volume? Balance and flexibility? A really big butt?
I don't really know what makes a person fit for society. Ultimately, it appears that there really are no defining characteristics that determine whether we succeed or fail at life, other than whether or not you're happy with yourself.
(dramatic pause)
Apparently, my car needs a little self-esteem boost. As expected, my poor little Geo failed emissions, enough to earn her a big fat R(as in -ejected) sticker on the windshield. Yet had there been a coiciding people inspection, I might be wearing a matching R on my forehead, so I still love my car. At least for the next 60 days, while I can get re-inspected for free. Maybe when I come back, we'll both be passable- or "good for another 10,000 miles!" as my gynecologist likes to say.
Returning home from this mediocre adventure, i shared my deep musings with my father, expressing concern over the concept of an inspection for life- what the criteria would be and whether or not I would pass. And in his infinite wisdom, he responded only this:
"All I know is, you definitely wouldn't pass emissions."
Regarding this less than graceful cross-country transition, I miss the west coast for a myriad of reasons. Most importantly, that there are more hours in the Californian day. Apparently, I will go to bed around 3am regardless of time zone; however, on the west coast, I get up 3 hours earlier than here...although that may have resulted from actually having something to get up for, which is not the case here in Massachusetts, unless you really really really like watching the leaves change.
Yes indeed, I am currently leading a thoroughly purposeless life, a life which I try valiantly to hide from by sleeping until about 3pm each day. My current residency in the basement aids this effort by preventing any offending sunlight from infiltrating my fortress of darkness until well into the afternoon. At this point, I drag myself upstairs to face whatever glorious activities and brilliant opportunities this sunny day -brimming with potential- has in store for me. Liiiike...taking the car to get inspected.
Today I took my Geo Prizm on over to Pro-Lube to try my luck at getting her a new inspection sticker. I made sure to take the highway over, despite the fact that the street driving directions are as follows: exit driveway, turn right at end of street, go straight for 10 minutes. My mom thought it might help to open the ol' priz up first, get her all warm and ready for that sweet inspection-action. Honestly, I would never send my girl in there to have them poke her engine cold: even a place called Pro-Lube still has to get her purring first ...Of course, my car sounds more like feline leukemia, but the same rules apply. Mostly, I just prayed that the engine wouldn't blow up and I'd have enough gas to make it two exits down 91.
As luck would have it, I successfully arrived at the inspection station, just in time to be squeezed in as the last appointment of the day. This privelege may or may not have been affected by the smallest t-shirt and the biggest fake-titty bra i own. Regardless, this left me with a good hour and a half to peruse Car and Driver magazine and ponder my own crapulent existence. (I would like to take this opportunity to note that while Car and Driver seems like something cars and drivers would read to share a communal bond, cars cannot, in fact, read, making this a stupid title for a publication.)
As I sat there, willing myself not to drink the complimentary coffee because a) i try not to consume things simply because they are available and b) its a fucking GARAGE, I began to wonder how I would measure up to a state-mandated inspection. If I had to show up at a service station once a year to be re-certified as a functioning member of society, would I pass? Would any of us? What would the requirements be? Like car inspections, would people inspections differ from state to state? Would you need to be more environmentally-conscious in California? Below a certain height in Massachusetts? Shit, in New Mexico you can get away with anything! A car is inspected to make sure it is safe for the people in it, the people sharing the road with it, and the environment. Can we all say that about ourselves? Year after year, can any of us consistently say that we aren't even slightly detrimental to ourselves, our friends, or the world at large? Does this questioning thing remind anybody uncomfortably of Sex and the City? fuck.
As I waited, hopelessly torn between Aidan and Big, I measured myself against factors that could possibly be included on the state inspection checklist for life. Employment? nope. Positive contribution to society? nuh-uh. Social skills? i have a freakin blog. Money? HA! sniff... Sense of humor? Metric volume? Balance and flexibility? A really big butt?
I don't really know what makes a person fit for society. Ultimately, it appears that there really are no defining characteristics that determine whether we succeed or fail at life, other than whether or not you're happy with yourself.
(dramatic pause)
Apparently, my car needs a little self-esteem boost. As expected, my poor little Geo failed emissions, enough to earn her a big fat R(as in -ejected) sticker on the windshield. Yet had there been a coiciding people inspection, I might be wearing a matching R on my forehead, so I still love my car. At least for the next 60 days, while I can get re-inspected for free. Maybe when I come back, we'll both be passable- or "good for another 10,000 miles!" as my gynecologist likes to say.
Returning home from this mediocre adventure, i shared my deep musings with my father, expressing concern over the concept of an inspection for life- what the criteria would be and whether or not I would pass. And in his infinite wisdom, he responded only this:
"All I know is, you definitely wouldn't pass emissions."
Sunday, September 24, 2006
sometimes i get drunk and try to gorilla glue a pistachio into my belly button.
yeah...that pretty much sums it up.
Tuesday, September 19, 2006
why do things make noise
good ev...oh, fuck it.
i fucking hate that thing on the top of the AIM window that plays music whenever you make the slightest movement, such as breathe anywhere near it. i keep rolling over it by accident while i'm trying to do productive things lie and all of a sudden 'does that make me CRAAAAAAAAAAZZZZAAAAYYYYYYY?' comes blaring out of my brother's laptop which apparently has no sort of volume control system whatsoever. that really charms the 35 year old yuppies also doing the late-night-wireless-in-the-lobby thing. plus they already love me because im sitting here using the ONLY available power outlet...brilliant design really: free wireless, seating for seven, ONE outlet. fucking genius.
of course, thats not nearly as awkward as the time i signed on to AIM in the middle of the fourth floor of the library on my then-boyfriend's laptop, only to have it announce "SEXY GIRL IS HERE" to the entire floor. nice. nothing makes an entrance like a lady robot proclaiming your arrival to a room currently filled with COMPLETE AND UTTER SILENCE, as well as number of diligent students who now think i'm either totally full of myself or trying to pick up a 12 year old in a chat room. the kicker is that im sure i probably programmed it to say that at some point in the distant past, assuming that the hapless victim would not, in fact, be me. oh karma you are a slutty whore.
i fucking hate that thing on the top of the AIM window that plays music whenever you make the slightest movement, such as breathe anywhere near it. i keep rolling over it by accident while i'm trying to do productive things lie and all of a sudden 'does that make me CRAAAAAAAAAAZZZZAAAAYYYYYYY?' comes blaring out of my brother's laptop which apparently has no sort of volume control system whatsoever. that really charms the 35 year old yuppies also doing the late-night-wireless-in-the-lobby thing. plus they already love me because im sitting here using the ONLY available power outlet...brilliant design really: free wireless, seating for seven, ONE outlet. fucking genius.
of course, thats not nearly as awkward as the time i signed on to AIM in the middle of the fourth floor of the library on my then-boyfriend's laptop, only to have it announce "SEXY GIRL IS HERE" to the entire floor. nice. nothing makes an entrance like a lady robot proclaiming your arrival to a room currently filled with COMPLETE AND UTTER SILENCE, as well as number of diligent students who now think i'm either totally full of myself or trying to pick up a 12 year old in a chat room. the kicker is that im sure i probably programmed it to say that at some point in the distant past, assuming that the hapless victim would not, in fact, be me. oh karma you are a slutty whore.
Thursday, September 14, 2006
The Family That Drinks Together...Drives...Together?
I'm totally blogging in my pants right now.
Good evening and horrible soft rock-techno-pop in the lobby of my bro's schwanky apt building where i go to use the free wi-fi.
this is the EXACT same kind of music they play at victoria's secret. you know it: the kind with ONE hip-and-tragic-sounding phrase that they whisper fourteen thousand times over either a vaguely familiar or blatantly sampled beat. i seriously shudder every time i hear WHAT would she do for love? whatwouldshedoforlove? WHAT would she do for love?...I don't know what she would do for love, but I know what I would do to make her shut the fuck up, and it involves a roll of gaff tape and a pufferfish. of course, those are also my plans for friday night, if the hot chocolate guy doesnt show up. but i better get to the point here because if i have to listen to another hour of i lost myself i lost myself i lost myself i lost myself... im gonna, um...lose...my.... yeah.
Anyway, I know you have often wondered if you could possibly share a gene or two with someone as awesome as me, wondered if you could possibly contain a fraction of my intelligence, grace, and um, charming demeanor. That, or we made out and you want to make sure I'm not your cousin. Either way, after extensive genealogical research (aka a week on vacation with the fam) I have compiled a helpful guide that may assist you in tracing your Griffin roots. Enjoy.
Firstly: We Griffins are a widespread (read: promiscuous) and primarily Irish (read: drunk) bunch. As a result of these dominant genetic factors, Griffins can be found all over the world in a variety of bars, pubs, and breweries. Look in a mirror. Are you drinking? If yes, congratulations! There is an excellent chance that you are part Griffin.
Continuing on, here are a number of other sub-factors that may help you identify your Griffin heritage, all gleaned from my glorious family vacation:
-If you have a few pre-dinner beers in the hotel with your parents, followed by drinks at dinner with your family, then celebrate a night out with more beers, you may be a griffin.
-If you have ever been pressured into getting another drink by one of your parents, you may be a griffin.
-If you would never dream of having dessert with just coffee, if you MUST add a least a splash of baileys, or better yet some jamesons, or fuck it bring me a whiskey on the rocks, you may be a griffin.
-If your brother's girlfriend calls home after a week of hanging out with your family and says, "But they DRINK so much..." because you have managed to physically exhaust her with the amount of alcohol your family consumes, you may be a griffin.
-If you get wasted in a winery tasting room (the third of the day) and start singing Wierd Al songs from a decade ago, you may be a griffin.
-If you then sit outside said winery and compare feet, concluding that the length of your toes is a genetic indicator of your predispositions for certain kinds of alcohol, you just might be a griffin.
-If you devote an entire day to family drinking (aka drive through wine country) and FAIL to designate a driver because no, we thought you were driving, you may be a griffin.
-If you're father's bar manner inspires someone to ask "When did your dad become a frat boy?" and you respond, "About 30 years ago," you might be a griffin.
(incidentally if you have ever asked your dad about his UMass days and he mumbles something about throwing a mattress out a 30th floor dorm window, you're a griffin.)
-If a member of your family ever asks you to hold his or her beer while he or she makes an illegal left turn on a major roadway, you may be a griffin.
-If you come out of your stall in the ladies room and notice your father peeing in the stall next to you, to which his only response is 'you know, i thought it was funny they had no urinals.' you are unfortunately a griffin.
-If your brother's girlfriend goes out for beers with your family, orders a diet coke, and announces it a personal victory -a coup of sorts- to go out with your family and not order an alcoholic drink, you may be a griffin.
-If switching hotels involves leaving your mom on the sidewalk with a mountain of luggage...and a twelver of microbrew, you may be a griffin.
-Finally, if you feel overwhelming loyalty to defend 'Undercover Brother' as a cinematic masterpiece, you're totally a griffin.
I hope you found this guide helpful in identifying your Griffin heritage. If you did, in fact, find any traits in common, welcome to the clan! I'll drink to that. and to your health. and to my health. and to...thursday! aaand that guy! and of course: to family.
(if you did not find any traits in common, dont feel too bad...you still have your liver.)
now, if you'll excuse me, i'm getting the fuck out of this lobby.
I'm invisible, i'm invisible, i'm invisible, i'm invisible, i'm invisible...
Good evening and horrible soft rock-techno-pop in the lobby of my bro's schwanky apt building where i go to use the free wi-fi.
this is the EXACT same kind of music they play at victoria's secret. you know it: the kind with ONE hip-and-tragic-sounding phrase that they whisper fourteen thousand times over either a vaguely familiar or blatantly sampled beat. i seriously shudder every time i hear WHAT would she do for love? whatwouldshedoforlove? WHAT would she do for love?...I don't know what she would do for love, but I know what I would do to make her shut the fuck up, and it involves a roll of gaff tape and a pufferfish. of course, those are also my plans for friday night, if the hot chocolate guy doesnt show up. but i better get to the point here because if i have to listen to another hour of i lost myself i lost myself i lost myself i lost myself... im gonna, um...lose...my.... yeah.
Anyway, I know you have often wondered if you could possibly share a gene or two with someone as awesome as me, wondered if you could possibly contain a fraction of my intelligence, grace, and um, charming demeanor. That, or we made out and you want to make sure I'm not your cousin. Either way, after extensive genealogical research (aka a week on vacation with the fam) I have compiled a helpful guide that may assist you in tracing your Griffin roots. Enjoy.
Firstly: We Griffins are a widespread (read: promiscuous) and primarily Irish (read: drunk) bunch. As a result of these dominant genetic factors, Griffins can be found all over the world in a variety of bars, pubs, and breweries. Look in a mirror. Are you drinking? If yes, congratulations! There is an excellent chance that you are part Griffin.
Continuing on, here are a number of other sub-factors that may help you identify your Griffin heritage, all gleaned from my glorious family vacation:
-If you have a few pre-dinner beers in the hotel with your parents, followed by drinks at dinner with your family, then celebrate a night out with more beers, you may be a griffin.
-If you have ever been pressured into getting another drink by one of your parents, you may be a griffin.
-If you would never dream of having dessert with just coffee, if you MUST add a least a splash of baileys, or better yet some jamesons, or fuck it bring me a whiskey on the rocks, you may be a griffin.
-If your brother's girlfriend calls home after a week of hanging out with your family and says, "But they DRINK so much..." because you have managed to physically exhaust her with the amount of alcohol your family consumes, you may be a griffin.
-If you get wasted in a winery tasting room (the third of the day) and start singing Wierd Al songs from a decade ago, you may be a griffin.
-If you then sit outside said winery and compare feet, concluding that the length of your toes is a genetic indicator of your predispositions for certain kinds of alcohol, you just might be a griffin.
-If you devote an entire day to family drinking (aka drive through wine country) and FAIL to designate a driver because no, we thought you were driving, you may be a griffin.
-If you're father's bar manner inspires someone to ask "When did your dad become a frat boy?" and you respond, "About 30 years ago," you might be a griffin.
(incidentally if you have ever asked your dad about his UMass days and he mumbles something about throwing a mattress out a 30th floor dorm window, you're a griffin.)
-If a member of your family ever asks you to hold his or her beer while he or she makes an illegal left turn on a major roadway, you may be a griffin.
-If you come out of your stall in the ladies room and notice your father peeing in the stall next to you, to which his only response is 'you know, i thought it was funny they had no urinals.' you are unfortunately a griffin.
-If your brother's girlfriend goes out for beers with your family, orders a diet coke, and announces it a personal victory -a coup of sorts- to go out with your family and not order an alcoholic drink, you may be a griffin.
-If switching hotels involves leaving your mom on the sidewalk with a mountain of luggage...and a twelver of microbrew, you may be a griffin.
-Finally, if you feel overwhelming loyalty to defend 'Undercover Brother' as a cinematic masterpiece, you're totally a griffin.
I hope you found this guide helpful in identifying your Griffin heritage. If you did, in fact, find any traits in common, welcome to the clan! I'll drink to that. and to your health. and to my health. and to...thursday! aaand that guy! and of course: to family.
(if you did not find any traits in common, dont feel too bad...you still have your liver.)
now, if you'll excuse me, i'm getting the fuck out of this lobby.
I'm invisible, i'm invisible, i'm invisible, i'm invisible, i'm invisible...
did i mention the whipped cream holster?
Good evening and a wicker duck that im assuming is supposed to be here for aesthetic purposes...?
this is my last night in my very own hotel room, and there are only 3 word for that:
so.
many.
hookers.
really tho, today i went to a baseball game and it was really fucking cold and i wanted something warm and delicious but your mom wasnt around. and then i saw the hot chocolate vendor walking up and down the aisles. the man wears A TANK OF HOT CHOCOLATE on his back, with a little hose to dispense it and a whipped cream holster. allow me to repeat that: whipped cream holster. he has a holster for easy access to his two cans of whipped cream. tank strapped on tight, hose at the ready, aerosol dispensers blazing, this guy is armed and dangerous, walking up the aisle towards me like some beautiful delicious ghostbuster. fuck the game, i will pay you SO MUCH MONEY to come to my room later wearing only that equipment. im not sure you heard me: THE MAN WEARS A TANK OF HOT CHOCOLATE.
in other news, i went to the zoo today. i'd love to tell you all about it but im waiting to illustrate with the 10 or so pictures i took before my camera fucking died. ive been saving the battery all week to take pictures of animals at the zoooooooo because they are so much more fun than people, and half an hour before the lion feeding the camera f-ing dies. but man, if that camera had worked you guys would see so much gigantic rhinocerous wang you wouldnt even know what to do with yourself. everywhere i went there was a different species of rhino showing off his junk. and all i can say is, it must be good to be a lady rhinocerous.
altho its probaby pretty hard to get a whipped cream holster that size...
this is my last night in my very own hotel room, and there are only 3 word for that:
so.
many.
hookers.
really tho, today i went to a baseball game and it was really fucking cold and i wanted something warm and delicious but your mom wasnt around. and then i saw the hot chocolate vendor walking up and down the aisles. the man wears A TANK OF HOT CHOCOLATE on his back, with a little hose to dispense it and a whipped cream holster. allow me to repeat that: whipped cream holster. he has a holster for easy access to his two cans of whipped cream. tank strapped on tight, hose at the ready, aerosol dispensers blazing, this guy is armed and dangerous, walking up the aisle towards me like some beautiful delicious ghostbuster. fuck the game, i will pay you SO MUCH MONEY to come to my room later wearing only that equipment. im not sure you heard me: THE MAN WEARS A TANK OF HOT CHOCOLATE.
in other news, i went to the zoo today. i'd love to tell you all about it but im waiting to illustrate with the 10 or so pictures i took before my camera fucking died. ive been saving the battery all week to take pictures of animals at the zoooooooo because they are so much more fun than people, and half an hour before the lion feeding the camera f-ing dies. but man, if that camera had worked you guys would see so much gigantic rhinocerous wang you wouldnt even know what to do with yourself. everywhere i went there was a different species of rhino showing off his junk. and all i can say is, it must be good to be a lady rhinocerous.
altho its probaby pretty hard to get a whipped cream holster that size...
Sunday, September 10, 2006
They Move in Mysterious Ways
Ow. My blog hurts. It ate too much.
Good evening and honey nut cheerios. I have this problem where sometimes I say the things I'm looking at. Brick loves lamp.
I know that I promised the exciting sequel to last night's bitchgasm about how my family is driving me insane. However, that will not be occuring tonight, and the reason is threefold:
a) Our hotel upgraded us to a 2 room suite. Now that I have my own room I dont want to kill them or myself nearly as much.
2) I'm bored of that rant, and I'm pretty sure you dont care.
c) As far as I know, Christina Coviello and Jeremy Clayton are the only people that actually read this. Hi guys. Tell your friends.
In lieu of discussing how I have somehow become the fifth wheel in my own family, how we now walk like the number 5 on a die (that would be the singular of dice, you retard) and I am the awkward crappy dot in the middle, I would instead like to discuss an important subject close to my icy black heart: street crossing.
To some of you, crossing the street may not be a big deal. But you're wrong. One hundred percent straight-up wrong. And stupid too. Crossing the street is both an ancient art form and an exact and calculating science, and after years of intense study I am finally prepared to publish my findings on this subject. I hope you find it both informative and stimulating. Previous sentence blatantly stolen from waynes world.
Now then. There are several types of people in the world; fortunately, they can be easily categorized by their street crossing patterns. However, there is more than one type of street, which complicates things significantly.
Busy city streets see an assload *[note: approximate measurement] of pedestrian traffic each day, all in addition to the thousands of cars, buses, ice cream trucks, and bike-cart guys that these roadways were paved to mmm ice cream so deliciousss. Sometimes, these pedestrians find themselves on the side of the street opposite their intended destination, needing to "get to the other side." In these times of trial, they turn for guidance to the age-old motto WWtCD? or "What Would the Chicken Do?" in full, and the answer- almost exclusively- is cross the road. In order to mediate the resulting intersection of human and vehicular traffic, these busy streets feature traffic lights, which regulate the right of way between the two parties.
At these "traffic lights" you will find three kinds of people: There are those that wait religiously for the walk signal; those that wait until they see an opening and cross regardless of signal, and those who charge fearlessly into oncoming traffic.
These last people are, of course, assholes. Known scientifically as the Pedestrius Douchebaggius, they're the ones you really want to hit with your car because by the time they waddle their inconsiderate asses out of your way, the light will have turned and you can no longer legally go. However, that does provide you with the opportunity to get out of your stopped car, run them down, and beat them with a tire iron (or snowbrush if you're from new england.)
On the opposite end of the spectrum from these dbags are the Pedestrius Pussius, who wait with devout fervor for the signal, as if at the 'walk' light jesus will personally appear, hold their hand, and escort them safely across the street. Apparently they use the buddy system. No offense people, but unless you're trying to cross the Red Sea, I think you'll be okay on your own.
Which leads us to the other kind of street- the kind without traffic lights (I'm not really sure how it led us here, but it is an excellent transitional phrase, so we'll just pretend.) Here, you witness a species closely related to the Pussius: Without the guidance of the almighty signal, this primitive people wait hopelessly on one side until the road is completely devoid of traffic, which usually happens around 3am- horribly inconvenient when they want to go out to brunch. Almost exclusively old and slow, this species is known as the Pedestrius Saggius and can be identified by their distinctive jowl and underarm flaps. You've seen them, theyre the ones that stand perfectly motionless on the opposite side of the street while you cross toward them; but they dont cross, oh no. They watch in awe as you heroically dodge traffic, diving and rolling and running back to save a puppy and then finally landing on the other side in a blaze of glory. Or so it seems to them anyway, as the stand cowering on that same corner. The Douchebaggius can also be spotted crossing signal-free streets, but it doesnt make much of a fucking difference since they just barrel out into the street regardless.
However, above and beyond these common species, these typical garden-variety pedestrians, there is a rare and eccentric breed, a breed that- hold up. my underwear is on inside out. Now that is just fucking ridiculous. I sell underwear for a living, you'd think I would know which side goes out. Guess not. Oh well, now i can flip them inside out and wear them again tomorrow! just kidding...? Moving on. This other elusive group is a sub-species of the Pedestrius Moderati, a capable and semi-competent set possessing skills such as depth perception, time-space awareness, and reflexes sharper than a pear that allow them to LOOK into the street, GAUGE whether or not they can cross without getting hit, and DO so succesfully, light or no light. While natural selection has weeded out many of the douchebags (who get hit by cars) and the old people (who die of natural causes while waiting for the street to clear), the Moderati has excelled at street-crossing to become the significant majority.
And yet, within this generally rational populus, there is an errant faction known as the Pedestrius Spasticus, or more commonly: "Runners." No, not sweatband-and-reflecting-vest-type runners, although they're fucking annoying too. The runners I speak of are those normally functional people who pause to look before they cross the street, see the cars, and yet somehow fail to allow enough time to safely proceed across the street. This malfunction then results in a spastic dash across the last 50-100 feet of roadway, arms flailing, heart pounding, eyes wide with terror. If you're lucky, you may even here the call of the Spasticus: a brief, guttural "OHshit!" as they kick into high gear two-thirds of the way out.
What I find so especially interesting about the Spasticus is not the inability to judge the speed of oncoming traffic, but the unflappable belief that said traffic will ACTUALLY HIT THEM. I won't lie to you, I don't cross perfectly everytime, although I am damn good at it. Naturally, I always make it across the first lane no problem. If you can't do that much, do yourself a favor: go home, crawl under your couch, and stay there forever. But on the rare occasion that the second lane cuts it too close, I either stop and wait for the car to pass, or proceed at my usual leisurely pace across the street. I dont run. I dont hurry. MollMoll hurries for no man. Because once you're in the process of crossing the road, the second lane of cars have already seen you and would probably prefer to avoid killing you if possible (Its messy and inconvenient for everyone involved).
The BEST part- GOD I love this- is Runners at a walk signal. I mean, god for-freaking-bid any walk signal ever last until you get to the other side of the street, right? But most of us understand that if you are in mid-cross and the little white man on the light goes away, we can safely continue across at our regular clip. Runners, however, fear the passing of this peaceful symbol, as it gives way to the BIG SCARY RED HAND OF DEATH- at which point they take off like there's a tiny man in a colorful jacket riding them to victory. What they don’t seem to realize is that the cars are already stopped. They’re sitting at a red light. They’re waiting. There’s a pretty good chance they’ve noticed you. Calm the fuck down, you're not going to die.So concludes my study of the Pedestrius in its many forms as it executes the great art of street crossing. For anyone who cares, my sketchbook just bit me again, I swear to god its trying to kill me. If I don’t blog again, it succeeded. Or I’m too lazy.
In any case, I’m off to go right-side out my undies.
AHHH My Family Drives Me Nuts: Part I
You dont love me, you just love my bloggystyle.
Good evening and welcome to hell.
Tonights topic is my family and how I'm about to kill them all. Okay, I'm not really going to kill them; in all honesty, if I were actually to kill anyone-which im not- it's far more likely that I would just dispatch myself because let's face it: I am far too lazy to commit a quadruple homicide. That shit takes dedication. I mean by the time I planned out the first one I would lose interest and be googling shit like Oprah's boyfriend's last name. (It's Graham).
No, I don't want them to die- I rather like my family. I just want them to go away from me. I want them to hold perfectly still and remain perfectly silent, like any number of glorious inanimate objects including pyramids, furniture, or Catholics during sex. OH SNAP! Wait, im technically Catholic. Damn... i knew i should have gone with the frightened six-year-old. WOW. that was awful. and you loved it. Freak.
Honestly, though, is that so wrong?
[not sex with six year olds. That is SO wrong (and yet SO hilarious).]
But fantasizing that my family will suddenly all realize their lifelong desire to become those British cops with the big fuzzy hats, and just hold still and shut up all day long? That really doesn't seem so unreasonable to me. Granted, I usually feel this way about most people that I interact with on a daily basis. But most people are stupid, and would be more useful holding up a lamp or a nice plate of cheese.
The fam, however, I can usually handle. We all share a few genes, so naturally they are adequately intelligent to converse with. And it's not like my parents are particularly overprotective- my dad's idea of keeping tabs on me in high school was falling asleep on the couch in the living room, where he would consistently fail to stir when i came home wasted at 2am. A vigilant hawk, that one.
And yet, for all of us who have recently or ever moved back home, even for the summer, you know: it isn't about how much you like your family. It doesn't matter how great you've gotten along in the past, how well you've kept in touch, or how much you've missed homecooking, free laundry, and not paying the electric bill. All that matters is that you no longer have your own space, your own domain of over which you reign supreme. Sure, you may have a room, but you reside under someone else's roof. You are a serf to their lordship; a garth to their wayne. Once great barons of our crappy college apartments, we are now reduced to lowly peasants toiling under the parental yoke. And it blows.
So I ask you:
You think its bad, no longer having the freedom to roam about in your underwear as you please?
You think it blows not being able to hold a private conversation without awkwardly hiding in the bathroom/attic/driveway?
Ya think its hard to get your sex on when you're hottest pick up line is 'So, shall we continue this conversation back at...my mom's basement?'
TRY SHARING A SINGLE FUCKING ROOM WITH YOUR PARENTS FOR 9 DAYS. Then you can complain.
This whole California thing seemed like a great idea at first. A week plus out of Massholia at someone else's expense- who could ask for more? But what seemed at first a glorious escape from the parental prison has turned into the hotel room of horrors. Seriously, I think we're staying at the Hyatt Chaperone. Keep your eye on the news, I may be the first person to attempt the daring flight across the icy, shark infested bay INTO Alcatraz.
Okay, this is diatribe is getting lengthy and of course BOTH my parents are sleeping restlessly about 30 feet away. Stay tuned for part deux, where I complain about everyone else in my family except the cat. The real irony is, all of them know about my fabulous blog and will probably read this at some point. And I love you guys...but I like you better when I can't hear you snoring as I type.
Good evening and welcome to hell.
Tonights topic is my family and how I'm about to kill them all. Okay, I'm not really going to kill them; in all honesty, if I were actually to kill anyone-which im not- it's far more likely that I would just dispatch myself because let's face it: I am far too lazy to commit a quadruple homicide. That shit takes dedication. I mean by the time I planned out the first one I would lose interest and be googling shit like Oprah's boyfriend's last name. (It's Graham).
No, I don't want them to die- I rather like my family. I just want them to go away from me. I want them to hold perfectly still and remain perfectly silent, like any number of glorious inanimate objects including pyramids, furniture, or Catholics during sex. OH SNAP! Wait, im technically Catholic. Damn... i knew i should have gone with the frightened six-year-old. WOW. that was awful. and you loved it. Freak.
Honestly, though, is that so wrong?
[not sex with six year olds. That is SO wrong (and yet SO hilarious).]
But fantasizing that my family will suddenly all realize their lifelong desire to become those British cops with the big fuzzy hats, and just hold still and shut up all day long? That really doesn't seem so unreasonable to me. Granted, I usually feel this way about most people that I interact with on a daily basis. But most people are stupid, and would be more useful holding up a lamp or a nice plate of cheese.
The fam, however, I can usually handle. We all share a few genes, so naturally they are adequately intelligent to converse with. And it's not like my parents are particularly overprotective- my dad's idea of keeping tabs on me in high school was falling asleep on the couch in the living room, where he would consistently fail to stir when i came home wasted at 2am. A vigilant hawk, that one.
And yet, for all of us who have recently or ever moved back home, even for the summer, you know: it isn't about how much you like your family. It doesn't matter how great you've gotten along in the past, how well you've kept in touch, or how much you've missed homecooking, free laundry, and not paying the electric bill. All that matters is that you no longer have your own space, your own domain of over which you reign supreme. Sure, you may have a room, but you reside under someone else's roof. You are a serf to their lordship; a garth to their wayne. Once great barons of our crappy college apartments, we are now reduced to lowly peasants toiling under the parental yoke. And it blows.
So I ask you:
You think its bad, no longer having the freedom to roam about in your underwear as you please?
You think it blows not being able to hold a private conversation without awkwardly hiding in the bathroom/attic/driveway?
Ya think its hard to get your sex on when you're hottest pick up line is 'So, shall we continue this conversation back at...my mom's basement?'
TRY SHARING A SINGLE FUCKING ROOM WITH YOUR PARENTS FOR 9 DAYS. Then you can complain.
This whole California thing seemed like a great idea at first. A week plus out of Massholia at someone else's expense- who could ask for more? But what seemed at first a glorious escape from the parental prison has turned into the hotel room of horrors. Seriously, I think we're staying at the Hyatt Chaperone. Keep your eye on the news, I may be the first person to attempt the daring flight across the icy, shark infested bay INTO Alcatraz.
Okay, this is diatribe is getting lengthy and of course BOTH my parents are sleeping restlessly about 30 feet away. Stay tuned for part deux, where I complain about everyone else in my family except the cat. The real irony is, all of them know about my fabulous blog and will probably read this at some point. And I love you guys...but I like you better when I can't hear you snoring as I type.
Thursday, September 07, 2006
I Left My Brain in Massachusetts
What rolls down stairs, alone or in pairs? Rolls over your neighbor's dog? What's great for a snack? And fits on your back? Its BLOG! BLOG! BLOG!
Good evening. [You have to understand that when I say this, in my head it sounds like Bill Cosby's impression of the scary radio man hosting the 'Lights Out' program he was not allowed to watch as a child because... you cant watch radio. But if i were not an idiot and had typed that correctly, it would have read: the 'Lights Out' program he was not allowed to listen to as a child because it scared him so much he smeared jello all over the floor to slip up the monsters when they came after him.'] In your head, it probably sounds more like you reading aloud...or a lonely cricket, depending on who's reading this.
On that graceful note, tonight's entry is particularly self-centered, chronicling shit i did today in cali. However, since it is in fact a list of reasons i am a fucktard, i hope you wont find it too self-indulgent. Enjoy.
Smooth things I did today:
-pulled a string of condoms out of my purse along with my wallet while paying my admission at the lovely de Young museum. Apparently they don't accept those as currency out here. I should probably return those to their home in the reknowned Mug of Protection (with +2 anti-baby-making enchantment) to prevent further accidents pun not even remotely intended, but you never know when youre gonna meet a hottie and get it on amongst the Art of the Oceanias. Nothing turns me on like authentic human skulls. Prrrrr.
-had "Green tea fo' won?' at the Japanese Tea Gardens. This wasn't so much spastic as it was kind of sad. APPARENTLY, Japanese Tea Gardens are only for people with dates or friends. The rest of us just look like assholes climbing up and down the same side of the ladder bridge because everytime we get to the top, we have to climb back down to get out of someone else's fucking picture. And by we, I mean of course...me.
I managed to look so picturesquely lonely that another tourist actually took a picture of me, sitting alone at the counter, preciously cradling my green tea fo' won? for warmth beneath a darkened sky. I tried to conjure up a single tear for her, but it just felt forced.
-cut my wrist on my sketchbook. Entirely by accident of course, but probably not a great omen. My art is now attacking me. The end of the metal binding turns out to be perilously sharp, tucked just out of view like a tiny vicious metal puma (slash ninja slash pirate). Or perhaps a snake. Yes, definitely a snake, specifically an asp. Strathmore really needs to work on that design. Once artists figure out its that easy, we'll be losing them left and right. One bad sketch and its slash, hisssss, BOOM you're dead.
-took my birth control three hours late for the third day in a row because, unlike my cell phone, my brain does not automatically register changes in time zone. Apparently in my world, 11pm happens whenever the fucking clock says it does. Honestly, if it makes me less retarded, go ahead, put a chip in my brain. Link me up to that satellite and get me tivo while youre at it. I'll have soooo many friends once I have free wireless coming out my ears.
Take THAT, Japanese Tea Gardens.
Good evening. [You have to understand that when I say this, in my head it sounds like Bill Cosby's impression of the scary radio man hosting the 'Lights Out' program he was not allowed to watch as a child because... you cant watch radio. But if i were not an idiot and had typed that correctly, it would have read: the 'Lights Out' program he was not allowed to listen to as a child because it scared him so much he smeared jello all over the floor to slip up the monsters when they came after him.'] In your head, it probably sounds more like you reading aloud...or a lonely cricket, depending on who's reading this.
On that graceful note, tonight's entry is particularly self-centered, chronicling shit i did today in cali. However, since it is in fact a list of reasons i am a fucktard, i hope you wont find it too self-indulgent. Enjoy.
Smooth things I did today:
-pulled a string of condoms out of my purse along with my wallet while paying my admission at the lovely de Young museum. Apparently they don't accept those as currency out here. I should probably return those to their home in the reknowned Mug of Protection (with +2 anti-baby-making enchantment) to prevent further accidents pun not even remotely intended, but you never know when youre gonna meet a hottie and get it on amongst the Art of the Oceanias. Nothing turns me on like authentic human skulls. Prrrrr.
-had "Green tea fo' won?' at the Japanese Tea Gardens. This wasn't so much spastic as it was kind of sad. APPARENTLY, Japanese Tea Gardens are only for people with dates or friends. The rest of us just look like assholes climbing up and down the same side of the ladder bridge because everytime we get to the top, we have to climb back down to get out of someone else's fucking picture. And by we, I mean of course...me.
I managed to look so picturesquely lonely that another tourist actually took a picture of me, sitting alone at the counter, preciously cradling my green tea fo' won? for warmth beneath a darkened sky. I tried to conjure up a single tear for her, but it just felt forced.
-cut my wrist on my sketchbook. Entirely by accident of course, but probably not a great omen. My art is now attacking me. The end of the metal binding turns out to be perilously sharp, tucked just out of view like a tiny vicious metal puma (slash ninja slash pirate). Or perhaps a snake. Yes, definitely a snake, specifically an asp. Strathmore really needs to work on that design. Once artists figure out its that easy, we'll be losing them left and right. One bad sketch and its slash, hisssss, BOOM you're dead.
-took my birth control three hours late for the third day in a row because, unlike my cell phone, my brain does not automatically register changes in time zone. Apparently in my world, 11pm happens whenever the fucking clock says it does. Honestly, if it makes me less retarded, go ahead, put a chip in my brain. Link me up to that satellite and get me tivo while youre at it. I'll have soooo many friends once I have free wireless coming out my ears.
Take THAT, Japanese Tea Gardens.
Tuesday, September 05, 2006
DAMN, that shit is WACK!
Good evening and welcome to Blogtown, population: me.
As you may have noticed, the world is in an uproar:
A great hero of our time, Steve Irwin, lies dead from a stingray barb to the chest; the new Facebook mini-feed has robbed us both of our privacy/dignity/integrity (that we in NO WAY compromised by signing up for Facebook in the first place), as well as the many glorious hours of stalking that previously kept us useless postgrads entertained for hours, and granted the gift of procrastination to all you currently enrolled.
What IS this shit? Ok, I mean, perhaps these are not matters of the most pressing global importance. I'm pretty sure when the ol' croc hunter finally retired to that big reptile-wrestling ring in the sky, the united nations didnt hold an emergency session. But you're not exactly sitting around watching CNN right now are you? Irwin's down-under antics are about as close as most of us are ever gonna get to international relations, so shut your pie hole. As far as our sad little world is concerned, things are severely out of balance; our chi is off, the planets are misaligned, and saturn is the eighth house of OhFuckMe. (dogs and cats living together, mass hysteria).
But in this time of trial, I offer unto you, my dear friends, a little wisdom that I picked up from the complimentary Frank Thomas bobblehead doll I received at tonight's Oakland A's game. I'm pretty confident it addresses the issue at hand:
ATTENTION!
HEAD-SIZE-TO-BODY-SIZE RATIO ON BOBBLEHEAD IS NOT TO SCALE
If it were, Frank Thomas' real head would be four feet tall and weigh 260 pounds.
Alright. Well, I guess that clears that up.
Soooo, in conclusion, although you may feel saddened, depressed, or discouraged by all the tragedy that has recently befallen the world, just remember...um...dont let it go to your head? keep on bobblin'? ooh ooh i know! dont blow it out of proportion!
...right. Class dismissed.
Now if you'll excuse me, I have a life size model of Frank Thomas that needs some adjusting...
As you may have noticed, the world is in an uproar:
A great hero of our time, Steve Irwin, lies dead from a stingray barb to the chest; the new Facebook mini-feed has robbed us both of our privacy/dignity/integrity (that we in NO WAY compromised by signing up for Facebook in the first place), as well as the many glorious hours of stalking that previously kept us useless postgrads entertained for hours, and granted the gift of procrastination to all you currently enrolled.
What IS this shit? Ok, I mean, perhaps these are not matters of the most pressing global importance. I'm pretty sure when the ol' croc hunter finally retired to that big reptile-wrestling ring in the sky, the united nations didnt hold an emergency session. But you're not exactly sitting around watching CNN right now are you? Irwin's down-under antics are about as close as most of us are ever gonna get to international relations, so shut your pie hole. As far as our sad little world is concerned, things are severely out of balance; our chi is off, the planets are misaligned, and saturn is the eighth house of OhFuckMe. (dogs and cats living together, mass hysteria).
But in this time of trial, I offer unto you, my dear friends, a little wisdom that I picked up from the complimentary Frank Thomas bobblehead doll I received at tonight's Oakland A's game. I'm pretty confident it addresses the issue at hand:
ATTENTION!
HEAD-SIZE-TO-BODY-SIZE RATIO ON BOBBLEHEAD IS NOT TO SCALE
If it were, Frank Thomas' real head would be four feet tall and weigh 260 pounds.
Alright. Well, I guess that clears that up.
Soooo, in conclusion, although you may feel saddened, depressed, or discouraged by all the tragedy that has recently befallen the world, just remember...um...dont let it go to your head? keep on bobblin'? ooh ooh i know! dont blow it out of proportion!
...right. Class dismissed.
Now if you'll excuse me, I have a life size model of Frank Thomas that needs some adjusting...
Monday, September 04, 2006
I made a blog!...that sounds kinda gross...
Good evening and welcome to my blog-
the home of my deepest, most intimate personal thoughts and expressions, the whispers and utterances of my very soul, the...public forum where i can bitch about shit and you can all read it so i dont have to repeat myself. I like to call it "cranial drainage." that phrase may have been stolen from House, MD.
Tonight, however, here for your enjoyment, is a list of the months I made in my kindergarden drawing journal, which for some reason was on the kitchen counter. Oh the joys of home. To get the full effect, please envision approximately 30% of the letters backward (thats better than half!), and all written in alternating red and green crayon. Apparently this was the special Holiday Issue. Now then:
JTheNeWeRe
merh (or...meth. cant be sure which.)
eRRL (you cant see it, but the e is long.)
MAY (jackpot!)
JOWN
JLie
STemBR
OCTOBR
NOVmBR
DSemBR (thanks, pat, i'd like to buy a vowel.)
*also an exquisitely drawn stick snowman...dont ask me how that works.
February never did much for me anyway. (Its that extra fucking R.)
In other news, I have to catch a flight to California in about 9 hours and this is what I did instead of packing. Now that I've wasted a few minutes of both of our lives I can safely proceed with that endeavor. I love you all. Really I probably dont but its that whole good/evil thing...something about the associative property i'm pretty sure. Look it up. Goodnight. sucker.
the home of my deepest, most intimate personal thoughts and expressions, the whispers and utterances of my very soul, the...public forum where i can bitch about shit and you can all read it so i dont have to repeat myself. I like to call it "cranial drainage." that phrase may have been stolen from House, MD.
Tonight, however, here for your enjoyment, is a list of the months I made in my kindergarden drawing journal, which for some reason was on the kitchen counter. Oh the joys of home. To get the full effect, please envision approximately 30% of the letters backward (thats better than half!), and all written in alternating red and green crayon. Apparently this was the special Holiday Issue. Now then:
JTheNeWeRe
merh (or...meth. cant be sure which.)
eRRL (you cant see it, but the e is long.)
MAY (jackpot!)
JOWN
JLie
STemBR
OCTOBR
NOVmBR
DSemBR (thanks, pat, i'd like to buy a vowel.)
*also an exquisitely drawn stick snowman...dont ask me how that works.
February never did much for me anyway. (Its that extra fucking R.)
In other news, I have to catch a flight to California in about 9 hours and this is what I did instead of packing. Now that I've wasted a few minutes of both of our lives I can safely proceed with that endeavor. I love you all. Really I probably dont but its that whole good/evil thing...something about the associative property i'm pretty sure. Look it up. Goodnight. sucker.
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