You no talent having, not funny being, not ever anything funny ever saying, flannel shirt wearing, coattail riding, Weekend Update ruining, space on my TV up-taking, nothing humorous ever doing, countless show ruining, powerful friend goodwill advantage of-taking, countless chances blowing, line reading screwing up, not away anytime soon going motherfucker!
I was listening to Frankie Goes to Hollywood on the treadmill this morning, and I have to say... they were not a bad sounding outfit! It wasn't even "Relax" I was listening to, but a lesser hit also filled with gay imagery called "Welcome to the Pleasure Dome." Then, it hit me why they sound so good - they were produced by Trevor Horn, one-half of the Buggles and the production genius behind Art of Noise, Seal, and others. Unheralded talent, that's for sure.
If I have to recommend the Buggles' two albums, "The Age of Plastic" and "Adventures in Modern Recording," one more time, I'm going to go on a rampage with a Swiffer and the repressed anger of my childhood.
I love garments and textiles... it's a new thingie of mine. I became interested in nice clothing after I stopped being such a fat bastard – it makes sense, with me now being able to wear clothing made for humans and not Cadillacs.
So, when I'm shopping for my wedding suit back in August, my father-in-law Larry decides to take me out and do the damn thing right. In New York, that means a visit to Berdorf Goodman and his personal shopper Frances. Hoo-whee! He steered me to the D&G and took care of the Scurve. It only got deeper from there - Prada, Brioni, Thomas Pink, etc...
So, with Christmas coming, he wanted to make sure I had a nice custom-made jacket - and to that end, we visit Alan Flusser, a custom tailor shop that creates things that you might otherwise only see on the Duke of Windsor. Peoplefriends, let me just say that this was Toys R' Us for striving, class-obsessed, where-you-grew-up-haters, like myself. Being doted on by Italian men with tape measures, handling cashmere swatches... I wanted the dude to take my inseam measurements all day, do you know what I mean? Alan Flusser is awesome, and shweet schwigetty-swag is awesome - a custom-made sportjacket in brown wool-cashmere will be winging its way to me in the new year.
The answer is yes, I get my balls severely busted upon by everyone I work with for being a "fag" who wears a pocket square to work, or a "half-a-man" who has a full arsenal of pink and lavender shirts. Fuck them, they all dress in NY Giants jerseys anyhow.
As of this hour, the dirt rake is the official implement of choice for beating people to death.
This may change, so keep watching.
I haven't picked up my phone in what feels like weeks. I don't use it. It's like my appendix - vestigial, from a time when we used to eat tree bark. I mean, I get calls from the wife, but she has the number of the secret Batphone - it's the civilians of Gotham who never call me.
I'm not really complaining... but if I'm going through the trouble to maintaining what isn't exactly a convenience anymore but rather a necessity, I figure I should get some use out of the bitch. I mean, a wrong number, a lewd call. Any fucking thing. Just to acknowledge the fact that I'm playing along with the rules, "Look at me, the Phone Guy, the Boy With the Phone, the Man Who Makes Calls... boogly!"
I don't want to hear from anyone. To the contrary, I want to beat them all to death with a dirt rake. I just want my caramel treat for doing a good job. Fuckers.
I don't get any mail, either.
Courtesy of Noah Tarnow, I was recently gifted a copy of the Wildstorm trade paperback "Ex Machina," by Brian K. Vaughan, Tony Harris, and Tom Feister. The quick synopsis is that the world's first actual superhero, The Great Machine (aka Mitchell Hundred), gives up his secret identity after a few years of misadventures in favor of channeling his energies into something much more worthwhile - politics. Homeboy runs for mayor of NYC and wins - this story supposes it was the 2002 election, so bye bye Mike Bloomberg.
This is all merely the platform the series was launched upon. When the author gets down to it, this no less a love letter to New York City and its storied lore. Vaughan takes such delight in inserting mayoral/political trivia into the narrative, giving the unconventional premise much gravity and credibility. Vaughan takes the subject matter seriously - and whether it's a winter blizzard crippling the city to an unpleasant bit of art hanging on the walls of the BMA, it all rings of truth. The supernatural aspect sits comfortably next to the terrestrial; Vaughan's great skill in dealing with this juxtaposition is estimable.
Run, don't walk to your local comic shop and look for it. If you likes it, start pulling monthly books the Vaughan reading list, including "Y: The Last Man" and "Runaways" - both highly recommended.
So, uh, DROP WHATEVER THE FUCK YOU'RE DOING at get your ass over to the Southstreet Seaport for Bodies: The Exhibition. You know what I'm talking about - you've been reading about it for, like, three years already. This German dude named Gunther Von Hagens found a way to replace all the water in your body with polymer, turning you a dry, plastic, poseable museum-piece. This show is a bunch of body donors (read=political prisoners) from China prepared by a medical school there. There's no way to tell you what it feels like to look into the plastinated face of a cadaver; to see through his ribcage; to see the entire vascular system separated out from the body and suspended in solution, INTACT.
GO. NOW. I'll wait for you to get back.
Just finished beating up on the new PS2 games "The Warriors" and "Shadow Of the Colossus." Both were good, with the edge going to "...Colossus." Everyone's heard of bofe by now, so suffice it to say they are solid buys, not rentals. What "The Warriors" has going for it is a lot of bashing people's heads in through plate glass windows when they try to call the cops on you. "...Colossus" involves a lot of stabbing giant minotaurs in the brainstem, which is a lot to recommend.
Ever work for a sociopathic boss? Someone who twisted you up in knots after you went home from work and continued to nightmare about for years afterward? Ever know a guy who had no superego, no concept that there was anyone else on planet Earth besides him? Ever get yelled by that guy at like clockwork every Friday afternoon at 5:30 for pretty much any unrelated thing that was irking him? Ever have a boss who had conversations with himself about things he needed you to do, who would yell at you for not doing them? Ever had a boss who would burp and fart in front of rank and file employees and distinguished guests alike? Ever had a boss who was so tightfisted that he refused to put a dime into physical plant upgrades to his business – toilet mains, busted computers – to the obvious detriment of his entire staff? Ever had a boss who propagated an 80 percent turnover rate every three years because of his piss-poor demeanor, harsh tongue, and nonexistent management skills?
On Nov. 29, 520 B.C., the first full-service hotel was established on the island of Mykonos by a merchant named Amenides. Archeological records indicate that the first continental breakfast ever devised consisted of honey, dates, rosewater, and bearclaws.
The Minky thing is a reference to the little hellion's tendency to run shithouse through whatever jigsaw puzzle the wife is doing at the time. He tore ass through it the other night and destroyed an hour's worth of work in 3.5 seconds, so thusly, he gets shamed for all the world to see.
SHAME! Shame on the MINK!
OK, he's been shamed enough. You're off the hook for the moment, little guy.
Fall is much easier if the Rangers are winning. And they are - thank Christ, they are.
I'm not an obvious fit as a hockey fan - I can't stand any other sports, really. Baseball is tedious, Football is inscrutable. Basketball is gossamer and weightless. I've never analysed why the NHL is different to me. I got hooked the first period of the first game I ever watched on TV, in 1992. Since then, I've been able to go to countless games as a spectator and as press - I covered the Carolina Hurricanes (formerly the Hartford Whalers) for two years with my old paper in Raleigh, NC. Really, I just waved my credentials around, got into the press meal, and watched the game from ice level, vewwy exciting.
I've had the chance to stand next to Mark Messier and ask him stupid questions; I got to see Adam Graves' cock in the locker room. So many of my heroes - Ron Francis, Martin Gelinas, Ray Bourque, Jaromir Jagr (above) - became fully human when I looked them in the eye.
Saturday night, myself and Kenn Beck took in the Rangers-Capitals tilt at MSG, the first game I've actually seen in two whole years. I scored a pair of club seats from work, the only way to watch the sport. The result - a 3-2 shootout victory, the winning goal courtesy of Marek Malik, the lanky Czech rearguard. It was wonderful, so much fun - just a meaningless regular-season game.
And I saw Sheldon Silver, looking very dowdy.
Oh, the SHAME!
The shame of the MINK! He's a puzzle-ruiner! He runs across puzzles and ruins them! Oh the shame of the badness!
Terrible badness! He must now be shamed for all on the World wide interweb to see! His badness as a puzzle-ruiner must be exposed!
Bad naughtybad! Shame and ruination!
We must all have waffles forthwith! We must all think, and we must all have waffles, and think each and every one of us to the very best of his ability.
In the fifth grade, we were all going on a class-wide camping trip to Yaphank, NY. The only perq of the trip was a baseball cap with our names calligraphied on the brim in silver sharpie. When it came time to tell the calligrapher my name, I said I wanted the hat to read, "'Bill,' in quotation marks. It's a pun."
My teacher, Mrs. Donegan, looked at me grimly and said no.
My best friend back then, Tony, said, "Fuck you and your quotation marks."
I'd like an explanation regarding James Taylor – namely, how the hell did he get famous? His music has always been soporific drivel aimed squarely at paunchy L.L. Bean shoppers, even when he was flying high on the china-white. If dope can't make your music any better, time to quit then luv? Eh wot?!
I bet you're thinking, "Hey Scurry, it's easy to go after washed-out folkie pop-detritus. Why don't you drag something REALLY weighty and consequential into the No Spin Zone." Well, wait for my future post, "Why King Gyanandra of Nepal Should Swallow 85 Condoms Full of Chlorox and Then Get Punched About the Abdomen For An Hour's Time."
His "Tom the Dancing Bug" is just so cynical and inspired, especially this week...
Go ahead, touch the turkey to your lips, you fattened, tryptophan-filled bastards - enjoy your bacchanal while I molder here at work.
Bastards.
It worked for me and Janice!
Instead of waiting for the Fourth of Neveruary to get married, Charlize, just do what gays and lesbians are actually allowed by law to do - domestically partner!
And then you can buy a One-Sweep, also like us!
Gotta suck to be in China right now... it's not like they tell you A GODDAMN THING when something REALLY SUCKASS happens, so for now, I just think I wouldn't take a bath or wash dishes or anything if I lived in Harbin.
For that matter, I think I'd skip the McNuggets or chicken piccata if I were in Taipei.
Did you know that Alaskan Brown Bears are the only animals on the planet besides humans that possess the ability to read? As a species, they prefer newspapers – the Cleveland Plain Dealer and the Detroit Free Press-News, in particular.
I was just reading on someone's blog about how they loved tradition because it was comforting and ritualistic.
Well, he's wrong. Tradition is awful, and it should be tossed out on the curb with the kattie litter. Do the math and look at how tradition has fucked millions over the years: Holocaust, slavery, etc. If the only reason something is done is because "it's always been done this way," then it's time to invest in a new belief system - or to end your life.
I'll wait here while you buy that revolver from Wal-Mart and call a biorecovery firm to clean up your dead-guy goo off the couch after you pull the trigger.
(There was a great story in the Metro section of The Times today on just such a firm, and I wanted to work it in somehow.)
It's great when you hear sumpin' new, sumpin' really original. When I heard Lady Sovereign a few weeks ago, I had that feeling in seconds. She's an 18-year-old middle-class white girl from Britain - and among rappers, those criteria are quite rare. But damn, does this girl have skills! As part of the Brit-hop scene called "Grime," she raps about her diminutive stature, NOT having any bling, and even her dead cat:
"I don't have a cat it died/
Understandably i just cried/
Mewmewmewmewmewmew..."
You have to sample the Lady for yourself...
Cha Ching (Cheque 1, 2 Remix).mp3
On this date in 1064, Harold II of Saxony became the first person in recorded history to "Avoid the Noid" while ordering a pizza from a primitive "Domino's" franchise in Northumbria.
Just had a rousing session with my shrink on Monday morning, wherein I brought up the crying. Yes, the crying - good ol' lachrymation of the lachrymose. In my childhood, I came to associate crying with a lot of shame and weakness. Dad, WKS Sr., was a non-demonstrative guy from a sterile, non-demonstrative family, so that's the way he was around me and my brother. I think you see the math adding up - when I felt compelled to cry as a kid, I tried to choke back my tears and hide my face so that no one could see me. Couldn't show that weakness and vulnerability.
Hell, I still do it today. That's partly why I brought it up. There's still a massive proscription on weeping deep down inside me, written in the Scurry C++ kernel. It's hard to overcome that even today, what with the recent strides made in the fields of psychiatry and tequila.
Feels like I'm making up for the lost tears of my childhood today... crying these days taps into deep pain and repression, and I'll be goddamned if it doesn't feel good to spit some of that poison out.
Anyone else work with a bunch of New Jerseyites who try to push Bruce Springsteen on you like Latter Day Saints?
Please get away from me, thank you kindly – my iPod is full of enough Basement Jaxx and Falco to last until 2015.
(Funny how Bruce looks like Erik Seims singing "Gay Tow-Truck Driver" from his great show "Big Show, Nice Red Shirt"...)
SNL may be in some serious doldrums (read=leprosy) and no one I know seems to tune in any more, but I have to speculate that it's a consequence of a poorly chosen/managed writing staff. Sorry, Tina. You're not getting the job done.
They're plagued by lazy, bloated sketches involving questionable returning characters, not a new complaint. The Tina Fey Era of Saturday Night Live was supposed to be a renewal and a change of guard - which it was for all of 40 minutes. The irony is that the cast today is as strong as any they've had in 15 years or so, thanks to the efforts of Pohler, Myers, Armisen, Forte, Thompson, and now Bill Hader.
Is this guy great or what? Hader drove to the hoop with a "Vincent Price Thanksgiving Day Special" sketch draped on his shoulders and singlehandedly scored with an uncanny impression of the titular host. The best thing about his impressions is that they aren't anything at all like Darrell Hammond's tired, rigid, and drunkal impersonations (poisoning the cold opener, by the way). His Pacino impression in the Katrina-relief sketch on the fall opener will be a high point of this season.
Hey Lorne - fix the rest of it. Have the staff write UP to the performers - for chrizzakes, Amy just looks bored out there. And no more fake mustaches on Horatio Sanz, for the love of fuck. The franchise is werf preserving, yo.
HEY! YOU! Yeah, YOU... look at me!
Hey Fuckbeans, why do you feel the need to light up a fucking Marlboro the moment you're a half a step outside of the Wall Street 4 train station? You can't wait to get to the sidewalk, so your non-SuperEgo-havin' ass feels you must light up and blow cancer into my face when we're not even up the goddamn steps yet.
Prickdousche chickenfucker. I want to throw a mug full of prostate cancer on your cheap-ass jacket.
There is this business-card-hander-outer guy that hangs his shingle in front of the Stock Exchange on the corner of Beaver St. (heh heh) and Wall St. He looks like your uncle - mid-sixties, topcoat, suit, dark-but-most-likely-dyed hair. A man from a past generation out in the world, doing his job the way men used to do their jobs.
Now this fella hands out those cards for a living. You know those cards: strip clubs; refinancing; tux shops. This guy's card is for an online gift shop. But that's not what's notable - what is is the frickin' verve with which he gets into his jahrb.
His line, issued to anyone walking around the front of the Exchange, is, "This is a good one... you're gonna like this one." Perfect pitch and enthusiastic, every time. And when he gets new cards to hand out? "This is a NEW one... you're gonna like THIS one."
I am just an unabashed fan of this guy's attitude. I'm sure a dude his age could have just folded up the tent and taken his Vitalis home and gone away. Instead, he plies his trade the hard way from 7 to 11 a.m. on the street – and believe me, it looks hard.
An appeciation for "Megaforce" – what's not to like about a movie that gave a big "up yours" to the 1970s with a little Reagan-era can-do, in the personage of the dashing Barry Bostwick as Ace Hunter, a nondescriptly-named leader of an elite squad of supercommandos that BOTH kick azzles and take nazzles.
It was as close to a "G.I. Joe" movie as has ever been filmed, where no one gets deaded or hurted - cars flip and guys just go flying in this Hal Needham-helmed stunt spectacular. And who could forget the line-read of the entire film, courtesy of Bostwick:
"The good guys always win - even in the 80s."
Makes me tear up every time I hear it.
But who am I kidding - the real reason the movie is so memorable is the presence of dead Indian fashion model Persis Khambatta!
*Grouggrrhhgh* (that glottal growl that Mike Myers does) Have to toss in some cheesecake to drive web traffic, peoplefolks! The late Ms. Khambatta, here sporting her sexy, bald, Lt. Ilia look from "Star Trek: The Motion Picture" (and I saw it – it was, in fact, moving!), was an exotic ingenue from the turn of the 70s, until she was laid low by a heart attack in 1998. Her big contribution to this movie was being the recipient of a blown-thumb-kiss from Ace Hunter himself.
In uncertain times, a nation in peril could ue a little hamdinger like this movie to get behind. Might I suggest a Shane Black-penned remake, directed by Jan DeBont? No? Awright, I'll shut the fuck up then.
Trinity Church, on the corner of Church St. and Broadway in lower Manhattan, is actually the largest natural formation found in New York City. It was formed by a combination of glacial action and epochal erosion - the base of the house of worship is schist, and the walls are composed of a conglomerate of sandstone and shale.
OK, young men fomenting in Liberia - check. Popular anger at corrupt post-colonial governments laden with strongmen, junta rule, and corruption - check. Calgary Flames jersey - whaaaa?
Gretzky bumaye!
This is what football looks like to me. But far less cuter. Can't stand being alive when it's on TV. Wanna scratch my eyes out.
No, wait, that other guy's eyes.
I get colder faster.
I can climb up stairs without wheezing.
I shop for pants more easily.
I spend less on Drakes.
I am found sexier by the wife.
I can feel my ab-abbers for the first time ever.
I can see my dick.
I get drunk, like, four times faster.
I am not recognized by people who haven't seen me in, like, 4 years.
These are all good things - there is no way to accurately express what it's like to come out of a fat-guy coccoon. Even better is watching all the fat bastards around me crash and burn as they try it too. Schadenfreude much? No, it just makes me feel more smug at what I've managed to accomplish.
Suffice it to say, there's no Don Ameche or Tahnee Welch in my particular Coccoon.
It's uncanny that they let a guy what looks like this into Vietnam in the first place. Gary Glitter: he's not a crime, he's a disease. Besides, were the kids in Thailand too old?
Why is this man so upset? It looks like he just checked his mailbox after coming home from work and found nothing... no letters, no circulars. Nothing. Sad feeling.
Sorry, He-Man. I know what it's like.
My childhood was haunted by that troubled punim... it's like the Mona Lisa. Inscrutable.
On November 17, 1933 the remains of actor William Demarest, who was featured on the television program "My Three Sons" as Uncle Charley from the years of 1965-1972, were found in an ancient Maya burial mound in the Yucatan peninsula, interred over 1,000 years ago.
Watching "Rome" on HBO – and AmericanCaesar should LOVE it, but he doesn't. Easy to explain - it's more of a pot-boiler, with lesbian incest and shit of that nature than stentorian oration. If it had stuck to being an Aaron Sorkinian-travelogue of the Palatine Hill, I'd be all up ons. Instead, creator Bruno Heller delivers us a weird fusion of "Laguna Beach" meets "I Clavdivs."
Still, we're liking James Purefoy's Marcus Antonius, Max Pirkis's Octavian and, of course, the big man: Ciaran Hinds (photo, above) as Gaius Julius hisself. Been a fan of the Irish actor's sence seeing him in small roles in "Sum of All Fears," "Road to Perdition," and, from the looks of it, the upcoming "Munich." He lends an authoritative air of authenticity to the proceedings. Bringing this guy on will do that for you.
Also, prizzops to David Bamber as Cicero – loved him since we saw him back in the BBC's 1995 adaptation of "Sense and Sensibility."
(Photo used without permission from HBO.)
There was a great column by Jack Shafer today over at Slate which talks about cultural signifiers that will mark the end of Boomer influence. But, as Shafer notes within, we of the X, Y, and Z gens are not as generationally-conscious as the Boomers have been. Perhaps – we're every bit as self-absorbed, and we have a national predilection towards instant nostalgia (news to exactly no one). Perhaps that's why I find myself so antipathetic to the Boomer forebears – they is we, or we is they.
To the point – only you can prevent needless "He-Man" and "Knight Rider" re-runs. And please, for the love of Steven H. Christ, stop giving the "Golden Girls" an inappropriate august glow of importance. It's harder and harder to stay ironic and all, but FUCK – knock it off, you stumbling, muttering pricks!
A little game I like to play called "What the fuck does any of this mean?"
This installment comes courtesy of the "Daily Racing Form" and correspondent Dave Litfin:
"The second-level allowance
at one mile
drew a field of 10, including
four who have won their last start.
Nine have earned
career-best Beyer Speed Figures
of 91 or better."
(Ed. note: Formatting is mine, for effect.)
Eastern bloc countries got no sense of humor.
Sascha Baron Cohen rules over hill and dale in ScurryNation, and we (I) in the 'Nation love to see all the havoc he's created with Borat... singing the national anthem at that rodeo last year almost got Cohen lynched, which says to me he's doing a great jarb. We're all chagrined that there will be no third season of "Da Ali G Show," but we take heart in the upcoming Borat solo movie.
Until then, continue to throw the Jew down the well.
On Nov. 14, 1972, Muhammed Ali fought Secretariat at the Rose Bowl in Los Angeles, California, in an exhibition bout for charity.
I don't seem to have gotten my superpowers yet.
No... last time I checked, no. Don't know what the wait is all about.
I'm sick of walking down the street – I want to run a few steps and leap like I'm about to shoot a lay-up and propel myself into the air, fists stabbing into the sky, coasting through the skyline on the way to my shrink. Want to have lasers that come out of my hands, to level buildings. Don't want to hurt people, just throw my weight around. Heat vision from the retinas, making buttonhole-accurate welds to repair bridges and planes in midair. Pick up cars by their axles and toss 'em down the street, through windows or just for stacking. Still waiting, bored by mere mortality.
Adolescent power fantasy much?
(Alex Ross Superman illo used without permission from DC Comics)
• I have a Korean-American friend from Fort Worth named Russell Ho-Sang.
• The Caucusus state of Chechnya is actually pronounced "chech-NYAH," instead of "CHECH-neeyah."
• The late author of "Malachi Papers," Peter Maas, is actually the brother of actor Donald Sutherland.
• Fifty-five percent of the world's tea-leaf supply comes from Sri Lanka – most notable is the capital of Columbo, which has 87 tea farms alone.
• The 1985 film "Big Trouble in Little China" was actually conceived as a sequel to 1980's "First Blood" by screenwriter David Morrell, but it was subsequently written to stand alone.
• The NBA franchise the Los Angeles Clippers were first located in the city of Etobicoke, Ontario, Canada, until the year 1968, at which point they moved to their current home.
• It requires 2,000 man-hours to produce just 100 pounds of Manchego cheese.
• I had a pet turtle from the ages of seven to ten years old.
Have you ever found yourself manning the register of a drive-through convenience store? Have you ever found yourself doing this for three years to kick off college? Have you ever found yourself seeing some sideways wisdom in what Kevin Smith had to talk about back in 1994? Have you ever had 65 eggs tossed at you by an ill-tempered hausfrau with an inscrutable accent? Have you ever found yourself listening to a 71-year-old man explain how "the only place he can get a hard-on is in the ice cream freezer"? Have you ever come to work to pick up your check a mere half-hour after your fellow clerk was robbed at screwdriver-point? Ever find yourself charging the register for a carton of smokes after ten nico-addicts buy single packs, and pocketing the difference? Ever had a lax mother threaten her misbehaving child by saying "That man will hit you if you don't behave"?
Take your fucking Q-Zar, LaserTag and LaserTron and jettison them out into the permafrost from a great height – Photon was a slight regent atop the pile of infrared laser gun games in the late 1980's. My own upbringing as a slight regent contained a few visits to our local venue in Setauket, NY.
For someone whose childhood engrams were patterned off of old Sunbow Transformer/GI Joe cartoons, the chance to zap mahfucks up with infrared was an ordinance nightmare come true. The whole laser pistol game phenomenon skittered away like the fog on little cat's feet, but there will always be fond memories of a particularly dicey 1987 on Long Island made worthwhile by an excuse to get out of the house, inhale dry-ice fog and fuck the shit up with lasers... science! Good heavens, Ms. Sakamoto!
Presumptive congratualations to Liberia's new president Ellen Johnson-Sirleaf, the first female leader in the whole of Africa – if the corruption-filled election process ever comes down from a boil, as George Weah supporters are starting to look all like kids with bricks in the hands standing in front of a Seattle Starbucks in 2001.
It's a long way to go for a WTO reference, I'll grant...
Also, Angela Merkel is set to become the first female chancellor of the Motherland, her Christian Democrat party having made a coalition deal with the Social Democrats. I don't think those words all mean the same in German as they do in English, so I'm not exactly sure if you have to be a Christian or a Baader-Meinhoff to get into the major democratic process. I studied German for four and half years, and beyond Helmut Kohl and Christo's Reichstag stunt, I know fuckall about Deutche-politiken.
Bravo to Viacom's forward thinking in giving this man, Stephen Colbert, his own dealie over there on Comedy Central. Just when his former colleague Steve Carell is striking big gold, it's great to see Colbert get his, too. There's a dearth of intellectual satirists in the Pop Radar right now – pretty much Jon Stewart and... no one else. Maybe Dennis Cramer.
It embiggens my sense of laughter to see that he and his crack staff have been so successful in filling 22 minutes of airtime a night with a new "Scurry Sine-Qua-Non" (TM), the Colbert Report. I also applaud Comedy Central (formerly HA!) for extending his run into 2006 after the trial order.
Things are crackalacking along well here now... all's I need to do is get a bomb-ass disco-ball set of rims in my grill, and I'll be set at 11:30 p.m. each night.
In any case, thank you, Charleston SC, for exporting your best and brightest to New York. Let the brain drain continue!
(Photo via Comedy Central used without permission by Comedy Central and Stephen Colbert)
OK, Pat, have it your way... we won't turn to God if disaster strikes Dover, PA, anytime soon. It's only too bad that BTK didn't get a chance to jerk-off on a gaping knife wound in your belly before they carted him off to Federal Pound Me In the Ass Penitentary, where smug sumbitches like yourself belong.
In the meanwhile, why don't you threaten the Prime Minister of Gabon with assassination if you've nothing better to do than monger fear around.
"Final Fantasy VII: Advent Children" is currently rocking my asshole down to the duodenum. I am a YUGE fan of Final Fantasy VII, Squaresoft's 1997 classic that robbed many of my generation of sleep. Forgetting 2001's underrated "Final Fantasy: Spirits Within" (which merely appropriated the franchise moniker without any of its distinguishing characteristics), this is an entirely CGI affair that is a direct sequel to the PSX classic. Made me feel like a kid watching it – awesome swordfights, kickass monsters, boss battles, the whole shmear. This shit just plugs into me like an enzyme.
It was hard as shit to find in New York (because most Kim's have been jacked out of business), but I finally hooked a transliterally subtitled DVD straight from Japan:
Villain: "Tell me what you care about so that I can DESTROY it!"
Hero: "You are mistaken – there is NOTHING I do not care about! YAAHHH!"
Problematic subtitles aside, this bitch wins the Irv Thalberg from me.
When going for a new toofbrush, why fuck around? What are you going to do, score one of those Duane Reade cheapies? Fuck that, and if you do that, it speaks poorly of your character. What's your problem, anyway? if that's your attitude towards dental health, you must have a long list of unmentionable personal hygiene ills, like anal fissures. Poor bastard.
Brah, gossa go for the Oral-B. They got this one that has this little ridge for "gum stimulation," like a little jackrabbit vibrator for your gingiva. Hot shit – they even have this one with a color strip that wears away with increased use, so you're not rubbing some busted-ass brush over your pearlies.
I like that kind of care. Put me down for Oral-B, and put the wife down too. I'm in charge of brush-buying in the house, so what I say goes. Few things are as important as plaque-prevention to me.
Because the paper is dying anyway, and taking my chances of gainful employment down into Davy Jones' locker with it...
–France is burning because Villepin and Sarkozy are having a cock-size contest over who will succeed Chirac in the next presidential election.
–The GOP was dealt a clear message by gubernatorial asskickings in the Garden State and the Commonwealth of Virginia; the political capital dries up, at last.
–The Keystone State sees four of it's antediluvian school board lunkheads denied another term, having been dealt losses in local elections. The case for Intelligent "Jesus and the Holy Spook Built Euglena-tails with Drywall from Home Depot" Design will more or less go by the wayside in Dover County, Pa.
–Not so good in Kansas: The school board in Topeka is allowing a drastic gutting of evolution teaching, allowing the Discovery Center's book "Of People and Pandas" to take hold. A precedent is set, folk (singular).
–Ahmed Chalabi is back! Visiting his old friends in Washington who won't talk to him anymore (because he helped sell a false reason for war), he's here in the capacity of deputy somethingorother with the Iraqi gummint, so they HAVE TO TALK TO HIM NOW. "God, you guys, just one call. It's not like I want to hang out or anything."
Bad news? Burning? Honor killings? Suicide bombs in Jordan? Check, check, and checkaroonie – we gots it all.
I, for one, am tired of fun and games ending when one's eye is lost. And a larger, overarching issue is that one would only need to lose sight for fun and games to get quashed – as if a loss of hearing would be reason enough for fun and games to proceed. It's almost as if an eye-wound would be treated with utmost priority, but the hearing-damage crowd would be chided as a bunch of bellyachers.
It's not fair... don't even mention what happens to fun and games when one suffers diverticulitis.
