Ok, so no shit, I'm standing by my pickup outside some cheap-ass liquor store waiting for my pappy to emerge with two handles of local rum in tow. I cast my gaze upon some rusted-out, POS, Russian-issue military jeep with the saltiest old man I have ever seen behind the wheel. He wears a sweat-stained captain's cap and a dingy linen shirt missing the top 5 or 6 buttons. He is actually smoking a corncob pipe and actually wearing an eye patch. He grumbles something (through jowls so blackened and bewhiskered I couldn't possibly understand a word) to an invisible passenger in the seat to his Right, then emphasizes his words with an sharp "No!" and repeats this three times. He raises his hand and swats (with authority, the bastard) whatever animal lurks below my view.
Thinking it was actually a dog or cat or something normal, I was surprised to hear a wholly unnatural screech come out of whatever felt the unjust hand of Mr. Pirate.
Then a monkey jumped out of the car.
This is what happened to me on Christmas Day, 2006. A fucking monkey.
12.26.2006
I AM SURROUNDED BY PIRATES
12.23.2006
I AM IN PARADISE
And you are not. That may or may not suck for you.
Unfortunately, I have found myself missing someone more than I care to. She bothers me in anoying and unflattering ways. Yet, fortunately, I am surrounded by hot Dutch college students on their spring break. This I have found to be excellent and successful therapy.
RECAP (response to an email sent to me just this morning):
not bad not bad.
I'm surrounded by Dutch college students on their christmas break.
I am drunk.
I am happy.
I miss Pete (and Mel to a much lesser, but nonetheless significant extent).
You two are my sunshine and, with one exception, you are my only sunshine. There is a giant burning ball of hydrogen in the sky that will be difficult to usurp. work on it.
xoxoxo
12.20.2006
COME ON, BLEED
Oh, it's so nice when they tell you they're dating again. It's even better when they tell you how many dates they've had, and with whom. I did, however, think it was perhaps unnecessary to drop that knowledge and expect me to pick up the check. Not cool. But hey, that's how it goes. C'mon bleed for me, baby.
Not that I, myself, have been a perfect angel. I can't help it if I'm a cuddle whore.
Thanks to the hot hot heat we've been pumping into the atmosphere, California has become ironically cold this winter. I am a skinny skinny man so, in lieu of gaining several pounds, it would seem the only logical countermeasure would be to find a warm heterosexual with which to adjoin myself. Perhaps this is why on several occasions I've been labeled "Cuddle Whore."
The roots of this terrible affliction spring up from my years in the Midwest, when the only acceptable form of "coeducation" was watching a movie in your parents' basement under a blanket. Keeping warm during the dark days of winter is more about self-preservation than anything else, so it would seem perfectly natural for a 9th grader to share air with another warm body--which, of course, would ultimately lead to hand-holding and making out (in later years, getting "felt up," dry humping, and in the end, genital-to-genital unclothed heavy petting. Cheeky me, I went to private school).
It would seem only natural, therefore, that I would associate cuddling (or "snuggling," alternatively) with pleasant childhood memories. And, yes, in case you had any doubt, I consider genital-to-genital unclothed heavy petting a fond childhood memory. Me and Mark Foley. ZING!
I also suspect there are many of you out there who also enjoy cuddling, sex or no sex. Why not, then, launch a network of "Cuddlers in Your Area," where local cuddle whores can meet local cuddle... "Johns?" Am I working this metaphor properly? Surely there must be just as many people out there wanting to be cuddled as there are those needing to cuddle.
I imagine some sort of form one would fill out to make the process easier:
1a) Cuddle Whore
1b) Cuddle John
2a) Big Spoon
2b) Little Spoon
3a) Shoulder Circles
3b) No Shoulder Circles
And so on. I believe this world would be so much better if, on those rare occasions you just want to "chill out and watch a movie tonight," you could summon up your cuddling partner for some heat exchange. It would be a free service, but paying members could get their own big, snuggly, fleecy blanket for the low price of $24.99.
P.S. Not prostitution!
Update: I, apparently, am not nearly as
12.19.2006
I AM TIME MAGAZINE'S PERSON OF THE YEAR
This summary is not available. Please click here to view the post.
...More...12.18.2006
MERRY CHRISTMAS!
Hooray for Christmas (and a myriad of other end-of-the-year holidays that I can neither pronounce nor spell correctly)! Conservative talk radio blesses me with a daily reminder that, owing to my God-hatin,' latte drinkin,' Subaru drivin,' baby killin,' tree huggin,' hippie, liberal tendencies, I am waging a silent War Against Christmas. Or "WAC" for brevity's sake. Yes, America, I hate Christmas because I don't have a plastic, light-up Jesus on my front lawn. Ironically, I did once have a plastic, light-up He-Man sword, which did an equally good job of reminding me about the Christ child, but I really don't think that qualifies me as an anti-Christ-child warrior.
See, I dig Jesus's style. JC was the original hippie love muffin, dig? Peace? Love? Bearded? He was a cool dude, that Jesus. So what the holy fuck would he think about our WAC? Would he be pissed to see a giant Santa statue replaced by a gargantuan menorah at the mall? I doubt it. In fact the idea of Jesus at the mall in the first place, or even cast in pressure-molded translucent plastic, is borderline offensive, even to a non-Christian Jesus fan like myself.
So, what to do, what to do...
In a rich tradition dating all the way back to Jonathan Smith, I propose we meet stupidity with absurdity. I say we join the pro-Christian ranks in their war to "preserve and promote the true meaning of Christmas," which as far as I can tell means spending eleven hundred dollars at Brookstone. I say we march right down to the mall and meet these anti-Christmas warriors head-on with big signs that read:
Now that's preserving the true meaning of Christmas. Happy Hanukkah day 4! Read what smarter people have to say. ...More...
12.15.2006
SIGH...
Just because I know that last post bored you a little, I'll pass on this information from my friend Celine Dion Badass McAwesome. She's real. Seriously.
I, of course, already knew this, but it may interest the rest of you to know that tofu makes you gay.
DEATH KNELL FOR THE REPUBLICAN MIDDLE CLASS
2004 was the year of same-sex marriage in my mind. The majority of exit polls following the '04 presidential election cited gay marriage as the top-dollar issue, despite the myriad of other, let's say "reality based," campaign issues. Needless to say, I was not thrilled (Re: "you have no health care because gays make you feel icky. dumbass.").
I was, however, impressed by the conservatives' leverage of a socially hot topic to win a slim majority of votes in an extremely tight election. Those sneaky bastards really know their shit.
These days, it's much less common to hear stories about gay marriage thanks to the unending stream of bad news erupting from the middle east (though, horrifyingly, the Iraq 'diversion' has allowed a sinister seeping-in of 'conservative' social reform while our backs have been turned. Sometimes I feel like us righteous don't have enough fingers for all the dikes in this country. Awful, awful pun not intended). These days illegal immigration seems to be the rallying cry for the conservative middle class, which I, for reasons outlined below, believe should cause the final and spectacular self-destruction of the conservative middle class as it exists now. God knows what evil glue will hold it together in the future (I don't suspect "principled integrity," but "down with Canada!" may be rising over the dim horizon). I can't even begin to predict what dumb shit will fall from the sky next week.
Illegal immigration (specifically un-documented labor), for better or worse, is the foundation of our economy. Businesses throughout the country, from the very small to the very large, depend on un-documented laborers to reduce insurance costs, heath and benefits payouts, social security, payroll, safety provisions, and a continuing list of items the AFL-CIO, etc. were nice enough to provide for documented workers. This is, of course, the reason why pears don't cost you 12 dollars apiece. Big business needs this contingency built into our labor system; a company that refuses to hire illegal immigrants will quickly fall to one that does. Capitalism is a bitch like that.
But let's not pretend, even for that one sweet second, Republican policy makers aren't ruled by business interests. Their success is inexorably tied to a system heavily subsidized--on the scale of billions of dollars--by illegal immigrants. Surely the Republican upper crust is pro-illegal immigration; if they weren't they'd be insanely stupid. So what of the middle and lower class conservatives' new and fierce hatred for the illegal immigrant?
The harder these nouveaux nationalistes cry for stronger borders, the more eroded their relationship with the conservative elite. Yet the strength of the Republican party is fed by the so-called patriotism of it's middle class soldiers; just ask yourself why 'liberals hate America' works so well as a slogan.
Let's just say, for conversation's sake, that immigration reformists get their way and all of a sudden we wake up and all un-documented workers have disappeared from the picture a la Back to the Future. Hey, so many more jobs for Americans, right? Oh Jesus, how naive! Ignoring the undesirability of many of these jobs for a moment, why don't we think about some simple economic principles first, shall we?
Unemployment in the US is (at least superficially) low. When workers are scarce, wages rise. (duh) Add to that the increased cost of benefits, etc. for the new workforce, and you get a sharp rise in market prices (duh), until job outsourcing to other countries stabilizes the job surplus (duh). Moving low- or entry-level jobs to foreign markets moves mid-level jobs as well. Sooner or later the Republican mainstream will eat itself unless it gives up its 1) delusion of upward mobility into the super-rich echelon, or its 2) delusion of isolationism. Cough, *NAFTA* cough.
Duh.
I have a great deal of sympathy for illegal immigrants. They make shit, and they get treated like shit, and they don't get to complain to anyone about it. Still, I think kicking them out of the country might be a little counterproductive, don't you?
God bless you if you actually read this entire post. And God Bless America!
12.13.2006
ON LOCATION
I wrote the following while imprisoned in meetings all day:
Below are the top ten places I'd rather be than right here, right now:
10) Bosnia
9) Mary Cheney's uterus
8) The Gap
7) Turkish prison
6) Daler Mehndi video
5) International 'Bring Your Penis to Work Day'
4) Dennis Kucinich's uterus
3) Thunderdome
2) Coke + Whores + Rush Limbaugh
1) In the shit.
Apparently today was a bit rough on the nerves. I do righteous work, and I do it well, but my God the constant hugs are killing me.
12.12.2006
HUMBUG!
I can't figure what to ask for Christmas. I know I want stuff, I just don't know what stuff. What are you asking Santa for this year?
...More...12.11.2006
7 FAT YEARS, 7 LEAN YEARS
Good God, I resent being awake this morning, despite the fact that once again I am the first person to arrive at work. However, I now have carte blanche to finish the following thoughts I had while weighing the evils of a) remaining in my remarkably comfortable bed while conservative talk radio (Con-Tak-Ra in MOTU speak) splits the fragile seams knitting my skull plates together and b) getting up and leaving the house:
1) If I remember correctly, high-school theater is the the greatest pussy scam in the history of mankind, which makes the 30th anniversary Broadway production of Annie next spring all that much more terrifying. (Former Annie performers Catherine Zeta-Jones and Molly Ringwald make the situation all the more confusing).
2) Jim Buckmaster is my hero. "Dear venture capitalists, how would you like to just kiss my ass? Please quit trying to leach off my success. Go ahead and try to have a creative thought on your own." I/we need more individuals like Jim Buckmaster. Take 10 minutes out of your day and write a letter to your local/national bank executive manager. Place it on his desk and kick him swiftly between the genitals.
And to top off my morning, I was appalled to read in the New York Times Reader's Opinion the general feeling is that, no, the United States generally unprepared for a Woman or an African-American in the executive office. I say this, not because the comments were overly negative, but because the question itself is particularly appalling. At this point in our nation's history, I think it would be much more important to ask the question, "Are we ready for a president who isn't out of his/her fucking mind?"
...Oh yes, I disagree with 'ol Whitey's "baby-slaughtering" and "old-man-pimp-slapping" policies, but he's so much better than that colored fellah, with his crazy "let gay people get married" ideas...
Like sands through the hourglass, so doth the head-groove in the wall next to my desk blossom and grow. Thud. Thud. Thud.
12.09.2006
POSTCARDS FROM THE BROKEN SPINE OF THE BEAR
It is time for us to kiss the earth again,
It is time to let the leaves rain from the skies,
Let the rich life run to the roots again.
I will go to the lovely Sur Rivers
And dip my arms in them up to the shoulders.
I will find my accounting where the alder leaf quivers
In the ocean wind over the river boulders.
I will touch things and things and no more thoughts,
That breed like mouthless May-flies darkening the sky,
The insect clouds that blind our passionate hawks
So that they cannot strike, hardly can fly.
Things are the hawk's food and noble is the mountain,
Oh noble Pico Blanco, steep sea-wave of marble.
12.08.2006
I AM A PSYCHO GENIUS
There are two types of people in this world, those who prefer to have things laid out in front of them, and those that prefer to have things laid down behind them. I am, without a doubt, of the latter.
This became clear to me while trying to explain the governing principles behind the BAM philosophy:
1) A plan is the antithesis of adventure. A plan presupposes you know what to expect, and should be avoided. The best experiences in one's life are often built upon the ashes of well-laid plans.
2) A map is a crutch. Unless you are late for something important, keep those demons under control. The most boring distance between two points is a line drawn by someone else.
In both cases, the introduction of a secret map (e.g. treasure map) trumps all rules. But beware, not everyone can stomach the thought of operating without a net. This is a perfectly acceptable and commendable position, and you should take steps to avoid scaring these people. They will not, however, be receiving a super-secret nom de guerre. What say you, Skip? Have I done right by these principles?
12.07.2006
BAM 12.06
There are no words to describe my loathing for Grey's Anatomy. I thought that perhaps I could curl up on the couch, pour a tall glass of red wine for myself, fire up a Glade Scented Oil candle, dim the lights and just lose myself in Patrick Dempsey's beautiful doe eyes. I tried. I made the effort to watch 2 seconds at a time through fingers criss-crossed over my eyes... then 3 seconds... then 4.
When I could no longer resist the urge to peel back the fragile skin at the top of my scalp and massage the gruesome head wound with fine Afghani heroin until the horror finally came to an end, I decided to give up on Grey's Anatomy (more like Grey's Lobotomy, huh? Heyyyoooo! Up high!). Jesus, what an awful show. It's like Nip/Tuck without the luscious, milky bosoms.
But moving on, and at the risk of jinxing the whole waterworks, I'm working out my p-p-plan to get the hell out of town for a weekend with guns a-blazin'. Yes, it's true, a plan is just a list of things that never happen (and wicked-bad juju in my estimation), but I have to get my coordinates locked in before I depart.
I'm on a quest for Bolinas, a place where the locals defend their territory so fiercely, Caltrans has long since given up posting signs for the quiet coastal town because the damn things just keep getting torn down. I dig your style, Bolinas. To uphold my end of the bargain, I've decided to follow in the footsteps of the original explorers in finding my way to this paradise oasis, I'm going to use the sophisticated surveyor's GPS I jacked from the GIS department at work.
What. Lewis and Clark were pussies, what do you want me to say?
I have dreams about this place where naked sirens dance in the frantic sparks from beachwood bonfires. I see emerald lagoons filled with bronzed flesh, and great glistening waterfalls casting iridescent spectra from silvery fingertips. I can hear the hypnotic heartbeat of the meandering waves folding black sands rich as coffee in the fading daylight. Oh great rivulets of K-Bear saliva, no karmic shield so powerful will shroud me as you! The gentle lover's caress, the sensuous embrace of my "Property of Bolinas High Athletic Department" T-shirt. What ecstasy, what purple passion so deep waits for me there? I can't hold back my tears of... holy fuck, is that grain alcohol coming out of me?
Wow, man. Wow.
Well, most of that story is, in fact true, or was at some point in history. There was a time when Bolinas existed as only a rumor in a dark hallway. Now? Now it's probably one giant tourist attraction.
Fuck it. There's always free cheese in a mousetrap. BAM, sucka.
12.06.2006
2nd ALBUM OF THE WEEK
I understand that the idea of an "Album of the Week" may have been confusing enough to spin some of my readers into a psychotic episode (*cough* Reckless *cough*), and I should have probably been a little clearer in my description. The title, "Album of the Week" refers not to the freshness of the music, rather the weekly nature of the blog post. I apologize for an confusion/minor nerve damage/atherosclerosis/rabies this may have caused.
yikes.
Anyway, moving on, today's guest post comes from a dear friend of mine who, if she had been born 30 years earlier, would have slept with Mick Jagger, Robert Plant, David Bowie, Jim Morrison and Hall (but not Oates). Of course, I would have totally done John Oates with that thick-ass moustache of his.
What was I talking about? Right, wise words from the District:
...More...The Practical Application of Gestalt Principles in Album Construction
I bought an album a few days ago. I mean, I bought a real, physical album. I even ordered it through the mail, so I had excitement in anticipating its arrival. It has been a few years since I ordered music - mostly I buy albums at shows and swap discs with my local coffeeshop employees. But, I had heard this band on Myspace and was tired of listening to the few tracks available on their music page. So, when I finally got the CD in my hot, little hands, I unwrapped it immediately and stuck in my CD player, and prepared to groove.
Pffflew. Deflation. So, the album that I ordered and had waited to receive, Band of Horses' "Everything All the Time" is quite enjoyable at times; however, the album itself has no continuity, no theme, no story to tell. There are two standout tracks onthe album, but the surrounding songs do nothing to support the singles. Both "Funeral" and "The Great Salt Lake" are strong songs with delightful melodies and catchy lyrics. Tempo changes and instrumental breakdowns drive the tunes, while Ben Bridwell's vocals compliment the tone and temper of the individual songs. Although Band of Horses lacks the orchestral depth and magnitude of Bridwell's previous band, Carissa's Wierd, the songs are solid rock pieces and induce toe-tapping. Hell, I like the band so much I bought the album. Individually, there are nice songs, but the path of the album is jarring with odd tempo and key changes between the tracks. At this point, I am not sure if it is better on random shuffle or listened through from start to finish.
I guess this is what happens in our new age of iPods, mp3s, and shuffle. You can pick and choose the tracks, and so how they work together just does not matter any more. I bought the Band of Horses disc off their songs on Myspace, so I am guilty of this myself. However, I remember the time when the traditional album was put together with love and care - the transitions between songs were just as important as tempo changes within the songs. Hell, Death Cab for Cutie's "Photo Album" has one of my favorite musical moments in between the tracks "Steadier Footing" and "A Movie-Script Ending." And Built to Spill's masterpiece "Perfect From Now On" escalates from song to song and culminates with the raucous pieces "Kicked in the Sun" and "Untrustable/Part 2." These albums (quite recent as 2001 and 1997 releases) are thoughtful works as a whole in addition to the individual song, and the development throughout the album only makes them better pieces.
Perhaps I am advocating for concept albums. The Decembrists certainly have figured out how to tell a story through an entire album; Ben Folds Five did a lovely job with "The Unauthorized Biography of Reinhold Messner." But, really want I am suggesting is that the format of the album needs to be considered when creating a marketable product. The sum of songs can either help or hinder the success of the album, and in the case of Band of Horses' "Everything All the Time," it certainly hurts. Or, maybe I should just use shuffle.
12.05.2006
OH GOD, SWEET MYSTERIES OF THE DIVINE
If you haven't noticed, and no one's told you, tonight is such a special night for me. CBS, a station known for its integrity of journalism, will broadcast the sexually deviant version of Christmas, Passover, Chinese New Year, The Moon Landing, Second Coming of Christ, Wham! Reunion Tour, and The Day I Awkwardly Became a Man (in no particular order). At 10pm ET, you'll be able to catch the Victoria's Secret Fashion Show, with musical guest Justin something-or-other (don't think I've heard of this guy. Also, I'm having trouble understanding why a lingerie fashion show would need a musical guest. Refractory period?).
Since I'm a tan, svelte, real-or-fake West Coast Boy now, I'm trying to figure out how to watch both the initial broadcast on the East Coast, then get back home to catch the rebroadcast on Pacific time. See, people, this is why we need supersonic jetpacks. (Yes, I could TiVo the broadcast and watch it over and over and over, but I prefer the old-fashioned jetpack strategy. Good enough for Connery, good enough for me).
Put the kids to bed, open a bottle of wine, and enjoy the fruits of The Digital Age. Wives, girlfriends, dominatrices beware.
P.S. Jesus, I almost forgot to mention it's been exactly 79 years since the last state ratified the 21st amendment to our constitution (Utah, not surprisingly, was the holdout. Way to go, Utah). Remember this tonight while you're watching semi-nude women prance up and down a trippy little stage. Ahhh we're just like the Romans. Many of you, no doubt, will be dressed in Togas. I know I will. Ego diligo pectus quod imbibo!!
I AM A DIRTY, DIRTY SINNER
It's a terrible, terrible sin, but I think both of the Bush daughters are hot. I have unhealthy fantasies about Jenna and Barbara where they are engaged in various inapropriate acts with each other and me simultaneously. I wish I could end this terrible affliction, so I ask you, Oh Wise Readers, how to resolve these feelings of self loathing? Also, which is hotter, Jenna or Barbara?
P.S. The tall one kind of looks like Alanis Morissette. Crazy sexy Canadians.
AHHHHH...
There, now don't we all feel better? I know I do. Thus ends my social experiment (Thank. God.). Now we can get back to business as usual.
...More...12.04.2006
I AM PLEASED WITH THE RESULTS
P.S. Somewhere in that last little shake-up, my 6,000th visitor popped his or her or its head into the room. That's 6,000 since February, though if you remove that 4 month vacation I took (thanks to all of your death threats words of encouragement that brought me back), it looks a lot like more like 1,000 per month on average. Since I view readership as a validation of my otherwise pointless existence upon this easy-on-the-eyes planet of ours, I feel quite good about myself! Yay, self esteem! Now send me panties. Goddamnit, you send me bushel upon bushel of exotic panties so that I might make countless panty-angels!
I love you!
WEEKLY HIPSTER MUSIC REVIEW (I AM A SHILL FOR THE MUSIC BUSINESS)
The music business is a cruel and shallow money trench, a long plastic hallway where thieves and pimps run free, and good men die like dogs. There's also a negative side.It's about time I started paying attention to my indie rock vocabulary since I couldn't possibly entertain the idea of walking through the Mission District without my messenger bag, one in my extensive collection of post-modern (PoMo) T-shirts, and my hair quaffed exactly as I found it when I woke up: unwashed and un-styled for maximum cowlick exposure. Plus I need to Coke my way out of about 15 pounds; my ribs lack full definition.
I've noticed my mean machine C-money reading my blog from B.C. (henceforth referred to as "Bitchin' Canada!"), and she's always been my lifeline to new and exciting music. I figured all the BC rippers / weed dealers / tattoo + piercing outdoorsmen have got to be on the music up-and-up, so I'd better start pulling my A-game together, eh?
Plus (man, the hits just keep on rollin'), I've had a song tickling the back of my brain for a few days, and every time I hear it I think of an old friend of mine from the beating heart of Les Vert Mont. She's got such a dirty mind, and it never ever stops...
Ergo, I return these boys their hard-earned props. Hard-earned in respect to the Strokes diaspora in which all "indie rockers" now reside, poor skinny bastards.
ALBUM OF THE WEEK: Silent Alarm by Bloc Party
CHARTED SINGLES: "So Here We Are," "Banquet"
Their failure to find mainstream success in the US somehow makes this band just a little better in my esteem (think David Hasselhoff in Germany. Does any American own a DH CD? Or do we just enjoy mocking his hypnotically gyrating hips through the cultural crystal ball that is YouTube... Yea, I didn't think so.). Having been a fan of Franz Ferdinand's first album, then refusing to listen to even one track from the second, preferring instead to reflect on the heady days when "Alternative Music" meant "I don't hear that one track on every goddamn radio station 24 hours a day," I enjoy Bloc Party's homage to their closest relative on the indie family tree. The band, having met their defining moment at a Franz Ferdinand concert, pulls the IndieDiscoPop card from pretty much the middle of the deck, but some of the tracks are catchy enough to stick. I also failed to find even one of Bloc Party's tracks on all Bay Area radio stations through two straight days of dedicated searching, a critical moment in the audition process.
Give the album a gander, and then you can impress your friends with "That Bloc Party show at The Fillmore was so deck last night. Did you see all those tassles bustin' mad moby's in the VIP box?"
PS. I haven't the slightest idea what I just said. Comments will be met with appropriate consideration / mocking. ...More...
12.02.2006
WE DON'T NEED ANOTHER HERO
I'm up early for work today, but that's not even the beginning of my woes. I have Tina Turner's "We Don't Need Another Hero" from Mad Max: Beyond Thunderdome stuck in my head. Go on ahead an' marinate on how I got that in there.
...More...11.30.2006
I AM SORRY FOR THAT LAST POST
I am sorry for that last post. It was very inappropriate, and I don't know what I was thinking. Maybe I was trying to impress my friends... you know, trying to get that popular girl to think I was "cool." But that wasn't "cool" at all. It was immature, and I hope that you forgive me. I used words like "cooch" to express myself, and that is, frankly, degrading to women, not to mention extremely immature.
I'm sorry for what I said. I will try hard in the future to make sure nothing like this happens again. I can only hope you will someday learn to trust me again. I will spend the rest of the day in my hottub full of high-class prostitutes room thinking about how my words can hurt people. One day I will learn to be responsible for the things I say, like an adult, and we can be friends again. Until that day I will work hard to prove I want to behave like a grown-up.
I AM AN INNAPROPRIATE NEOLOGICIAN
This pitiful excuse for a blog (though in my weaker moments, I imagine these words bringing my more sensitive readers a moment of pure joy) has spawned some pretty interesting neologisms over the years. Though I would never equate my efforts with those of the wildly successful, "satirical attempt to name the frothy mix of lube and fecal matter that is sometimes the byproduct of anal sex after Senator Rick Santorum," I feel like I've had moments of linguistic prescriptiveness worthy of mention.*
My newest BFFF (the extra F is for 'fellatio,' despite the fact we've never met face to face, and she's currently engaged in some long term FFFing with one of my oldest and dearest BFFs. I love you guys), asked me to furnish some of the more specific details of my Men's Room Encounter from two posts previous. I did not, as she would point out, specify how I knew about the stranger's recent viviparity. The resulting conversation, in it's unedited entirety, is reproduced below. If you haven't already noticed, I have given up trying to be polite, and have settled on "borderline disgusting and despicable." Then again a number of my one-time readers stumbled upon this site via searches for "Lindsay AND Lohan AND vagina" or "Dominican AND Mafia AND skanks," words which do, in fact, appear in my text, yet not specifically in that order (thanks SiteMeter.com for this stimulating insight into the anonymous web surfer). "Give them what they ask for," I always say. That's show business, baby. Enjoy:
me: I left some parts out, though
*A quick search in the, of course, definitive and exhaustive resource that is Google will reveal I, indeed, was the first to propose the phrase "hot me-on-me action," at least within the ten most popular Google searches. I prefer to accept this as scientific fact and shall pursue the matter no further. ...More...
11.29.2006
DOPPLEGANGER
I was terribly relieved to find my doppleganger to be a pretty cool guy.
Last week, one of my close friends sent me a number of emails wishing me a happy Thanksgiving and a happy birthday which I did not receive. She also sent out an email inviting me and a number of our close friends to a celebratory birthday dinner, which I also did not receive. An unsuspecting stranger who shares my last name, on the other hand, got what he would later describe as being "a number of odd, yet eerily familiar emails." In addition to our surname, J and I have roughly the same birthday and live exceedingly close to one another.
Needless to say, I was surprised by the coincidence. Coming from the highly-refined pedigree that he does, J decided to be a good sport and join us for dinner last night. He also brought me 6 Bohemian-style beers which, in my opinion, is as close to a coat of arms as you can get for my family.
Then again, as I'm sure you're all aware, if you're in a room with 23 people (or more) there is a >50% chance that two will share the same birthday. Convince yourself of this fact by using the following formula: 365!/(365^n [365-n]!) where 'n' is equal to the number of times in a day you've slammed your face into your desk and begged god to burn your cold-ass office to ashes and finally put an end to the torturous monotony your job.
footnote: The diagram above describes both the probability that any given two people share the same birthday (represented by the function p(n) where n is group size), and the probability that a person in a group of size n will have the same birthday as one chosen in advance (function q(n)). The function p(n) is a close approximation to a Poisson distribution or a Taylor Series expansion of a simple exponential function. In contrast, the function q(n) is much simpler, and can be represented as: 1-([365-1]/365)^n. (Slam, slam, slam!)
11.27.2006
THANKSGIVING CLIFF'S NOTES
I couldn't help but be disappointed no C-list rock stars appeared on any of my many flights yesterday. Along with Smashmouth and The Blowfish (-Hootie), I've had my share of run-ins with the once semi-famous. I had hoped to share a row with the members of Quiet Riot, or that dude from Counting Crows.
One interesting highlight I'd like to describe occurred at a charming little place we in the Ray like to call "The 'Hoe," a quaint and appropriately descriptive abbreviation for "Ivanhoe." I have a dear friend who's heart is always in the right place but doesn't necessarily put the same careful thought into the execution of his ideas. (In his defence, the world is devoid of true dreamers. I'd be remiss if this fact were passed over.) On this night, he thought I'd enjoy being locked in the Men's bathroom with a strange young woman who had long since passed the "poor judgement" milestone. Kind of an early birthday present, perhaps.
Though she was a sweet girl and seemed to be very interested in me, I didn't find it terribly attractive of her to drop her pants and urinate in/on/near the convenience next to my urinal. Nor did I particularly appreciate the few errant drops that found the soft leather of my left shoe. Still, I was impressed at her willingness to reveal otherwise-concealed skin, though it was obvious she had carried at least one child in the recent past.
Keep reaching for that rainbow, darlin'.
11.25.2006
11.23.2006
11.20.2006
LIFE IMITATES SLATE.COM
Today NewYorkTimes.com published a story regarding the death of two high school students in Alabama. Normally such an event would warrant some customary amount of media coverage, national mourning, and reconciliation (in the form of improved road safety measures, bus driver screenings, etc.). Unfortunately, owing to our predilection for shiny objects and flashing lights (and yes, in this analogy our society is a young raccoon), our dreadfully short national attention span--mine included--would linger on this topic for an appropriate amount of time as deemed by the tempo of national tragedies.
However, on this occasion there may be a few of us, with furrowed brow, narrowed eyes, and chins pensively stroked in contemplation, who may pause for a moment at the strange tickling at the backs of our necks. Somewhere in our brains, two moles of thought burrow towards one another, not quite meeting in the middle, but one quite aware of the other. We wonder why the NYTimes headline, "School Bus Plunges off Alabama Highway" strikes such an unusually familiar yet oddly uncomfortable chord. Yet we can't seem to make the connection.
Then in a sickening instant of realization, all has become clear. For we read SLATE.com, and remember this story published just one week ago.
I leave it to you to decide how creeped out you are by the coincidence.
11.17.2006
MY ROOMMATE LOVES ME
It was nearly 10pm, and I was putting on my shoes to go find a cup of coffee downtown and enjoy a quiet read when I heard my roommate ask the question I'd been waiting for months to hear: "Which do you think would win, a grizzly bear or an alligator with a chainsaw strapped to its tail?"
"Is the chainsaw running?" I enquire.
"Yes, it's locked on. Oh, and they're in a 'Thunderdome' situation."
"Interesting," I muse, contemplating the strengths and weaknesses of each combatant.
I hearkened back to a night I spent with a beautiful young woman long enough, but not so long ago. In the gentle glow of the naked moonlight I whispered to the graceful shape nestled beside me, "Darling?"
"Yes, dear?"
"Do you think a shark could beat a dolphin if the dolphin had nunchucks strapped to it's tail?" I ask.
"R, that is by far the dumbest and most asinine thing you've ever asked me," her silken voice assuming a disappointed tone.
"Oh," I whisper.
She paused to take a breath and sweep an errant lock of hair behind my ear with delicate fingers.
"Nunchucks wouldn't work underwater, and the shark would have the advantage. Shark every time. Duh."
I've never fully understood our obsession with such things. Hero worship (for surely the Japanese have a different view of heroes. Mothra?)? A need to satisfy our competitive tendencies? Perhaps it is simply a matter of intellectual exercise; a means to assuage the feuding halves of our restless brains.
But all I know is that I'll never forget the time my roommate looked me square in the eyes and said, "Ohhhhh, now I see, I thought you meant 'like how the Irish used their skills with farm tools during the great Leprechaun Holocaust'. Now I get what you're saying."
11.16.2006
OH THE DAY I'VE HAD
Business card distribution, as a rule, should be limited to exchanges only; thou shalt not give out personal information without a in-kind token of trust from others.
I remarked as much to myself at 11:30 last night in the home of a complete stranger (in the very same neighborhood where I, if so desired, would purchase Meth) who showed me all the "strange and bizarre plants" in his garden, introduced me to his 3 cats/daughter, and gave me a squash. I'll exercise a little leniency with this guy, though, since he's a botany freak like me (PS. 12 days and counting since a girl touched any part of my body, excluding handcuffs and a MeterMaid taser).
Still, as a personal philosophy, I've decided to become less accessible to the public. Spend a moment in my size 12s, and see what I mean:
(phone rings)
you: Good morning, you've reached [your company name]
deep, menacing voice: Who is this?
you: This is [your name] with [your company name], how can I help you?
deeper, more menacing voice: What do you do?
you: We provide technical consulting, volunteer organization, etc. etc. ... How can I help you?
deepest, most menacing voice: What do you look like?
(considerable pause)
you: Sir, can I help you with something?
saddened, dejected voice: My wife has just left me, and I found your business card in her dresser.
11.13.2006
I AM IRRESISTIBLE TO WOMEN
I feel very much like Saturday began on a moral high note, though I can't pinpoint the exact moment at which all good deeds were erased.
Maybe it was the moment I sat down next to the mechanical bull with whiskey in both fists. But who knows, really?
One of my old chums flew out to visit me (and those Westward Ho's) for the weekend. He'd never seen the Left Coast up close, so I took us the long way back from the airport, stopping for the Divine deepfried halibut and beerbeerbeerbeerbeer at the Halfmoon Bay Brewing Co. (go there before you die, pilgrim). After lunch I felt the need to let my liver work it's magic alchemy with my blood before jumping back behind the wheel (referred to as "sightseeing" from now on), so we climbed down one of the steeper cliffs to the ocean just north of the restaurant.
As I was about to take my last and gigantic step into the sand, my companion pointed out the harbor seal staring at me from below. She had been tossed into a nasty garden of sharp rocks by the gusting winds and abnormally rough sea that day. One side of her head showed signs of blunt trauma, and her right eye had hemorrhaged badly. While I'm not a seal expert, the good people at the Marine Mammal Rescue and Rehabilitation Center are. Luckily, I keep their Hotline in my phone for just such an emergency.
I'd like to think I saved that seal from a slow, painful death on the beach that day. As she looked up into my eyes between labored breaths, she seemed to say, "Thank you friend, I will always remember your kindness."
I walked away from that beach feeling as if I had gained just the tiniest insight into God's spiritual opus; that maybe we were all born without sin and malace in our hearts. The purity of our exchange, the unsolicited kindess... I can't help but feel as if this is how we were meant to live in this universe.
Of course, later that day there was the whiskey and the hot (eerily flexible) phillipino girls and the mechanical bull and the raging erection. Maybe God and I should just shake hands and call it a draw.
11.09.2006
"SEND LAWYERS, GUNS, AND MONEY"
For my ensuing comments, no doubt, will require the use of all three.
I like reading Dan Savage's column in "Seattle's Only Newspaper," The Stranger, not only because I find him fiercely entertaining, but because he was responsible for the campaign to put "The frothy mix of lube and, etc. etc." in the #1 spot in a google search for "Santorum." Thanks little buddy. This week's Savage Love column deals with the psychological impact of small penises--or at least the perception of having a small penis--on the poor, poor dear men who sport these microphalli. They have trouble with self esteem, they sometimes exhibit self-aggrandizing behavior, they often have trouble maintaining healthy relationships, and so on. It's a tragic but classic psychological syndrome.
Why do I bring this up? Well, the thrilling events of the past 36 hours (up to and including the umpteenth time in my short life I've had to jump up on the kitchen table stark naked shouting, "SUCK IT, VIRGINIA!!" Way to go, Jimmy Webb!), have left me in a strange haze of uncertainty. What will happen to my great nation now? How did we ever get into this jam in the first place? How, indeed.
When Rumsfeld got his ass booted from the Pentagon (finally, sweet Jesus), my roommate joked, "I wonder how satisfied W is with his performance now?" Boingoingoing!
Unsatisfied? Self-aggrandizing behavior? Trouble maintaining healthy relationships?
Sure he's a mass-murdering fuckhead, but when I look at that sad, sad old man, I don't see the worst Secretary of Defense since the Ford administration (he hee!). All I see is the shadow of a poor, poor, microphallicitous Bob Dole shilling for Viagra. The shame of old age, the 'infirmity' of seniority; it drove Hunter Thompson to shoot himself in the head rather than suffer the indignity of primogeniture (his ashes, shortly after, were fired from a giant cannon, sort of securing his place as one of the baddest motherfuckers in town. These are the lengths you must go...).
So let's not gloat over the recent victories in tha' House and Senate, because at the end of the day, it's all about who in the Executive has the oldest, wrinkliest, most shriveled-ist whithered cock and balls among the rest.
And yea, that scares me just as much as it scares you. Clinton '08!
P.S. Rummie's from EVANSTON!
11.07.2006
MYERS - BRIGGS PERSONALITY TEST
(Think what the words mean, not how they look or how they sound)
Ignoring for a second the annoying trick question on this page ("Think what the words mean, not how they look or how they sound." If you just nodded your head and proclaimed, "Ooooohhhh! now I get it!", you are (A) A Complete AssClown...), let's think about Question 48.
I'm invited to think deeply about which word ("Soft" vs. "Hard") appeals to me more. Am I (A) thinking about supple, underfed undergrads while taking this test at work, and therefore should be ashamed of my naughty, naughty sexmagination? Or am I (B) totally gay? hmmmm.
I put (B) by the way... wouldn't want them to know I was thinking about ivory-soft bosoms at $8.50 an hour. Dodged a bullet on that one.
11.05.2006
GUEST POST FOR MEL-I-OH YEA.
Do you ever wonder who takes the time to read this self-indulgent bitchfest fine literary journal?
Apparently Mel doesn't like raisins on her fruit salad. And I don't mean Mel doesn't like (quote) rasins on her fruit salad (endquote) if you know what I mean heh heh heh. I mean my girl hates those sinister little yoda-grapes on her fruit salad.
After reading this, I'm feeling all funky and whatnot, so I will make Melle Mel (It's like a jungle some times, it makes me wonder...) a Funkee Fruit Salad:
Mel's Funkee Fruit Salad will have:
Starfruit: SuperFly Kung-Fu ninjas break through your kitchen windows and, like, totally lose it on some starfruit with their Kinky Katana Blades of Justice. Then they take the starfruit slices and chuck them like Neon Ninja Stars of Truth at yo' fruit salad, ending the age-old fued between the Cosmic Cobra dojo and the Sonic Cheetah dojo. Rock solid.
Grapefruit: because the french word for grapefruit is so awesome it hurts. I'd slice up pieces of grapefruit and slam them into the bowl with a wicked 360 Airwalk dunk and just hang there on the rim, all, like, taunting everyone and yelling, "pamplemousse, bitches!!"
Ribs: Because nothin' says Bitch I love yo' sweet ass like a big pile of barbecue ribs. Yea, it's a fruit salad, but ol' Dr. von Huge-n'-stein wants to wrap his BigDaddyKane gums around some hambone Memphis bar-be-cue. Dig? Make way for the von HUGE n' stein.
Now if that fruit salad doesn't scream, baby let's superfreak eachother all night long, I guess I just don't know romance.
Somebody please sleep with me!
11.02.2006
GODS LOVE ME
During my somewhat-Christian upbringing, we never spoke much about Karma, but over the years I've come to believe in the subtle balance the Hindu divine provide in everyday life. Karmic harmony, as it seems, is not without a sense of humor. I have begged and pleaded for some sort of redemption amidst the boorish skullduggery of this moronic species of ours, but to no avail. Politics have utterly failed to impress me (e.g. John Kerry, who, de
spite the use of both hands and a device designed for the express purpose of finding one, could not locate a sense of humor), and the continuing phalanx of devoted Lost/Survivor/Grey's Anatomy/etc. followers makes me go, hmmmmmm. However, seek the divine and you shall find the divine. Karmic balance in this version of the universe, in my eyes, does indeed exist. Take for instance the following:
1. Ann Coulter may rack up some jail time for fraud (P.S. I'll arm wrestle you for the rights to the Ann Coulter-Martha Stewart women's prison B-movie).
2. Evil Dead: The Musical is making it's NY debut at New World Stages on 50th.
If you can't see all my hopes and dreams fulfilled in the brightest binary-star the gods have bestowed upon me, well, good luck in the next life, buddy. I'll send you a postcard from Nirvana (where Evil Dead: The Musical will be playing every night at 8:30).
HOW TO:
Pete, my hetero-life-partner, who sadly isn't blogging anymore, sent me this to cheer me up.
What a pro.
I was running one hell of a fever yesterday (not the good, 104-and-hallucinating kind, though, unfortunately), so I finally watched the third Matrix movie while coccooned in my cozy bed--with my pillow-girlfriend, Katya. I have one question, though, is this movie any good if you're not high? Because I just thought it sucked.
11.01.2006
NORCAL HALLOWEEN
Halloween in Northern California is a strange time. Sometimes the oddity is a little subtle, and it takes eagle eyes, like mine, to spot the nuance.
I'm still feeling a little sick from the weekend, so I wisely chose not to head into the Castro last night. Only, like, 8 people got shot, so I guess I missed a good time. I also traded in my tickets to the Exotic Erotic Ball (wait until no one's looking to follow that breadcrumb), which I am now regretting. I'm a little vanilla for that scene, but I sure am a man who knows what he wants.
(hint: it's breasts.)
Instead I went to a winery for a Halloween party this weekend. I have no class. When it's free, I drink too much. I lust for genital-to-genital unclothed heavy petting (the one and only phrase I have yet to purge from my 7th grade SexEd lexicon). Why I was invited to an upscale shindig like this one, I couldn't say. Perhaps it's because I tend to smooch up on the older ladies? (Thanks for the slowdance, Donna, you stone cold fox, you).
Maybe it's because I dream that strange dream in which I charm a disgustingly wealthy older couple into letting me marry their daughter and live out the rest of my days as a trophy husband. (P.S. nowhere in the thick of my "scruples" dictionary is this practice prohibited. In fact, it's on my lifetime "To Do" list between "Start a Beautiful and Healthy Family" and "Play Air Hockey with David Bowie").
Then again, I provide an invaluable public service at my job for which I get paid 10% of the average income for this area (remember when "VC" didn't mean "venture capital," Donnie? Interesting...). But, I won't pretend I don't enjoy the irony of seeing those loser, D&D, renaissance fair, computer geeks drive around in Ferraris with way, way too hot women, soaking up all the envy they never found in gym class. They look at me as if to say:
who's the (nasal spray left, sniff) loser, now (nasal spray right, sniff)?
Fair play, gentlemen, live the dream. I'm gunning for your daughters, so please sit up and pay attention.
Too soon for Viet Cong jokes?
10.31.2006
IRONIC '06
It's strange how little motivation I've had to be creative, given the gross amount of boredom occupying the sad, sad post-university lifestyle I'm now living. Granted I still keep the talons sharp with the occasional chat-up of your odd undergrad, but it's really just for sport.
What to do, what to do? I used to find entertainment in the sporadic updates of this blog, and now that I'm trying once again to hide my inefficiency at work by the frantic and prolonged punching of keys, it seems like a hobby worth resurrecting.
You know what really pisses me off, though? H-bomb's not even worth it anymore. It's more like when you read old essays from highschool that you thought were brilliant and life affirming, but in retrospect, you're thinking "Jesus, what a whinyvagina!"
T-shirts finally here, available, hot as hell!
9.15.2006
9.07.2006
SWITCHAROO
now that we've agreed to be offensive, i'm going to play matchmaker with this blogs' occasional readers; more from boredom, but also to goad my victims into defending themselves / offering alternatives to my choices. oh, and you're all now gay.
...in no particular order...
Reckless + Post-Drug-Czar Elvis: impeccable style, but with cuddlyness and penchant for snickers icecream bars.
Nelio + Howie Long: Nelio as the top (grow a goddamned moustache already) indulges my sense of role reversal. kick some ass, cowboy. plus you're both tastefully groomed.
Petesky + Alan Ginsberg: i can see you two discussing hip-hop for hours over tea. (i had toyed with the idea of pairing you with Jimmy Stewart, but the latent homosexuality from his end sort of dilutes the purpose of this exercise).
Doris, you get Frida Kahlo because i suspect you're a closet Marxist, and eHarmony lists political affiliation as a "fundamental" character trait. (always do your homework! fucking christians...)
(whew! this is hard!)
Em + some damned ChickLit "author": you need a sugar momma, and you seem to enjoy that dreadful genre. plus i need some low hanging fruit before i continue. we're cool, right? you won't be pissed with my insensitivity.
Reg + Linda Carter: don't tell me you've never wanted to fuck Wonder Woman... tie you up with that Lasso of Truth... kinky little wonder-minx...
Edithved + Gloria Steinem: too obvious not to be ironic. Also, i think you'd both be annoyed with me anyway for this.
and me? well i get Steve McQueen. why? because i'm writing this, that's why, and i say i get Steve Fucking McQueen. i totally called it.
FACEBOOK, MYSPACE SUCK MY BALLS
i've come out of hibernation to resurrect friendster. my fingers shall strike back with the force of Phil Collins + Phil Bailey, and if you don't follow, you ain't cool, motherfucker. suck it facebook, and suck it myspace. bunch of bitches. welcome to new way.
i want mine, and i'm gonna take yours.
'cause i feeeel like it.
5.01.2006
HOWDY
My my my, how busy I've been lately. As it turns out, working and going to school full time is actually quite a challenge, so Reckless you should quit bitching like a little schoolgirl, you pussy.
But I digress...
Anyway, most people update their blogs after an extended absence by giving their readers a long update of their past activities.
But you don't really read those anyway, do you... you'd rather read about erotic origami. So, OK, I'll bite. I'll just go ahead and tell you that I really think it's funny that the word 'heinous' has the word 'anus' in it.
Sort of. But close enough for me!
4.23.2006
LONG-ANTICIPATED RESPONSE TO EDITHVED
I've neglected to answer your 'East vs. West' question, so as penance I’m writing an open response so that your (predominantly East coast) blog community (‘blogmunity’) can have the opportunity to weigh in on my comments…
Or call me an ‘ass-head.’
In an case, I’ll start by telling you that no one can be told about life in Los Angeles. One can only be shown life in Los Angeles. Anyone who has lived in LA for any appreciable amount of time will tell you the dirty, rotten secret about the fair city of angels: it’s not actually a city in California, it is a different planet altogether, on a different plane of existence, in a separate dimension from our own, in a galaxy far, far away, etc., etc.
If you take the 405 into LA (because there you get to say, ‘I took THE 405’), you’ll pass through an invisible wormhole portal—not far from the Will Rogers State Historic Park, appropriately—into a magical land where just around each and every corner exists the thrillingly supernatural possibility that maybe, just maybe, you’ll bump into Prince Harry doing bumps of coke off some hooker’s ass.*
And speaking of blow, you might find Angeleans railing a line or two and re-working the age-old ‘Real vs. Fake’ discussion, while (with the gross exception of H-bomb writers and editors… yech), Bostonians seldom discuss cocaine. Boston is a stoic town (thankfully), and the vast majority of conversation can be distilled into the following topics:
1. Red Sox (the Pats get their 3 months of due regard per year)
2. How much beer he/she/it drank last night (‘wicked pissed’)
3. Public transportation (i.e. ‘did you hear some kid got shot on the
4. How good Dunkin’ Donuts coffee is. Seriously, that shit’s like crack-rock.
These, plus any derivation thereof, simple rules for ‘talking the talk’ do not apply in southern California. It would be a fool’s errand to itemize LA conversation in a similar fashion, not simply because of the vast and colorful diversity of topics, but because I’m loathe to decide whether ‘I bumped into Peter North this afternoon buying a burrito in Laguna’ should come before ‘Fucking Rick Moranis just stole my grocery cart!’ Alas, greater men than I shall resolve that one.
However, in its defense, I have never tried to hold a parking space with two folding chairs and a broom while living in California. Water tends to run off the streets in California. I can walk into a bookstore without accidentally getting to third base with the other patrons in California. It’s the little things I guess.
In closing I will say that, like men and women, the East Coast and West Coast bow to their own respective gods, but replace Mars and Venus with… like… Roger Clemens and Lindsay Lohan… or… um… James Taylor if you live north of Monterrey… or… like Clint Eastwood and adult film superstar, Jenna Jameson… but… I suppose… you’d have to be pretty fucked up to think of Jenna as a ‘goddess’… unless, of course, you meant ‘Anal Goddess,’ or ‘Goddess of the Cumshot’…which I do, but… Oh geez…
Well, this should pretty much sum it up.
*until now I have failed to give credit for this oft-repeated statement where, indeed, credit is due. The phrase came into existence during the epic road trip that spawned this very blog. Truly, the cosmos that day, in their endless journey towards their mystical, permutative equilibria, aligned in such a way as to unleash some tiny fraction of the Great Creative Energy that self-propelled the universe into existence and perhaps even connects each and every one of us through some incontrovertible organic bond (17 right, 28 left, 4 right perhaps?). Alternatively, we may have just been really hungover that day. Who am I to decide the truths of this lifetime?
Pete: wow, look at all the surfers in Malibu today!
Me: yea, I’ll bet the water’s ni… holy fuck?!
Pete: was that…?
Me: did you just see what I…
Pete: honest to god I just saw Prince William with a surfboard over there
Me: I just saw the same thing, and that is hands-down, no bullshit, the goddamndest thing I have ever seen… I wonder what Prince Harry’s up to…
Pete: probably doing bumps of coke off some hooker’s ass up in the hills.
…and that pretty much sums up the most hilarious fucking thing I have ever heard in my entire life.
