Happy Belated Yule, everyone! That was yesterday, you know. The winter solstice, the shortest day of the year. The shortest day, meaning it only gets brighter from here. Winter is on its way out, making Yule a beacon of hope that spring will come again. Don't you love Yule?
Ha ha ha, I tricked you! Yule is a pagan sabbat! I wish you a happy Yule because I am secretly a general in the War on Christmas! It is the shortest day of the year because the evil witches are plunging the world into eternal darkness and burning Santa Claus dolls over their wicked cauldrons!
I hope your impressionable teenage daughters are not in the room because the vile stink of heathenism emanating from this blog will turn them into devil-worshipping Sabrinas!
Do I smell burning pine? Oh no! It is your tree! Ha ha ha! My anti-elves have arrived sporting menorahs, and your living room is ablaze with the Fires of Alternate Cultures, spreading the Fumes of Diversity across America! They are now chasing your cat down the street yelling "Happy Holidays! Happy Holidays!", slowly changing his brain chemistry with secular greetings until he questions his faith in Christ.
Victory!!! Your cat is an agnostic!!!
Beware! There is no escape! Christmas is dead! Long live the ambiguous yet diverse Dominance of the Minority in what was once a solemn, religious season!
Oh, and I stole your baby Jesus.
Everyone's an expert, everyone's a critic
One thing I've noticed while planning my upcoming move to New York City is that everyone's an expert on the topic. It doesn't matter where you grew up or where your family's from or if you've ever been there on vacation or if you can even find it on a map. Everyone seems to think they have the final word on life in the Big Apple.
How is this possible, you ask? Well that's a good question. One theory is that knowledge of New York City -- and especially Manhattan -- is passed along biologically. Before we utter our first words, we are mentally reciting subway stops and categorizing the hippest hotspots by neighborhood and demographic. A second hypothesis posits that tiny little elves funded by the NYC & Company tourism organization come to us in our sleep and whisper in our ears. Through this elven propaganda, our delicate human minds are able to glean a veritable encyclopedia of facts and figures to pass on to anyone travelling to the area whether they ask or not.
But the theory that I have been forced to accept by analyzing the advice given to me by countless friends and relatives is that nobody knows shit about NYC, but because of the radiant awesomeness emanating from the city, they feel that if they are not tuned in to the knowledge base, they're not hip. Everyone knows NYC because to not know NYC is to be a failure at Cool.
In case you find you are unable to smoothly fake knowledge of this epic city, I provide you the following algorithm, which should allow you to derive any fact you may need to spew:
truth about NYC = (something you saw on TV + cryptic vagueness - admission to TV viewing) * (suave disinterest + implication that you could be living there if you wanted to) + made up fact you heard from your cousin's hairdresser's uncle who once went to a Bar Mitzvah in Jersey
Carrie Bradshaw wears Manolo Blahniks? Suddenly you know all about New York fashion. You once saw an episode of Law and Order? Please tell me the places to avoid if I don't want to get ritually sacrificed. You've stood on the intersection used for the establishing shot of the cafe on Seinfeld? Let's totally hang out so you can show me where to go on the weekends. But when you tell me about these things, remember to say it real casual-like so you can make me feel like the uncoolest blob for not already knowing. I'm not an insider. Did you just say SoHo? Let me kiss your feet.
The result of my algorithm is some keen advice on cool bars, property rentals, subway fares, the safety of Central Park at night, and where to catch celebrity sightings. The beauty of this system is that you're not the only one doing it, and nobody knows enough to verify your facts!
I've gotten so much crappy and contradicting advice from people, I don't even know what's real anymore. One friend grew up in rural Ohio and went to New York for 3 days, but he seems to know more about the City than the mayor himself.
I'm on to you. I can see through your petty charade. From now on, I'm only taking advice from three people, all NYC natives. The rest of you can keep your mouths shut. And for all you naysayers who think I can't make it in the city because "Oh, it's so expensive" and "Oh, it's so big": don't take it out on me that you're stuck in Indiana. I may not know what I'm getting myself into, but at least I won't have to take notes on old episodes of Friends to fulfill some cosmopolitan fantasy that I'll never pursue.
How is this possible, you ask? Well that's a good question. One theory is that knowledge of New York City -- and especially Manhattan -- is passed along biologically. Before we utter our first words, we are mentally reciting subway stops and categorizing the hippest hotspots by neighborhood and demographic. A second hypothesis posits that tiny little elves funded by the NYC & Company tourism organization come to us in our sleep and whisper in our ears. Through this elven propaganda, our delicate human minds are able to glean a veritable encyclopedia of facts and figures to pass on to anyone travelling to the area whether they ask or not.
But the theory that I have been forced to accept by analyzing the advice given to me by countless friends and relatives is that nobody knows shit about NYC, but because of the radiant awesomeness emanating from the city, they feel that if they are not tuned in to the knowledge base, they're not hip. Everyone knows NYC because to not know NYC is to be a failure at Cool.
In case you find you are unable to smoothly fake knowledge of this epic city, I provide you the following algorithm, which should allow you to derive any fact you may need to spew:
truth about NYC = (something you saw on TV + cryptic vagueness - admission to TV viewing) * (suave disinterest + implication that you could be living there if you wanted to) + made up fact you heard from your cousin's hairdresser's uncle who once went to a Bar Mitzvah in Jersey
Carrie Bradshaw wears Manolo Blahniks? Suddenly you know all about New York fashion. You once saw an episode of Law and Order? Please tell me the places to avoid if I don't want to get ritually sacrificed. You've stood on the intersection used for the establishing shot of the cafe on Seinfeld? Let's totally hang out so you can show me where to go on the weekends. But when you tell me about these things, remember to say it real casual-like so you can make me feel like the uncoolest blob for not already knowing. I'm not an insider. Did you just say SoHo? Let me kiss your feet.
The result of my algorithm is some keen advice on cool bars, property rentals, subway fares, the safety of Central Park at night, and where to catch celebrity sightings. The beauty of this system is that you're not the only one doing it, and nobody knows enough to verify your facts!
I've gotten so much crappy and contradicting advice from people, I don't even know what's real anymore. One friend grew up in rural Ohio and went to New York for 3 days, but he seems to know more about the City than the mayor himself.
I'm on to you. I can see through your petty charade. From now on, I'm only taking advice from three people, all NYC natives. The rest of you can keep your mouths shut. And for all you naysayers who think I can't make it in the city because "Oh, it's so expensive" and "Oh, it's so big": don't take it out on me that you're stuck in Indiana. I may not know what I'm getting myself into, but at least I won't have to take notes on old episodes of Friends to fulfill some cosmopolitan fantasy that I'll never pursue.
This is about my ass hygiene, so if you don't want to hear about it, you'd better just turn around
Ok, so I read this blog post, and I went to the Brondell website, and all I could think was "That the hell?"
The idea of a bidet has always been somewhat appealing because water is cleaner than paper and it seems like a fun thing to try... something different. A bidet would certainly spice up my bathroom experience but only until the novelty wore off. This Brondell thing, though, looked totally freaky! I don't want some automated robot toilet seat spraying me with water. I'm sorry, but I prefer to be responsible for cleaning my own ass. I imagined I'd press all the wrong buttons and end up totally drenched in all the wrong places (especially with the threat of getting my no-no's wet with the feminine hygiene button.)
But then I watched the video, and it totally changed my opinion. While the device is still a bit freaky, this video got me thinking of just how much cleaner I could be! As a man whose ass a focal point of a great deal of the sexual experiences I wish I were having, I take very seriously my rectal hygiene. Watch the video now.
What really convinced me were the testimonials by the older woman. The old man looks happy that he can even take a shit anymore. The young woman obviously likes it, and I appreciated her input, but the old woman really got me excited! She looks like a joyless, dried-out grump who hasn't smiled in twenty years... until she got a Brondell Swash! If it changed her life, surely it can change mine as well!
By the end of the video, I dreaded the next time I would have to use dry toilet paper! Unfortunately, that time came about two minutes ago, and let me tell you: Now that I know what I'm missing, I don't think I will be satisfied until I get a Brondell toilet seat.
Self-cleaning, heated, easy-to-install, AND refreshing! Even without using it, I can confidently recommend the Brondell Swash toilet seat for a better bathroom experience!
The idea of a bidet has always been somewhat appealing because water is cleaner than paper and it seems like a fun thing to try... something different. A bidet would certainly spice up my bathroom experience but only until the novelty wore off. This Brondell thing, though, looked totally freaky! I don't want some automated robot toilet seat spraying me with water. I'm sorry, but I prefer to be responsible for cleaning my own ass. I imagined I'd press all the wrong buttons and end up totally drenched in all the wrong places (especially with the threat of getting my no-no's wet with the feminine hygiene button.)
But then I watched the video, and it totally changed my opinion. While the device is still a bit freaky, this video got me thinking of just how much cleaner I could be! As a man whose ass a focal point of a great deal of the sexual experiences I wish I were having, I take very seriously my rectal hygiene. Watch the video now.
What really convinced me were the testimonials by the older woman. The old man looks happy that he can even take a shit anymore. The young woman obviously likes it, and I appreciated her input, but the old woman really got me excited! She looks like a joyless, dried-out grump who hasn't smiled in twenty years... until she got a Brondell Swash! If it changed her life, surely it can change mine as well!
By the end of the video, I dreaded the next time I would have to use dry toilet paper! Unfortunately, that time came about two minutes ago, and let me tell you: Now that I know what I'm missing, I don't think I will be satisfied until I get a Brondell toilet seat.
Self-cleaning, heated, easy-to-install, AND refreshing! Even without using it, I can confidently recommend the Brondell Swash toilet seat for a better bathroom experience!
Open letter to a criminal mastermind
Dear Sir or Madam:
Give me my fucking iPod back! And my CD's! Great fucking find, you bastard, I'm sure lots of people will pay huge money for the complete works of Krzysztof Penderecki and the my box set of Rachmaninov piano concertos.
My iPod, however, is perhaps something you can use. Even if you delete all the Disney soundtracks and Schoolhouse Rock and all the other crap you'll undoubtedly hate, at least you've walked away with a compelete set: an iPod, a charger, a case, a tape adapter, a radio transmitter. Stop by my apartment later, I'll give you the user's manual and a donkey punch.
And my God, man, I know my car was a mess, but you could at least have the decency not to add to it! You threw crap all over the place! And what's with crumpling my insurance card into a little ball? Clearly some of your antics could have been suppressed. You could at least have thrown some stuff out while you were in there.
It is clear you came through the passenger's side door. I know this because you did not close it properly. What, did you think I would hear it slam and think "Out of the 50 cars parked outside my building, that car door was clearly mine. I must arise and make sure some punk didn't just take all my shit!"
I have a feeling you are one of two people who lives near me. You're either the fat kid on the bike or the jerk in that ugly-ass turquoise Astro minivan with the wood panelling. In either case, I'm not going to remain too upset because your life is pathetic. Keep my stuff. Maybe it will give you a taste of cool... OOOOH, you're a criminal! You're such a REBEL! Don't mess with you!
Screw off,
~T~
P.S. If you ARE that fat kid on a bike and I see you listening to my iPod, I'm going to push you over and kick you. You don't know who I am, but I know you. By the way... when I see you and smile, it's not because I'm being pleasant. It's because you look like a fucking retard. When you smile back, it only makes it worse.
Give me my fucking iPod back! And my CD's! Great fucking find, you bastard, I'm sure lots of people will pay huge money for the complete works of Krzysztof Penderecki and the my box set of Rachmaninov piano concertos.
My iPod, however, is perhaps something you can use. Even if you delete all the Disney soundtracks and Schoolhouse Rock and all the other crap you'll undoubtedly hate, at least you've walked away with a compelete set: an iPod, a charger, a case, a tape adapter, a radio transmitter. Stop by my apartment later, I'll give you the user's manual and a donkey punch.
And my God, man, I know my car was a mess, but you could at least have the decency not to add to it! You threw crap all over the place! And what's with crumpling my insurance card into a little ball? Clearly some of your antics could have been suppressed. You could at least have thrown some stuff out while you were in there.
It is clear you came through the passenger's side door. I know this because you did not close it properly. What, did you think I would hear it slam and think "Out of the 50 cars parked outside my building, that car door was clearly mine. I must arise and make sure some punk didn't just take all my shit!"
I have a feeling you are one of two people who lives near me. You're either the fat kid on the bike or the jerk in that ugly-ass turquoise Astro minivan with the wood panelling. In either case, I'm not going to remain too upset because your life is pathetic. Keep my stuff. Maybe it will give you a taste of cool... OOOOH, you're a criminal! You're such a REBEL! Don't mess with you!
Screw off,
~T~
P.S. If you ARE that fat kid on a bike and I see you listening to my iPod, I'm going to push you over and kick you. You don't know who I am, but I know you. By the way... when I see you and smile, it's not because I'm being pleasant. It's because you look like a fucking retard. When you smile back, it only makes it worse.
Camera shy
I bought this camera. See? There it is.I bought it because my previous digital camera was this old bohemoth of a machine that was totally slow, so I never used it... not ever. I started snapping pictures with this new one to see if it worked, and it does. Wonder of wonders. I'm not posting any of them, however, because nobody needs to see my trashy apartment or the horrible circles I have under my eyes this week even though I'm eating well and sleeping plenty.
Speaking of ugly, did anyone see Oprah today? I didn't. But my friend says it was fascinating. It was about people with Body Dysmorphic Disorder. They're obsessed with their looks and think they're hideously deformed even though they look like everyone else.
It goes beyond vanity, and it's depressing to think about. They won't leave the house. One girl gets her mail at night so she doesn't scare the mailman or her neighbors. And she's pretty!
In my own way, I can sort of relate. I used to have horrible skin, to the point where I wouldn't leave my room to go to class or eat. Luckily, popping a bunch of Accutane fixed me up just fine (except that my eyes are so fucking dry I look like a demon half the time). With BDD, it's not to easy. The notion of being unable to face the world because of some irrational feeling of ugliness is not altogether foreign to me, but it's really hard to wrap your mind around sometimes.
My neurotic mom watched it. I'm going to tell her I skipped a party because I got a zit and watch her freak out.
New template: the only thing that's going up
I just spent not one, not two, but three and a half hours "tweaking" this blog's template so now it looks like this instead of the standard one with the dots. I'm at work, and I haven't done shit... except learn CSS.
Oh, and I have a Technorati account and a Site Meter and all the gimmicky little bullshit that "the cool bloggers" have. It's all telling me that nobody has read my blog yet, which makes sense because I haven't told anyone that I'm writing in it again and actually intend to continue this time.
Goals of The Tweak included making the text pink and the background black as well as putting the whole thing on the left (which was a bitch of a bitch) and making the text easier to read. Even my eyes can't read extra-small verdana, and I'm in the prime of my life.
Speaking of the prime of my life and how much of a joke that is, I haven't masturbated in 12 days. I haven't beat it, and I can't even make myself want to. This is clearly a Code Orange situation, but I refuse to go to those websites about losing your sex drive and not being able to get it up because that's not what's happening to me. So stop thinking it.
Oh, and I have a Technorati account and a Site Meter and all the gimmicky little bullshit that "the cool bloggers" have. It's all telling me that nobody has read my blog yet, which makes sense because I haven't told anyone that I'm writing in it again and actually intend to continue this time.
Goals of The Tweak included making the text pink and the background black as well as putting the whole thing on the left (which was a bitch of a bitch) and making the text easier to read. Even my eyes can't read extra-small verdana, and I'm in the prime of my life.
Speaking of the prime of my life and how much of a joke that is, I haven't masturbated in 12 days. I haven't beat it, and I can't even make myself want to. This is clearly a Code Orange situation, but I refuse to go to those websites about losing your sex drive and not being able to get it up because that's not what's happening to me. So stop thinking it.
Sweet Jesus indeed
Raymi is right. I don't know who she is, but I found her blog today, and she's right.
sweet jesus call this number right now, it's free and not a scam, funny as hell DO IT!So try it. I like the gay elf.
1-888-353-7667
Getting the flava' right!
Make sure you're not at work or in a public place. If that is impossible ensure that you are not easily embarassed. Turn your sound on. You are about to experience the most amazing fucking song. Flavorite Tomatoes has no qualms about getting right in your face with just how they feel about their special hydroponic tomatoes. Check it out, and make sure your speakers are working.
That this guy used the word "plumpiest" and almost made me toss my tomatoes would have upset me, but I realized that although I am in a period of great professional transience, no matter where I end up, my career will be a hell of a lot better than his.
"What are your most recent musical credits?"
--"Why, I sing the Flavorite song!"
"Hey, I love that ice cream!"
--"No, not the ice cream. The hydroponic tomatoes."
"...oh."
My heart goes out to the guys who didn't get the part. I bet they're sitting in the dark with their computers now... smoking a cigarette, reloading the page over and over again thinking "This is bullshit! Listen to this putz! What a hack. I've got the Flavorite spirit! That part should be mine!"
Yeah, everyone says putz. Especially in Australia.
The Flavorite Tomato story is about the 'REVOLUTION': the overthrowing of the old regime of hard tasteless tomatoes, picked green from the bush and gas ripened in huge cool rooms. The 'Revolutionaries' are Warren Nichol and Mark Millis.There's your history lesson. Now check out the sing along!
That this guy used the word "plumpiest" and almost made me toss my tomatoes would have upset me, but I realized that although I am in a period of great professional transience, no matter where I end up, my career will be a hell of a lot better than his.
"What are your most recent musical credits?"
--"Why, I sing the Flavorite song!"
"Hey, I love that ice cream!"
--"No, not the ice cream. The hydroponic tomatoes."
"...oh."
My heart goes out to the guys who didn't get the part. I bet they're sitting in the dark with their computers now... smoking a cigarette, reloading the page over and over again thinking "This is bullshit! Listen to this putz! What a hack. I've got the Flavorite spirit! That part should be mine!"
Yeah, everyone says putz. Especially in Australia.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)