Articles Archive for December 2004
This will be my last post until 2005 (until next Thursday). I was contemplating doing some sort of lame ass “Year In Review”, but a) that requires a lot of work; and b) truth be told, I really don’t follow pop culture that much and so thus have very little interest in any sort of kitschy list, which you can find on just about every other website.
Then I thought I might do a “Year In Review For Everything Is Wrong With Me”, but that also would require a lot of work, and I think if I do anything like that, it’ll be for the one year anniversary of the blog (that’s February 13 – everyone mark your calendars!). Also, I don’t like any sort of introspective thing generally, as I am uncomfortable being introspective for fear of what I might find out about myself – a deep held passion for watching young boys dance, a latent desire to set fire to gas stations, a need to rub every phone receiver I see on my genitals, etc.
So instead I’m keeping it real and pretending that this ain’t my last post until 2005 (though it is – until next Thursday). I will do my New Year’s Resolutions, but I don’t wanna think about that until it’s 2005. So let’s get this over with…
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A sign that I’m passing from youth to adulthood: I actually have to use moisturizer for my dry skin, rather than strictly as a masturbatory lube.
The skin on my knuckles has been very dry and has begun to crack, making my knuckles an unsightly reddish color with dried-out white cracks of skin that have blood seeping out of them. My female friends (read: some girl I work with and my roommate Ben) have told me that this is because the air in my apartment is very dry.
So this morning I broke out the hand lotion that for the past twelve years I’ve used only to make sure I don’t rip the skin off my penis in an especially violent bout of masturbating and used it for its intended purposes: to heal dry skin.
I guess this is working; my knuckles don’t look as nasty and are healing, but the problem is that I can’t disassociate the smell of the lotion with beating off, so my hands smell like I’ve been masturbating.
(I don’t know if that makes sense, but I really don’t care.)
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This morning, I woke up laughing because of a dream. I know, I know – George Carlin has a bit in which he says that nothing is more boring than when people tell you about the dream they had, but bear with me.
In the dream, I was laying on my couch watching a movie in which Will Ferrell was doing his GW Bush impersonation. He was in a room with a live chimp. He’ saying something to the chimp, whose back is facing him, but I don’t recall what. Then he pulls out from his sleeve one of those thin floss-like ropes that people in the movies use to strangle people, and he says in his best GW voice, “Well Chimpy – it’s time for your come-uppance!” and he begins to put the super thin rope over the chimp. But just then, the scene cuts away.
I dreamed that I then fell off my couch laughing, and when I woke up I continued laughing.
Some men dream about women. Some about fame. Some about money. I dream of Will Ferrell as George W. Bush preparing to strangle a chimp. I don’t even know what to say about that.
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This isn’t meant to be funny, but I’m looking for some help.
About once in a week when I’m in the shower, as I’m wrapping up (read: washing the semen out of the tub), I can’t remember whether or not I washed my hair, so I do it again just to make sure.
Does anyone else do this? Seriously, this happens at least once a week. Toward the end, I’ll think, “Wait – did I wash my hair?” and have no idea whether or not I did. Is it just me?
[I told you it wasn't meant to be funny, assholes]
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I have officially made it: I have a reader in Antarctica (and possibly more than one). How many other internet quasi-celebrities can say that? Huh?
(Hi Shari and friends)
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Six Songs:
- “These Foolish Things” Etta James
The point: “Everything I lay my eyes on somehow reminds me of you. And your an asshole because of it, and I’m an asshole for feeling it. I mean, shit.”
- “Building A Mystery” Sarah McLachlan
This song reminds me so vividly of the girls I met (or even just saw) at BC in my freshman year. I was blown away by college girls, nonplussed with a besotted lust, and hearing this song reminds me of them (since every girl on my hall loved Sarah McLachlan). I can’t wait to get famous and sleep with all of them (at once).
(God I love using parentheses)
- “Flutes Of The Chi” Ween
I fucking love Ween. Everyone should. I want to know more about them, but they can be scary. This song is not scary. Trust me.
- “Cherub Rock” Smashing Pumpkins
This song brings be back to being 14, trying to grow my hair long, having a boner because I learned the intro to “Plush” on my new guitar, and masturbating at least 4 times a day. I think the first time I heard this song and the distortion broke in during the intro I about shit myself. Ah, memories.
- “Big Time” Neil Young
Neil Young can nail a feeling with fewer words than anyone on earth (i.e. “Talkin’ ’bout you and me/Talkin’ ’bout eternity”). Good shit Neil, even if you did the horrible movie-musical last year.
- “Goodbye Girl” Squeeze
More people have to listen to this band, because they are awesome. Great music, great vocals, great lyrics – honestly, one of my top 5 favorite bands. Start with this song, and we’ll take it from there.
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Please, if you are able, donate to help the victims of the Asian tsunami tragedies.
Of course, I will probably start making tsunami jokes next week, like:
Guy 1: “Did you hear about that new Thai restaurant?
Guy 2: “No.”
Guy 1: “It’s great – it’s got panoramic views of the water. Of course it’s a bitch to get to, seeing as it’s 600 miles out in the Indian Ocean, but at least the seafood is really fresh.”
Guy 2: “No.”
Guy 1: “It’s great – it’s got panoramic views of the water. Of course it’s a bitch to get to, seeing as it’s 600 miles out in the Indian Ocean, but at least the seafood is really fresh.”
and
Q: What’s the new national sport of Sri Lanka?
A: Body surfing.
But I did donate, giving all of the proceeds I’ve received from you readers for this new site, so I can make a joke or two if I wish.
[If you wish to use the jokes, just credit me with a link.]
[God, that second one is horrible. Good lord.]
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I would like to wish everyone a happy and safe New Year, and an awesome fucking New Year’s Eve. 2004 has been a good year, and I look forward to a happy and successful 2005, as I continue to share the intimate details of my horrible sex-free/man-boob life until I get sick of writing this (probably around March). Until then, let’s all have a good time, and godspeed.
[Warning: the following post is not funny. It is an attempt to describe something very important to me, the Mummers Parade on New Year's Day in my hometown of Philadelphia. As it turns out, it is very hard to explain, and I'm not very good at writing stuff that doesn't involve really tasteless humor. So read on at your risk. Don't say I didn't warn you.]
Three things, right away:
1) There is a tradition in Philly called The Mummers Parade held every year on New Year’s Day.
2) It is very hard to explain what this is.
3) It is also very hard to explain how much I fucking love it.
Let’s deconstruct this, shall we?
First, the parade itself. The Mummers Parade, if I were to describe it in one sentence, is like Philly’s version of Mardi Gras, held on New Year’s Day. It closes down the city of Philadelphia, involves thousands of participants organized into clubs marching down the city’s main street as thousands of spectators watch, and, most importantly, drink.
The parade is officially 104 years old, but some say the tradition of mummery dates back to Constitutional times. According to the award-winning documentary made about the parade, “Strut” (required viewing for all of my friends), mummery started as a way for people to get together and have some fun in otherwise difficult times. So what did they do? They got drunk and danced on January 1.
The parade has since evolved from groups of guys getting together and get messed up to what it is today: a city-wide spectacle that is famous for its music, brilliant costumes, and transcendent boozing.
[Editor's Note: Though women are allowed to be in the parade, most choose not to partake. Trying to sound as un-sexist as possible (though I am very sexist in real life and every time I see a woman driving, operating heavy machinery, or on a sports telecast, I want to light something on fire), the parade involves waking up before dawn, getting drunk before noon, and being out in the cold for sixteen or so hours. Oh, and also you're surrounded by thousands of drunk guys dressed like this.]
A word now about the “clubs” that make up the groups that march in the parade. In my neighborhood, the New Year’s clubs are the center of social life. There are no Elk’s or Mason’s or any of that crap, so to have a good time people go up their club and join other members in having some drinks, shooting some darts, etc. Then, on New Year’s Day, all the people in the club get together in a common costume/theme and march in the parade.
Which club you’re in often depends on which club your father was in. See, at heart, the parade really is a family event. My dad took me out in the parade starting at age 3. And I loved it. As I got older, I hooked up with friends from school whose dads took them out, and we had a blast. We knew that people drank, but we didn’t realize how much better made the experience. And of course I didn’t realize that what my dad was smoking was not a cigarette until around age 9.
The club I am in is Froggy Carr. This club was created by a bunch of guys who lost a friend, James “Froggy” Carr, in the early ’70’s in a freak football accident. It started with a few dozen original members, and now 700 people go out with this club on New Year’s Day. However, there are still only a few dozen original members, and it’s very hard to become a member and enjoy the accoutrements that come with being a member (i.e. lots of booze, coolness, etc). My hope is that someday when I am famous I can become a member. That is, if I live long enough. I’m pretty sure I had a mild heart attack in the shower today, so it ain’t looking good.
Why do clubs “march” and what does “marching” involve? Well, there is an element of competition, as clubs compete against each other for 1st place. However, the competition is much more about neighborhood bragging rights than the money that comes with placing high (1st place might get a club $3000, whereas they might have spent $70,000 on costumes).
“Marching” can be different things depending upon what kind of club you are in. Clubs are divided into four divisions:
1) The Comics. These are the first to march in the parade, crews of motley drunks who don’t have to do any preparation. They wake up early, put on a suit, and starting getting fucked up. Not too surprisingly, this is what I’m in (Froggy Carr is a Comics club, but there are 40 or so other Comics clubs as well). The Comics either hire small drum/brass bands to provide music, or play recorded drum/brass music.
2) The Fancies. More elaborately dressed and prepared than the Comics, they march in the parade in the mid-afternoon. I know next to nothing about these, because by this time of day I couldn’t tell you if I am white or black because I’m so drunk. These guys have some floats as well, so preparation is necessary.
3) The String Bands. Dressed in fancy back pieces, these clubs perform music and showcase choreography. The String Bands, along with the Fancy Brigades, are what the fans come to see. 20-50 people, all dressed in elaborate costumes, playing their saxophones and other horns and banjoes and basses can be pretty f’in’ cool. They prepare, practice, and build all year-round for New Year’s Day.
4) The Fancy Brigades. The Fancy Brigades provide the biggest spectacle. Intricate choreography backed by recorded music in front of giant floats that often have moving parts and exploding shit and all sorts of bells and whistles. These march last, and in my opinion are the coolest part of the parade. Like the String Bands, they too prepare, practice, and build all year-round for New Year’s Day.
That is a pretty good break-down of the Mummers parade, in 1000 words or less.
Now, I fucking love this day. I can’t describe how much I love this fucking day. On the surface, it doesn’t make sense: I have to wake up at the crack of dawn, stand outside in frigid temperatures for hours, and walk for miles and miles in the course of the day.
But the party atmosphere makes it all worthwhile (also, I without exaggeration probably drink 60 beers in the course of the day, so that makes everything better too). The official parade routes goes down Broad Street, the main street in Philly, and runs from 10am until 8pm or so. Then, starting at around 3pm, after doing Broad Street, all the clubs begin their march down 2nd Street, which is the name for my neighborhood in Philly. Without getting too into details, at 4pm when I step out my door on New Year’s Day, there are 50,000 people on my street partying their asses off, drinking their faces off, and having a blast. And this goes until the wee hours of the morning. Fucking awesome.
So that’s why I look forward to New Year’s all year long. It’s without exception the drunkest I get all year, and that’s really saying something. Food, booze, music, dancing, 100,000 people – for about 16 hours. If you ever have the chance, I highly recommend you check it out. Great fucking times.
[For further reading, please see the official Mummers website: www.mummers.com]
I just spent all day writing a long, pedantic, unfunny post about the Mummer’s Parade (a New Year’s Day tradition in Philly of which I am a part of – comparable to Mardi Gras, it involves waking up at 5am and drinking until midnight in the process blacking out and trying to make out with your sort of hot cousin).
But then I saw that our little site has been nominated for some sort of award (and by “our” I mean “my” – I only use the first person to gain your familiarity and trust, so that one day I might invite you to a sleepover at my apartment, at which point I could touch you all over while you slept), so I’m gonna scrap it because it just ain’t award-worthy, and does not contain a single joke about my tiny penis or retarded people.
The award is the Best of Blog (BoB) Awards for Snarkiest Blog. I have no fucking idea what “Snarkiest Blog” means, but if it means “Blog Written By Guy Who May Or May Not Stick His Thumb Up His Ass When He Masturbates”, then I am fucking golden. Just fucking golden.
So go to the site and vote for me. I don’t think I win anything cool, but whatever. You know how competitive I am (need I remind everyone of the 1988 Little League incident that caused a rule change that since requires everyone to wear a cup before, during, and after games).
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I have been a complete scumbag in regard to emails, and am now hundreds (literally) of emails behind. I’m going to start writing back in earnest soon, I promise. One caveat: the interface/inbox of the new jason@jasonmulgrew.com email address doesn’t always note if I replied to an email. Basically, if I replied to your email before and accidentally reply again, I’m sorry, but you’ll just have to deal with it.
Now I have to get back to writing a long, boring post about something 95% of you have never heard of…
For some reason, I am having a very hard time writing this today. You’re reading my fourth attempt at a post, and it has been a major pain for me. I don’t know why it’s been so difficult, seeing as I only took two days off (well, three if you count yesterday) and I have stuff to write about. Perhaps it’s because I don’t feel too well – when I left my home and family in Philly, I returned to NYC with tons of holidays pastries and sweets, which aside from some booze and kielbasa have been the only things I’ve eaten for the past three days. Also, whenever I take some time off from writing and have days worth of stuff to talk about, it can be overwhelming as I try to fight the urge to say, “On Wednesday…On Thursday…On Friday…” as I am not a very good writer, although I do know a lot of different curse words, and I think my grammar is pretty good for how quickly I write this.
But I think it is because I took that little bit of time off. Usually, I can spit this shit out in 15-20 minutes, no matter how long (it’s simple formula really: fat joke – booby reference – something about booze/drugs – subtle cry for help – curse word – not so subtle cry for help – another curse word – retard joke – fin). But because I’ve fallen out of the routine, this has taken/is taking considerably longer.
So I’m just gonna fucking wing it, and you’re gonna have to deal with it (everybody’s off from work this week anyway, so hardly anyone’s reading).
First, let’s go with the obvious: it stinks to be back at work – big time. The trains on the commute in have been completely empty, and here I am at my desk, bored out of my mind on a slow day, wishing I was home in bed playing with myself on this cold day in NYC. Not good. Not good at all.
Second, celebrating Christmas on a Saturday stinks. Going through the whole Christmas celebratory stuff on a Saturday, knowing that the next day was Sunday, knowing that the day after that was Monday, knowing that that means back to work, knowing that eventually someone’s going to discover that I kinda like guys – well, it’s just no good.
However, it was nice to be home for the holidays. Some highlights:
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Nothing like waking up at 7am on Christmas Eve morning to throw up in the bathroom of your dad’s house because the night before at a friend’s Christmas party you ate:
- a chicken cutlet supreme (chicken cutlet on a roll with cheese, lettuce, onion, bacon, smothered in mayo)
- handful after handful of chips, doritos, and honey roasted peanuts
- about a dozen lil’ holiday cookies
- over a dozen beers
- three glasses of egg nog
- at least three “Green Apple” shots
- and the kicker: a huge ass pile of creamed chipped beef and a quart of chocolate milk at 3:30am
Sure, this caused me to wretch violently and I’m pretty sure I threw up a kidney, but if given the choice I would do it all again.
The best part was the conversation between my dad and I at about 11am:
Dad: “Did you throw up last night?”
Me: [embarrassed] “No.”
Dad: “Well, then did you shit yourself last night?”
Me: “What?”
Dad: “There’s some brown stuff on the toilet and on the floor on the side of the toilet. I was hoping it’s throw up. It’s not shit, is it?”
Me: [dismayed, defeated] “No, it’s throw up.”
Dad: “Well that’s a relief.”
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Speaking of food, I fucking love egg nog. I can’t stress this enough. Wawa, which is like a localized 7-11-type convenience store in Philadelphia and the Delaware Valley (comparable to Store 24 in Boston), puts out its own egg nog, and I shit you not, it’s like drinking an orgasm.
[I just read that over and threw up all over my keyboard. Ugh. It's going to take a while to get this chunk of bacon out from between the "I" and "O" keys.]
I guess what I’m trying to say is that it’s really fucking delicious, in no small part because it’s incredibly bad for you. It has 180 calories and 6g of saturated fat (30% of your recommend daily allowance) per four ounces. Not eight ounces, but four ounces.
By my estimation, I had over a half gallon of this egg nog while home in Philly. Let’s say I had 72 ounces of this heavenly egg nog. That equates to 3,240 calories and 108 grams of fat in three days in egg nog alone. This is to say nothing of the limitless kielbasa, ham, deviled eggs, potato salad, cheese, and, oh yeah, booze I had over my time at home.
Why am I single again?
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Top Three Gifts:
1) Vodka and wine. My aunt got me a bottle of vodka, and two other aunts got me each a bottle of wine. Hmph.
You know what? Why don’t we save the time that a slow death from alcoholism would give me and you can just stab me in the chest instead? At least punch me very hard in the stomach – I insist. Because what I really need is some more booze. Why not give me a dozen pre-made 8-Balls while we’re at it, or a maybe even a noose or loaded revolver?
The best part is that the wine is supposed to be “good” wine. I’m sure that some people would drink this wine and say, “Wow – this is good wine.” I drank it and thought, “Wow – this is wine.” I can’t tell the difference between a $5 bottle of wine and a $50 bottle of wine because I drink both with the same speed and under the same conditions: out of a pint glass at 10pm on a Saturday night while watching VH1 Classic with my roommates.
However, I was able to enjoy some of my aunt’s vodka on the train ride back to NYC because I saw that the store in the train station sold OJ and I needed something to get me through the long train ride (all of 85 minutes). There’s really nothing like coming above ground from Penn Station and looking at the gently falling snow against the backdrop of Madison Square Garden with a good buzz on. It’s really quite beautiful.
So thanks for the booze. Look for me to come calling in six months well I need some donations to pay my way at a nice wellness center upstate where I can get clean.
2) Any cash gift. When in doubt, always go with cash. Sure, there’s not much thought involved, but I don’t want thought – I want money. If only my unsuspecting relatives knew that the $20 they gave me in their Christmas card was going straight to the purchase of an inordinate amount of marijuana, I’m sure they’d be thrilled.
[On a side note, how can I live in the largest city in America and be (quasi-) famous and have a hard time buying drugs? When all of my friends left the city this past August/September, thus went my drug connections. Christ. If this keeps up I'm just going to say "fuck it" and head to Central Park to try to buy some shit and wind up getting fucking arrested.
...
Cool story Hansel.]
3) A velour jump suit. One of the presents my mom got me was a velour jump suit. I don’t know what to make of this, except that if I wear it without a t-shirt underneath I look like an Irish-American Tony Soprano with slightly more hair.
And you know what? I fucking love it. If you don’t think I’m going to be decked out in my velour jumpsuit every time I’m laying on the couch smoking doobs, well you are sadly mistaken. Fucking awesome.
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Everyone says that their family is dysfunctional. No matter how lame and boring their family actually may be, this is just something that everyone believes. It’s kinda like how you’ll never meet a person who believes he/she has a bad sense of humor, even though the can find no humor in the finest of dick jokes or jokes that start with “So I killed this homeless kid about a week ago…”
I don’t have a problem with people believing that they have dysfunctional families, but I do have a problem hearing stories about their lame ass families.
And I can’t count how many times I’ve had to listen to people’s stories about their “dysfunctional” family holidays. Like, ”Last year, in the middle of singing Christmas songs after Christmas dinner Grandpa Ed forgot the words to ‘Silent Night’ and stop in mid-song to say ‘Oh darn it!’ and we all laughed because it was so funny!” and “Two years ago on Christmas morning, we were all opening our presents and my mom gave me a present and I opened it but I saw that it was a girl’s sweater so my mom said, ‘Oh honey, I made a mistake – that’s for your sister!’ It was so crazy!”
None of these stories ever go, “We were playing poker at my Aunt Mary’s house and there was an argument over cards and my Irish Uncle Nate said to my cousin Justin (who is obviously a homosexual) ‘Stop being a fag!’ and Justin got all hot and bothered and was like, ‘I’m not being a fag – you’re a fag!’ and my Uncle Nate said, ‘No, I mean you’re gay! Everyone knows it! Just don’t bring it to the poker table!’ and at that point all hell broke loose and Justin’s mom, Aunt Becky, started crying and Uncle Nate and Justin were yelling at each other and I saw that my brother was looking at my cards so I threw my beer at him and there was a bit of a melee and Lucky, the new dog, ran out of the house and they haven’t found him yet.” This is usually how some of my family’s stories go.
But this year, I got nothing. Nothing crazy happened, nothing too out of the ordinary. Usually I’m guaranteed at least something – Uncle Ted showing everyone one of his balls, my cousin Fred showing up with his “Skank of the Week” girlfriend who proceeds to talk about Hollywood gossip in the thickest South Philly accent possible and privately asks each of the males over 14 if they’d be interested in a handjob for $15 – something. But this year, nothing. Damn.
Well, that only means one thing: next year I’m going to have to spike the egg nog with a little more than rum (wink wink). I should probably start working on finding that new drug connection…
Hey, at least I was nice enough to post and tell you that there’d be no post today.
(Also, there are very few chumps like me working today anyway, but I’ll be back tomorrow – I need a little more time to recover from the egg nog overdose)
(God I fucking love egg nog)
As I’ve written before, I’m uncomfortable anytime I see a blind person on a subway platform. I know, I know – they have their little stick and all, but I’m certain before I die I’m going to see a blind person walk right off the fucking platform and onto the tracks, without much fuss and making just a quiet little landing noise. I envision myself being the only one to see this, as I frantically look around at other commuters to get verification, yet they are totally oblivious to the fact that some blind dude just walked right off the platform and plopped onto the tracks.
I know this. Part of me is terrified about it, but the other (more predominant and louder) part of me thinks this may be the funniest thing I’ll ever see.
Also, there’s that certain level of embarrassment among fellow commuters that arises when seeing the blind person on the subway platform. Everyone in the vicinity thinks, “Should I help this person when the train comes, or is someone else gonna do it?” while I think “How does a blind person wipe their ass? Seriously, they can’t see that the toilet paper no longer has poop on it, so when do they know to stop?” [I personally stop when there's more red than brown, but I digress.]
There are many buskers and street performers that come into subway cars in NYC to ply their trade. Some of these suck; others don’t (though most of the time I just turn up my iPod and hope it ends as quickly as possible - you know, me being a disaffected young man and all).
There is one in particular who I’ve seen a few times: this old blind guy who plays the accordion. He comes on the train, plays his accordion, and walks up and down the train as people dive to get out of his way.
Normally, I don’t harbor much hatred for old blind men who play the accordion for people’s spare change, but this morning was an exception. You see, the Lexington Avenue subway line (the express 4-5 and the local 6) is one of the most crowded trains in the city during rush hour. People are usually crammed like sardines in the trains, and it is a not uncommon occurrence to have to wait for the next train because you can’t fit on the first one.
As I am going straight from work home to Philadelphia this evening, I had to commute this morning on the already crowded train with a piece of luggage and two white “tall kitchen” size trash bags full of gifts (classy, I know). I knew this would be very uncomfortable, and I’ve been dreading this commute for weeks.
While rocking out on my iPod waiting for a train, I saw him: the old blind accordion guy. Immediately, I got tense. I had seen him before, but it was on weekends when the trains are much less crowded. What was he doing planning on getting on the 4 train during the morning rush hour? How the hell would people be able to move out of his way to let him pass, as the train is so fucking crowded?
Soon thereafter, the train came. There was a major crush to get on, and I was unable to secure neither a seat nor the ideal standing location for someone with bags (by the doors). I was stuck in the middle of the aisle with my three big bags.
And sure enough, old blind accordion guy kicks out his jams and starts his blind-ass walk from the front of the train to the back of it. At this point, I started to break out in a sweat. See, the guy can’t see, and he’s playing a fucking accordion, so he just sort of walks into you until you get out of his way. I can’t get out of his way; it’s crowded and I have three large bags.
So he gets to where I’m standing and literally walks into me. I scramble to get out of the way, but I can’t – I’m fucking huge and I got these sacks. He takes a step back, and walks into me again. Again I scramble, but there’s nowhere to go. So again, he backs up and walks into me.
Now it’s starting to cause a commotion, because every time he bumps into me, his playing cuts off momentarily. I’m beat red and dying as people start looking at me like, “What’s that fat guy’s problem? Why doesn’t he just let the poor blind guy pass. Fucking fat ass – probably left his hoagie and home and he’s taking it out on everyone else.”
In order to let him pass, I end up basically laying on some seated passengers and give one of my bags to a guy sitting down in front of me, so it’s not in the aisle. He passes, and it’s over.
But it was horrifying. Absolutely horrifying. I think I’m still blushing from the experience, but again, with my health it’s impossible to tell what’s blushing and what’s hypertension.
The lesson: next time I see a blind person on the subway, instead of waiting for them to fall off the platform on their own volition, I think I’ll just mosey on over and give ‘em a little help (if you know what I’m saying).
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Re: my final on Monday – I think I did pretty fucking well. I don’t want to say that I aced it, because that’s just bad karma, but I will say that I knew only about four things from the whole semester well, and three of them were on the test (we were allowed to pick three of six essays to write). So I feel great.
And once again, I escape unscathed. Fucking A.
Really, is there anything better than doing nothing and getting something in return? I know I’ve written about this before, but hard work is for chumps. “There’s nothing more satisfying than working hard for something and accomplishing it” is a line for immigrants and the easily manipulated. I’ve never thought after working hard for something, “Yes, this feels great because I spent a lot of time and tried my hardest and I did it!” No, I think, “Thank fucking god I achieved because I spent so much fucking time on this stupid goal. Fuck.”
On the other hand, what’s better than doing nothing and still accomplishing? Not too much (that doesn’t involve nudity or drugs).
God I fucking love myself.
[Please note that we are experiencing in real time the "manic" phase of manic depression. Thank you.]
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Under penalty of losing my genitals, my friends in Philadelphia have informed me that I can no longer write about the Philadelphia Eagles. Was it a coincidence that three hours after my post about the team’s chances of winning a championship it’s announced that star player Terrell Owens is out for the year? Probably, but considering the blood feud that God and I are involved in, I wouldn’t be surprised if He did this on purpose (He gets especially vicious around the holidays).
So therefore I will no longer speak to this subject. But here’s what Sam from NYC has to say:
After reading your latest blog and then hearing the TO news, I think
it’s more like this with your girlfriend from the analogy: you’re at
the party with your girlfriend, and she asks you to go upstairs to an
empty room. She says she’s going to cover herself with bologna and
let you eat it off her naked body, after which she will call her new
best friend Jenna Jameson to join you.
Then when you get to the room, it turns out your girlfriend’s ex is
there waiting for you, and her ex is William Hung. Then they tie you
down and make you watch while William Hung does anal on your
girlfriend, while Jenna simultaneously rubs his balls. Then William
finishes her off, gets up and urinates on you, and calls you a pussy.
I’m a Giants fan, but if I were an Eagles fan like you, that’s what I
would feel like right now.
Yeah, I’d say that’s pretty close.
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A random sampling of words entered into search engines which brought people to this site:
It’s so true – a lap dance really is better when the stripper is crying.
And I certainly hope the person searching for “dogs fucking dumb virgins” found what he or she was looking for. But I know from personal experience that losing your virginity to a dog can be a traumatic experience, so I don’t think anyone would put pictures of such an activity on the internet. Just my two cents.
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Since it’s a half-week, Three Songs:
- “Better Luck Next Time” Scissor Sisters
I downloaded this on Monday and have already worn it out. It’s not that the song doesn’t have lasting appeal, but it’s that I’ve listened to it, without exaggeration, about 150 times since then. What a catchy fucking tune.
- “The Drugs Don’t Work” The Verve
I recently had a reawakening moment with this song. I loved it as soon as I heard in my freshman year of college, and listened to it tons. But when it recently popped up on my iPod, I hadn’t heard it in ages. You know what? I still lick it. And yes, I know I just typed “lick” there. I’m too lazy to go back and correct it. So back off.
- “Glad Girls” Guided By Voices
When I first heard this song, I thought they were singing, “Hey-hey black girls!” And I thought it was awesome. But then I thought it was racist, as the line after that is “Only wanna get you high” – I didn’t think it was appropriate for a band to perpetuate the negative stereotype of African-American women loving to get people messed up on drugs. But long story short, it’s “glad girls”, which doesn’t make nearly as much sense as “black girls”. Either way, the good drum work makes you wanna get up and dance. I’m actually dancing right now. And it’s super fucking sexy.
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It’s nearly Christmas, and I would be remiss if I didn’t say something about it. But I don’t really know what to say, aside from it’s pretty f’in’ cool (presents, food, booze, time off from work/school, etc).
So I hope that you all have a good holiday, and thank you for continuing to read and passing on the site. There will be more exciting changes in the next few weeks (note: this may be a lie) and I invite you to come back often and keep spreading the word (through the referral page, by sending emails to your friends, posting the site address in message boards, writing the address in interstate rest stop bathrooms, etc).
So have a good holiday and please don’t drink and drive (unless you’re my Uncle Les, because he is awesome at it). We’ll be back on Monday.
[Christmas fact: many Christians get pissed when people write "Christmas" as "Xmas", and remind us that Jesus is the reason for the season. Their angst is unfounded; the "X" in "Xmas" does not mean that we're crossing out Jesus - the "X" is derived from the Greek letter "Χ" (pronounced "key", but always mispronounced by meatheads frat brothers as "ky"), which is the first letter of the Greek word for "Christ", Χριστος. So if anyone gives you any shit for shorthanding "Christmas", you can tell 'em what's up. Now go get me some egg nog.]
[Also I could be completely wrong about that, but I'm pretty sure I'm right.]
Work is absolutely fucking terrible today. There’s a lot of:
My boss says: “I need you to research those [some financial-type thing].”
My boss thinks: “I need him to research those [some financial-type thing].”
I say: “No problem.”
I think: “I have no idea what the fuck he’s talking about.”
20 minutes later:
My boss: “Did you get the results?”
Me: [smoking a cigarette in my office with my feet on my desk, drawing pictures of topless women wearing only high tops and doing jumping jacks] “Oh, you wanted that, like, now?”
Me: [smoking a cigarette in my office with my feet on my desk, drawing pictures of topless women wearing only high tops and doing jumping jacks] “Oh, you wanted that, like, now?”
On top of that, apparently the Lord’s early Christmas gift to me was the most severe case of insomnia I’ve had in months, even though I explicitly asked Him for Nair for Men so that I could take care of my back hair (jerk).
The good thing is that my navy blue shirt really brings up the dark blue hues under my eyes. I ran into a friend in an elevator full of partners with whom I work with but don’t really know and he blurted out, “Man, you look like crap. Late night boozin’ last night?” I contemplated punching him in the basement, but instead I said, “No, I went over to your mom’s and raw-dogged her, but she wouldn’t let me leave. Man, that woman just really loves dick. Now I know where your sister and your brother get it from. Your dad, not so much – he just likes to watch me whack off.”
[Ok, so maybe I didn't say that, but I wanted to. So sue me for having some integrity.]
So that’s all I got. I’ll make it up to you tomorrow.
(well, probably not)
This is not good news.
Someone please call 911. I think I’m having a heart attack.
Looks like she’s banging the ex in the bathroom (see analogy below).
Fuck me. Fuck me indeed.
This was a very tame weekend. Not “lame”, but “tame”. Lots of holiday parties with cheese plates and wine in gorgeous apartments with views of the NYC skyline. Civilized conversation about things like museums, real estate, and literature. Me checking out hot classy girls and thinking, “Man, I’d pay at least $340 to see her bottomless. I wonder how much pubic hair she has?” Hot classy girls looking at me thinking, “Who the hell let him in here? He looks like a homeless person with that dreadful beard. Is that a piece of bologna sticking out from his shirt pocket?”
It’s really funny because when I have to be, I can be very civilized. When I flip into Cultured Jason mode, it always makes me chuckle a little bit, because the sophisticated people I’m hob-nobbing with have no idea that only two hours earlier I was in the shower simultaneously bathing and drinking a 16oz can of Bud and listening to Def Leppard.
[There is nothing better than drinking in the shower. I can't stress this enough. Being able to drink a beer while you're soaking wet in the steamy shower, your testes all lathered up, especially doing so while listening to Def Leppard, is the very definition of decadence. Aside from Thursday mornings when I have mozzarella sticks for breakfast with my French toast, this is my favorite part of the week. One caveat: drink only cans in the shower. You don't want to drop a bottle of beer and cut your foot open. I did this once in college and had to go to the hospital, and it made for a very bad conversation with my mom:
Me: "Don't freak out, but I'm in the hospital."
Mom: [freaking the fuck out] “What??? What happened???”
Me: “Well, long story short, I was drinking a bottle of beer in the shower when I dropped it, it shattered, and I cut my foot open.”
Mom: [silence for three seconds] “You are an asshole.”
Me: “Well, yeah, probably.”]
But I managed to have a good weekend, and I was well-behaved and didn’t get too shit-housed and thus wasn’t hungover. It’s amazing how much better your Saturday and Sunday mornings/early afternoons can be when you don’t drink everything that’s put in front of you the night before. Really, who knew?
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The best (or most humorous) part of the weekend was me shopping for Christmas gifts for my family. However, I can’t write about this, lest I ruin surprises.
And yes, I know that it’s strange that I can write on the internet for anyone to see about being at a party and wondering how much pubic hair a girl has, but I can’t say that I went to ________ to buy my sister __________ for Christmas.
[I'm such an enigma. And it makes me so much more attractive. And by "attractive" I mean "sexually aggressive to the point of being criminal".]
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It’s good to see the Philadelphia Eagles playing their worst football of the season in December. This is very comforting to me.
After blowing out everyone in the NFC (The Eli Manning Conference), the Eagles have played like shit the past two games against the Redskins, who I’m pretty sure would not place at a Special Olympics flag football tournament, and the Cowboys, who actually called me last week to see if I was interested in becoming their new quarterback, what with my stellar experience as a field general in Madden video games. Unfortunately, my commitments being an internet quasi-celebrity prevented me from this. Also, I’m required by law to stay out of all men’s locker rooms in Texas (and New Jersey, New York, Virginia, Georgia, and Florida) because of what happened last Halloween.
But still the Eagles are the class of the NFC, but that isn’t saying much because I was watching SportsCenter this morning and it turns out that my roommate Ben is still in the race for the wild card. So good job Ben, and remember: winners always win. And strong men also cry.
Meanwhile in the AFC (The Peyton Manning Conference), there are six teams that if the Eagles played them next week, they would lose by at least 7 (possibly much more): the Steelers, Patriots, Colts, Chargers, Jets, and Bills. So much for parity.
I love the Eagles. I always have, and I always will. But it’s hard not to doubt them when they put me through so much pain the past few years. Maybe trashing them and not believing is my own little voodoo, a sort of reverse psychology. But it’s like dating a girl who you really like: a girl who’s hot, likes to booze, and most importantly, laughs at all your jokes and has great boobs. Though still in its incipient stages, the relationship is going great, and then bam – she makes out with someone else. You’re hurt, but she was really drunk and only kissed him at a bar, so you forgive her and move on.
And so you keep dating and get more serious. You meet her parents, she meets yours, and things get pretty intense. Also, she is an awesome lay and lets you do pretty much whatever you want to her. You start to think that you love her. And then bam – she goes and gets trashed and gives some dude a handjob. You’re crushed, but you really care about her, and she apologizes profusely and begs for forgiveness, so you stick with her.
And things go great again – you take a vacation to the Caribbean together, start saying “I love you”, and the sex is still awesome. You celebrate a milestone anniversary and think that she may be the one. But then, disaster. One night she sleeps with some random guy, but she thinks someone slipped her something and she doesn’t remember much. Your world is totally destroyed, and you break it off with her. That’s it. It’s over.
But she still calls every day and begs you to take her back, telling you that she loves you, that she’s never felt this way before. She starts changing. She stops boozing. She stops hanging around with that whore Stacy who offered to masturbate in front of you for $8. She tells you that she’s changing for the better for you. Though you’ve spoken to her almost every day, you haven’t seen her in two months. Finally, you meet her for some coffee, and see that she went and got gigantic fake boobs and she’s been working out. She cries, and asks for forgiveness. You give in and take her back.
And again, things are great. Even better than before. You are sure she’s the one. You’re starting a ring fund. This is how love is supposed to work.
Then one night she tells you that she’s going to a party and her ex will be there. She says she’s over him, but you know that she was madly in love with him, and she has a history of cheating on you. She goes to the party, and you wait by the phone, desperately hoping she’ll call and tell you she’s safe at home, alone.
That’s where the Philadelphia Eagles are with me. I’m saving for the ring, and they’re at the party with the ex. I love them and I’m pretty sure I trust them, but if they fuck me over, I’m going to snap.
So please, for the love of god, don’t fuck me on this. Because I will use that ring fund money on cocaine which not go up my nose, but rather in a massive hole in my chest that I have created with a butterknife. I am not a strong man, and can not handle adversity well. Pretty please.
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I have a final this evening for my Russian history class. By all accounts, this class has been a disaster. I did essentially nothing for this class, and last night I was too busy thinking about Christmas and having a series of mini panic attacks to study for the final, so I’m going in with only a rudimentary knowledge of Russian history (i.e. I can show you where Russia is on a globe) and my oodles and oodles of personal charm.
I started studying at 10:30 last night. At about 10:34, I said to myself, “What the fuck am I doing? Didn’t I go through all this shit for 16 years so I’d never have to do it again? I have a full time job and I’m fucking famous, but I’m supposed to learn about some jerkoff named Boris Gudonov? What the F?”
After an intense self-love session which cleared my head mighty good, a compromise was reached: I would focus and study hard core until midnight, but then that would be it. The test will be based on eight class lectures. During each class, Professor Old Balls talks incessantly while his students write furiously to record every word he says, and there is no discussion at all. The result is that in my 5×7 notebook, each class has about 20 pages of notes.
Since I am not a good studier and was easily distracted by such impulses as, “I haven’t trimmed my pubes in a while – I should do that now” and “I wonder what it would taste like if I mixed pancake syrup and chocolate syrup [answer: delicious]?”, by the time midnight rolled around I had finished reviewing notes from one of the eight lectures that the test will be based on. Fuck.
I tried reading on the subway this morning, but I was so tired I couldn’t keep my eyes open. I can’t study at work, because, well, who wants to study at work (and, oh yeah, I have to do stuff)? I know there’s choice on the exam, something like I’ll have to choose three of six topics to write about. My only hope is that some of the topics are:
- “Do you like chicken parm?”
- “Please discuss the pros and cons of being an internet quasi-celebrity.”
- “Seriously, how hot is Adriana Lima?”
So I expect my come-uppance around 6pm est. At this point, I don’t even care. I just want it to be over with, so I can focus on Christmas and, more importantly, the kielbasa that my family has on Christmas.
God I fucking love kielbasa.
[And really, how hot is Adriana Lima? Did you see that picture? Imagine having that greet you when you get home after sixteen vodka tonics. Holy fucking shit.]
Work has been hellish lately. All I wanted to do was take the day off today to go shopping and study for my final on Monday (read: sleep in and watch tv), but “The Man” said no. Rather than be a man and good employee, pick myself up by the bootstraps, and show him up with some hard work, here I am trying to break my record for “Most Personal Emails Sent In One Day” and eating tons of little Snickers bars.
Because work has put me in a foul mood all week, instead of going out last night I decided to smoke a little of the good stuff – something that always manages to cheer me up. I then made a huge ass dinner (three teriyaki ginger chicken sausages, rice, creamed corn, and roll with butter and cheese) followed by a sundae, and then sat down to watch some tv.
[A note about the dinner preparation: when we moved into this terrible apartment in June, my roommate Ben, himself a fan of dairy, bought a giant three-pound tub of Country Crock. We've been using this Country Crock since. Last night, while preparing my sumptuous meal, I thought to myself, "Man, we've had this fucking Country Crock forever; shouldn't it expire soon?" Turns out, it did expire - on September 13. Still, I used it on my dinner and then had this exchange with my roommate Brian:
Me: "Dude, the fucking Country Crock expired three months ago!"
Brian: "Eh."
It's still sitting in our fridge, where I assume it will remain until it is consumed entirely, or until one of us is giving a presentation at work or running on the treadmill at the gym and violently shits himself all over the place because he laid a little too heavy on the rancid Country Crock on his morning toast.]
I opted out of watching the three-hour (three hours???) finale of “The Apprentice”, and instead found a cure for my holiday blues in the form of HBO In-Demand and “Love Actually”.
Well.
Two things you should know about me before we go any further:
1) Alcohol and narcotics make me very emotional. I think I resemble by Irish ancestors in this respect more than any other (save for the tiny junk). When I’m really fucked up, I like to laugh, cry, fight, scream, dance, or get laid (especially this last one). Intoxicants have a profound effect on me emotionally, I believe more so than others.
For example, last Friday night I was pre-gaming alone in my apartment, tearing through some wine, when “Reverse The Curse” came on. This is the reprise of the HBO documentary “The Curse of the Bambino” (or something), the story of the 86-year championship drought of the Boston Red Sox, which was given a new ending after the Sox won the World Series. I didn’t see the first one, but was interested and watched this incarnation.
By the end of the show, after two bottles of wine in an hour, I was crying. Not “one single tear down my cheek” crying, but struggling to hold back tears, lest one of my roommates come in and say, “Dude, are you fucking crying?“. It’s not that I like the Sox, but the story (and the booze) just really got to me at the end, when they show all these Massholes going to the graves of their parents and putting Red Sox World Series Championship pennants on the tombstones – well, I mean, it’s pretty fucking touching.
(Has anyone ever written the sentence “It’s pretty fucking touching” before?)
The point is that sometimes when I’m messed up, I get a little worked up.
2) I love the British. I don’t know why, but I do. Everything about England. I’m terrified to admit this, but my freshman year of college, I loved the Spice Girls. I didn’t like a few of their songs, I liked all of their songs (freshman year was a strange time for me). I chose to study abroad in London basically because of my affection for Baby Spice.
As a history major, I studied Tudor and Stuart Britain. I almost went to London after college for grad school. I was offered and would have taken a position in my firm in London, had I not been dating a girl in NYC at the time (who conveniently dumped me three weeks after turning down the job – if you’re reading this, thanks again dear). I lived for a year with a random British girl, who I picked to be my and Brian’s third roommate basically because of her Britishness. I went to London last February. I am going again this February. I love England and the Brits. Get it?
Back to “Love Actually”.
Well.
On the subway ride to work this morning, in between darting glances at the attractive little Indian girl standing by the doors, I thought about how I could describe the overwhelming feeling of happiness this movie gave me. First, I thought of the obvious, i.e.:
- “Happier than that time the frozen yogurt machine got stuck pouring out the yogurt and it kept coming and coming and everyone was running up and putting it in their pockets and but I happened to be carrying a bookbag and filled it and so I ate nothing but frozen yogurt for the next three days”
- “Happier than the time down the shore when we were 16 and we got those skanky French-Canadian girls to make out in front of us under the boardwalk for $8 but then Jimmy the Muppet didn’t give them the money and we all ran but the girls caught up to Fat Ass Roger and said they were going to go to the police so Fat Ass Roger freaked out and killed them and no one’s mentioned it since”
- “Happier than the time for my birthday my buddy Joe got me a case of Newcastle and I was like ‘Sweet – thanks’ but then my buddy Bill was all like, ‘I think you’ll like this better’ and winked and gave me an envelope and in the envelope was a polaroid of him taking a poo on some train tracks and giving a thumbs up”
But none of those work.
Then I thought that maybe if I drew a picture it would help express the joy I felt. So I got a crayon and a piece of paper, closed my eyes, and started to draw based solely on what my heart was telling me to do. When I opened my eyes, I had drawn mostly scribbles but you could kinda make out what appeared to be a chicken finger in the upper right corner. So I ate the picture. No dice on the picture.
But then I realized, “Wait, if I write about how indescribable the feeling of happiness was, then maybe they’ll get how much it affected me.” Um, so that’s what I did.
If you haven’t seen this movie, you must do so immediately Stop whatever you are doing, and watch it. If you are work, leave work. If you are fighting a fire, leave the fire. If you are bathing your ten-month old, leave the child in the tub. If you are too poor to rent it, please contact me; I can think of no other way to better spend the donations I received from less than a fourth of 1% of you (zing!).
Because “Love Actually” is amazing. When it was over, I was standing on my couch, tears streaming down my face, exposing myself to my roommates (I was just so overcome, I didn’t know what to do).
I don’t want to give anything away, but it is the story of a collection of people, and their trials and tribulations with love around the holidays. Each story is unique, at times heart-wrenching, at times hilarious. There are Christmas scenes, British accents, kissing, music – everything. I can not think of a thing in the movie that I would change.
You know what? I can’t even go on anymore about it, because I’m not that good of a writer. I can only say it’s simply the greatest movie of all-time. That’s it. That’s all I can say.
So what have we learned about me this week? To recapitulate:
1) I pooped myself
2) I cried (twice)
What a fucking catch I am. What a fucking catch.
[Have a good weekend]
[And I know the font is going crazy; I think I prefer this one. If you have any strenuous objection to it, please let me know.]
I’m fairly certain that my dad doesn’t read this site. Not 100% positive, but pretty certain.
Still, he knows to some degree what goes on it. For example, he knows that I wrote about this summer when I got drunk down the shore while staying at my aunt’s house and crawled in bed with her at 4:30 in the morning (not my finest hour, but far from my worst).
But he doesn’t really understand the whole “website” thing. I’ve told him before that a lot of people read it, but he never thought much of it. He started taking more of an interested when people in my neighborhood started reading it, but he still doesn’t really get it (“So you write on a webpage? Why do people read it? Don’t they have work to do? Can you hand me my cigarettes?”)
My dad watches a lot of tv. He never did before, but he’s out of work hurt, so he does now. Mostly it’s those serial killer shows on A&E, or anything on the History or Discovery Channels. But he also watches his fair share of sitcoms, and his taste in them is questionable to say the least.
For example, my dad’s all-time favorite tv show: “Martin”. I swear. This wouldn’t be a big deal with my dad were a 32 year-old black bachelor who loves going to clubs, but he’s a 49 year-old Irish mechanic with tattoos. And he fucking loves this show.
Another one of my dad’s favorite shows: “Reba”. Again, I’m not making this up. I’ve never seen this show, but I can’t imagine what happens in it that would make my dad such a fan. My dad doesn’t like Reba McEntire herself or country music, so I got nothing. Still, he fucking loves it.
The other day after watching “Reba” he called me up:
Dad: “Yo Jas.”
Me: “Hey dad.”
Dad: “You got any lawyers working on that website with you?”
Me: “What do you mean?”
Dad: “How do you know people won’t steal what you’re writing?”
Me: “Well, I don’t, but I do have a lawyer friend who’s helped me copyright everything, so I have the maximum amount of protection I can have by law.”
Dad: “Oh, ok.” [smoking cigarette, silent for three seconds]
Me: “Why?”
Dad: “Well, I was watching ‘Reba’, and they had something on there that reminded me of something you did.”
Me: “What?”
Dad: “The kid on the show got drunk, and crawled into bed with the mother-in-law, like you did with Aunt Judy. Do you think they stole that from you?”
Dad: “The kid on the show got drunk, and crawled into bed with the mother-in-law, like you did with Aunt Judy. Do you think they stole that from you?”
Me: “I don’t know if anyone on the writing staff from ‘Reba’ reads my website.”
Dad: [taking drag of cigarette] ”Well, you never know.”
People of “Reba”: expect a summons in the mail shortly, because I am going to take you mother fuckers for all you’re worth. You’ve fucked with the wrong internet quasi-celebrity this time, and you’re gonna pay.
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If you have not seen the “Black Bush” skit from The Dave Chappelle Show, stop whatever you are doing and find it. If I were to try to summarize it I would fail miserably, partially because it’s so absurd and partially because every time I watch it I get really baked beforehand, but it basically depicts Dave Chappelle as Black George W. Bush, and runs through scenarios that the Bush administration has faced, and how they would have been handled differently if Bush were black (or rather, if Bush were Dave Chappelle).
I don’t know how you can get this; I don’t think Season 2 is on DVD yet, but I downloaded this episode of the show via LimeWire. It took about 3 days and I probably downloaded about 4 different viruses with it (my three-month old $2600 laptop hasn’t been running the same since), but my god is it worth it. In the pantheon of “Funniest Fucking Shit Ever”, it’s gotta be:
1) Will Ferrell in “SNL: Best of Will Ferrell: 2″ as karate expert Terry Ganter, failing to punch through a block of wood and breaking his hand in the process
2) When Mary Swanson gets hit by the snowball thrown by Harry Dunne in “Dumb and Dumber”
3) Chappelle’s “Black Bush” skit
4) Triumph the Insult Comic Dog (pretty much whatever he does)
5) Anytime I wear tighty-whities
Solid. Gold. Comedy.
["Just don't drop that shit!"]
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Looking for a Christmas gift for that friend who’s really into sex, drugs, and rock ‘n’ roll, but not sure what to get him/her? Try Anthony Keidis’ autobiography, Scar Tissue. I haven’t read it yet, but my roommate Brian is reading it now and told me an amazing story from it:
Keidis had been clean for five years when he had to go to the dentist to get his wisdom teeth out. He told the doctor that he was allergic to general anesthesia, for fear of getting knocked out and realizing how fucking awesome it feels. The doctor tried to give him local anesthetic, but the tooth was so impacted that they had to put him under. After the operation, the doctor prescribed him some painkillers to deal with the pain. Keidis went to the pharmacy, got the prescription filled, and immediately took “about 20″ pills. High, he decided to go to downtown LA to buy some coke and heroin.
This was after being completely sober for five years. Good god. Quite the stocking stuffer.
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Only my very close friends know that for the past four years I have been diligently studying the lyrics to Pearl Jam’s “Yellow Ledbetter”. My goal was to decipher the lyrics themselves, and then deconstruct and analyze them from a poetic point of view.
After four years and much research, I have finally figured out the lyrics to “Yellow Ledbetter”, and I’m happy to report that they don’t need any explanation; the beauty of Eddie Vedder’s words shines through for all to see, and if this doesn’t touch you, you are a robot:
Verse:On a ceiling, on a boy sublettor – said,Lenny said, I wanna leave it again.Once I saw her, on a beast sure weather – saidNona say, I wanna leave it again.On a wheeler, on a wizard on a way a-yeah,And I call Mama say and I whoa Mama send and I call out again.In the wrist that, on a leave or gone my knowI said I know wanna where there’s a fox hole or a bagChorus:Oh yeah yeah yeah, can’t you see them?Out on the porch, yeah – they don’t weighI see them, round out my wayAnd I know and I know I don’t wanna stayMake me cry[guitar solo]Bridge:I see I don’t know there’s something elseOn a gunman, on a wayI said – I don’t, I don’t know where there’s a fox hole or a bagChorus
My goodness – never in my years of studying poetry have I encountered such a powerful description of falling in love in the spring with a girl who has one arm. I personally lose it when he starts talking about the “boy sublettor”. Too much emotion. Too much indeed.
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Six Songs:
- “Suzanne” Weezer
I can’t express how much Weezer rocked my shit when they first come out. The fact that, like me, they were nerds and did a lot of whining, adding to the fact that they were kick-ass on guitar and reality easy to play blew my doors off. This is my favorite Weezer song. So there.
- “Perfect Lovesong” Divine Comedy
A love song about writing a love song! How clever!
- “Look What You’ve Done” Jet
A softer side to the cokehead Aussie band, who’s “Are You Gonna Be My Girl” got played out in one week and was ripped off by about two dozen commercials.
- “And Your Bird Can Sing” The Beatles
Two things are superlative about this song: the harmony in the line, “You tell me that you’ve heard every sound there is”, and the guitar riff throughout, which is nearly impossible to play (probably because I stink at guitar, but whatever).
- “I Need More Love” Robert Randolph and the Family Band
This song fucking kicks ass. The solo is so balls-out it gives me chills. I would cut my bird off and eat it to be able to play guitar like that. My god.
- “Off My Mind” Smoking Popes
I used to love the Popes, until I found out that the lead singer is ultra-Christian and a lot of his songs are about god – ugh.
But anyway, they’re a good band, and I really like the one part in this song [breaking cardinal rule and posting lyrics! Slowly...turning into...douchebag blogger...]
BabyI just can’t get you off my mindI would hang out with you all the timeIf I didn’t have to work
Simple, direct, successful. My name is Jason Mulgrew, and I write dick jokes on the internet. Good night.
but I’m not that short. Also, depending on how fucked up I was, either my penis would be exposed or I’d be carrying a torch and threatening to set cars in the parking lot on fire and accusing the bouncers of taking my virginity.
And any good internet celebrity-type knows it’s about unique visitors, not page views. Dumbass.
(sent by Andrew at dockgoose.blogspot.com)
- Thank you for all the feedback that you’ve offered on the site; please keep it coming. And don’t be afraid to really lay into the new set-up, because both Brendan and I are aware that we are amateurs at this, and we take criticism fairly well. However, if you hurt my feelings, so help me god I will burn your fucking house down. Test me – I dare you, cockass.
[For techie stuff, email Brendan at Brendan@jasonmulgrew.com. For any other suggestions or if you have an extra slice of pizza, email me at Jason@jasonmulgrew.com.]
- Speaking of email, boy – you guys are really digging that new email page, eh? I’m sorry if I haven’t gotten back to you yet, but I promise to do so as soon as possible (not that I say anything particularly clever when I respond to emails; maybe “So what’s your favorite number?” or “What do you like better: pooping or peeing?”)
- The “Spread the Word” page: please use this page. Not only because I want you to spread the word about the site, but also because you have no fucking idea how long I spent crafting an automated message that worked and was both funny to me and safe for work email. We’re talking hours here people, working harder on this than anything I’ve ever worked on anything. And sure, I could have done better if I was allowed to curse or use words like “mons pubis”, but I feel pretty good about the result.
[And Brendan says that any email addresses you enter into the "Spread the Word" page will not be shared with anyone, but I would share these in a heartbeat for a good piece of cheese. Fortunately for you, I don't really know how to access these emails, so no cheese for me I guess.]
- I will change the quotes in the intro every three weeks or so to keep it fresh, and will note it on the index page when I do so.
- You guys should use the “Bookmark This Site” function at the bottom of the index/homepage so that you don’t have to view or skip the intro each time. Or if you want to bypass both the intro and the homepage, bookmark the “Everything Is Wrong With Me” tab, since that’s the meat of the site and most similar to the old site.
- Thank you to the less than 1% of you who made a donation. You are truly special people. The other over 99% of you are on my shit list. Assholes. Either way, I’ll keep this link up until after the holidays.
[I mean, less than 1%? Sure, I knew that everyone wasn't going to donate, and I was hoping only for maybe 5%, so that I could possibly stop eating fingernails for dinner. But less than 1%? Geez people - thanks a lot.]
To my friends who keep making donations to me for one cent or a nickel or ten cents and writing “Anal” or “2nd Place: Semen-Eating Contest” in the memo section of the donation, please stop. I get it, it’s funny – I get an email from Paypal saying that I have a donation, I get all excited, and then I see that it’s from one of my douchebag friends for two cents and “You are a fat bitch” is the memo. You are hilarious. FYI: Paypal has a fee, so I don’t even get the two cents, as it takes both of them as its fee. So stop already. Assholes.
I’m not that big of a fan about the holidays. I don’t know why this is. As I look into my past, nothing stands out that would make me dislike this time of year (well, except 1988, when from December 6 to 28 I was held in a basement and trained to cockfight by a gang of Dominican youths – they let me go after learning that each time I got in the ring with the rooster I would start eating it, which is apparently against the rules).
As a kid, I loved Christmas. Really, what is there not to love? Presents, time off from school, lots of food – things anyone can enjoy at any age.
But then, the holidays, or rather my perception of the holidays, started changing. I think this occurred in college. I remember that in my freshman year I was looking forward to that month off between semesters, as a time to get home, see some old friends, and relax. And in truth, I even sort of missed my family, although this may have had not such much to do with my family members themselves but more to do with the amenities of being at home, like home-cooked meals, my own room, and a clean bathroom that didn’t have to be shared with 25 other guys, including Dong-Woo, the Korean kid who showered for three hours and walked around the bathroom completely nude and completely hairless. God, I miss that son of a bitch.
And yet during this much-anticipated holiday break I wasn’t home for 24 hours before I wanted to head back to school. After getting a taste of living on my own, I found it hard to revert to living with my family, what with their stringent rules like “Wear pants when you walk around the house!” and “I don’t want drug dealers coming over here at 4:30 in the morning!” and “No, wear pants when you walk around the house! White briefs that are way too small for you don’t count as pants!”
Thus began a steady decline in interest for the holidays. This year, today, I can’t express how little Christmas spirit I’m feeling. Maybe I’m just feeling a little down because I’m coming down off a good high I had this morning (thank you for your killer weed Jarrett from Accounting – see you again 10:30 tomorrow morning at the under-construction bathroom on the 22nd floor), but it’s just not doing it for me this year.
However, that doesn’t mean I don’t have any good Christmas memories. So I present the Top 5 All-Time Favorite Christmas Memories of Jason MJPAE Mulgrew:
5) 2001
While watching Whitney Houston sing the National Anthem before an NBA game, Jason’s 97 year-old great-grandfather remarks, “Why do the blacks sing the song like that?” (referencing the occasional 40-second “Oh…Ohohohohohoh…oh yeah, can you hear me?…can you hear me say it?…well, I’m-a, I’m-a gonna sing it for you right now…[starting song] Oh say can you see…” intro to the song). This horrifies not only Jason, but also Jason’s then-girlfriend, who had a black uncle by marriage. VERY awkward, but nothing can get a man out of trouble like the old ”senility” excuse.
4) 1989
While Jason’s family was living with his grandmother (and Uncle Tommy), a visibly drunk Uncle Tommy goes to his room to get a movie for the kids to watch, as they had just finished Christmas dinner. After nearly falling down the stairs on his return, he pops in what he thought was “A Christmas Story” but was actually a pornographic movie. Not missing a beat, Uncle Tommy says, “Sorry kids – that one’s from Uncle Tommy’s private collection.” Grandmom beats Uncle Tommy with a shoe (most likely hers, but this could not be verified).
3) 1993
Other drunk uncle, Uncle Johnny, works on Christmas Eve and goes straight to shady bar with friends after his shift. He then shows up at the Mulgrew home for Christmas festivities drunk as hell at 3pm, and proceeds to punch the Christmas tree several times over an unpaid gambling debt, calling it a “liar”, before falling over dog Pally and spraining his ankle.
2) 2002
Drunk Jason and drunk younger brother Dennis get in fight over last cream puff; kitchen burns down.
1) 2004
Drunk Jason, exhausted from hearing, “When are you going to meet a nice girl?” from aunts and “When are you going to move back to Philly?” from cousins and “Dude, did you make a pass at my friend Justin last night at the bar?” from brother decides to step outside for a breath of fresh air.
While standing on his porch, drinking a 16 oz can of Bud, Jason hears a cry for help and see a woman across the street being attacked by a large man. Jason gently puts down his beer and runs across the street – not to save the woman, but because he thinks he sees a hot dog under a nearby car.
When he approaches the attacker as he’s harassing his victim, Jason notices that it’s not a hot dog, but rather a wiffle ball bat. Disappointed, he moves to turn away and head back to the porch, but the attacker recognizes Jason as the guy who – only the very night before – he had paid $10 to give him a handjob. He was promised the “best handjob of [his] life”, but instead got a sloppy drunken bird rub.
The attacker drops his female victim, and starts beating up Jason. The vicious beating causes Jason to bleat like a pig giving birth, so loudly that a nearby police cruiser hears his screams and quickly shows up on the scene to stop the attack and take the perpetrator away.
The woman victim, still woozy from the attack, believes Jason had come to rescue her, and approaches him to apologize. Jason sees the woman for the first time and realizes – wouldn’t you know it – it’s Kate Beckinsale! She begins to thank him and explain what she’s doing on Christmas on a desolate street in South Philly, but can’t finish her story because she is some overcome with the urge to fellate him, which she does immediately.
Kate then invites Jason to come to Hollywood with her so that they might make love until his heart stops, and thus begins a long story of love, lust, betrayal, fear, and hot dogs that ultimately ends on New Year’s Eve 2011, when Jason, recently dumped by Kate after she learned of his affair with Elisha Cuthbert, takes his own life by eating three pounds of sour cream in under five minutes and setting his genitals on fire, screaming, “I’ll never need these again! I love you Kate! I love you! God this fucking sour cream is good! Does anyone have any guacamole? Anyone?”
…
Alright, so maybe I do I love the holidays.
Growing up, my mom always used an expression that to this day I’ve never heard anyone else use: “Thought thought he farted, but he shit himself” (meaning a person named Thought believed that he had only passed gas when in reality he soiled himself).
And I even remember the first time I heard her say this. I must have been 5 or 6, and on a winter day I was sitting in my living room, probably watching “Grease”, next to a space heater (we were too poor to have heat). I got hot, and instead of turning the heater down or off (which I didn’t know how to do), I stuck one of our couch pillows on the heater itself. My mom was in the kitchen at the time, and when she started to smell something burning, she ran into the living room and noticed the pillow starting to smoke. She knocked it out of the way, and when I explained the situation, I said, “But mom, I thought it was ok to put the pillow in front of the heater!”, to which she responded, “Yeah, well Thought thought he farted, but he shit himself.”
It struck me then as it still does now, not only because it’s an interesting take on the value and validity of thought, but also because I’ve never thought I farted but instead pooped myself. Though on a good day my colon can be described as “spastic”, I can honestly say that I’ve never had the Hershey squirts or sharted. That is, until Saturday night.
On Saturday, I was not feeling good. I went out on Friday, and I was a little hungover. When I got out of bed (at 1pm), I went through my normal hungover morning routine: intense masturbatory session, followed by a bacon, egg and cheese bagel and quart of chocolate milk. After this I usually fall back asleep, but after taking out the bagel and chocolate milk, I also had a Nestle Crunch bar (breakfast of champions). I felt ill immediately, and though I did manage to fall back asleep, my sleep was fitful and short-lived, as I kept having to get up to go to the bathroom.
Around 4pm I showered and decided it was time to start the day. “Start the day” usually ironically coincides with “start drinking”, so I poured myself my first drink of the “evening” around 4:30 or so. My roommate Brian joined shortly thereafter, and we began having a good old day.
Eventually, though I still felt kinda crappy, I got hungry (shocking, I know). The night before I had ordered a pizza, which I had eaten half off but then left out on my kitchen counter overnight. Around 6:30, I heated up a couple of slices of the pizza and enjoyed them with a $7 bottle of white wine (Editor’s Note: because of NYC’s expensiveness, a $7 bottle of wine in NYC is like a $1.50 bottle of wine anywhere else in the world).
This was not a good idea. Eating pizza left out in the open overnight and unrefrigerated got me sick before, but I shrugged this off and had three slices (of pepperoni and sausage). After eating the pizza, I felt terrible. Up to that point I had consumed:
- a bacon, egg and cheese bagel
- a quart of chocolate milk
- a Nestle Crunch bar
- three slices of old pepperoni and sausage pizza
- a glass of red wine
- almost a bottle of white wine
- a Bud Light and two Michelob Ultra’s that were stranded in our fridge
- a half of bottle of pepto bismol
Thought I felt sick and kinda had the runs, I kept drinking. I had a bunch of birthday/holiday parties to go to that night, so taking it easy wasn’t an option. And really, if you’re not feeling it, the best thing to do is drink through it. Keep at the booze, and eventually you’ll feel mighty fine.
Moving forward…some friends came over to our place for pre-gaming, and we kept boozing. Sure enough, I started to feel better. We left to head to Gramercy to attend our first party around 11pm, after I had been drinking for over 6 hours.
A small aside: whenever I have to go to a house party and I don’t really know the people throwing the party, I get very uncomfortable. This is because I can’t trust myself when I’m fucked up, and if I don’t know the people throwing the party, I have no clout. I would have no qualms getting fucked up and pissing in the kitchen sink of my friends’ places, but a lot of times when in the apartment of people I don’t personally know, I retreat into a corner where I set up shop, don’t really talk to anyone, and drink my fucking face off. It’s really quite a beautiful thing actually.
This was the case with this first party. The guys throwing the party were friends of my roommate’s, who I had met only once or twice. By the time we left for this party, I was fucked up. I mean, I was in pretty bad shape for only 11pm. After the pizza, I tapped into the vodka and, well, I don’t even need to extrapolate here.
The party was mobbed and hot. I immediately thought that this was a terrible idea, and searched for a corner to hide in. I was pissed off, as my friends and I had been sitting around my apartment boozing up and having a good time, and now I was at this terribly crowded and hot party, where I didn’t know anyone and it would take me ages to get a drink.
So I got pissed off. And when I get pissed off, I get uncomfortable. And when I get uncomfortable, nobody wins. I started to feel ill again, sweating like a fucking sweat monster, feeling like I was going to shit myself right in the middle of that fucking party. But I managed to stave it off. I talked to my friends, and we were trying to make the most of it, though by this time I had sweat through the undershirt I was wearing and was worrying if my jeans were wet from the major swamp ass I had.
I went to take a piss. The bathroom was right off the living room, and didn’t lock. I was not concerned by this at the time, since I only had to piss. I brought my beer with me into the bathroom, pulled out my sorry excuse for a penis and started to go. In the middle of my piss, I farted. No big deal. But I noticed the warmth of the fart lingered a little longer than usual. I did some recon work and noticed that I only thought I farted, when I actually shit myself.
This was not good. Actually, saying “this was not good” does not do justice to how bad this was. I was at a packed holiday party thrown by people I didn’t know, drunk out of my mind, in the bathroom right by the living room that everyone was using, and I had a Hershey squirt in my pants (this is going to be gross, but I didn’t shit myself per se, meaning there was not a yule log in my boxers, but rather a small stripe of what looked like chocolate syrup, but definitely not small enough to ignore).
Full panic mode set in. I cleaned myself up and then tried cleaning up my boxers. Though time was of the essence I worked quickly and did a pretty admirable job on them. However, I was worried about the shit smell. I could deal with a little bit o’ poo in my pants, but I didn’t want everything around me saying, “Man, what stinks like shit?”
So I opened the medicine cabinet of the bathroom, hoping to find some cologne. This was a longshot, because this was a half bathroom, and as I had feared there was no cologne. Fuck.
There was however, some deodorant. Still in full panic mode, I took the deodorant stick and rubbed it on my boxers. Not, mind you, on the poo itself, but around the poo to neutralize the odor. While doing so, someone knocked on the door and almost opened it (like I said, it didn’t lock). That person would have gotten quite a surprise to see an overweight, drunk, hairy dude ass-out with his jeans and boxers around his knees applying deodorant to his shit-stained draws. Good lord. I don’t use the word “nightmarish” often, but I think it applies here.
I put the lid back on the deodorant, put it back in the medicine cabinet, and rejoined my friends at the party, not mentioning the episode. This happened around midnight; I continued drinking with them until 4am. I got even drunker, and when I came home even fell asleep in my boxers, too drunk to change out of them.
Now hear me: many of you will hear my tale and judge me, but I think I performed excellently under the most adverse conditions possible. Sure, maybe I shouldn’t have used some guy’s deodorant on my boxers, but what was I to do? I needed something to get rid of the smell, and it was the only thing available. I was surely not going to leave the party, because that’s what a quitter and loser would do, and I am neither a quitter nor a loser (well, I’m actually both, but not when I’m drunk).
I probably shouldn’t have put the deodorant back in the medicine cabinet for the party host to use the next day and this morning before work, but hey – I didn’t rub it in the shit, just around it. So stop being such a pansy already.
And you know what? It turned out to be a good night. After my partial poo, I felt a lot better, and was able to get past it and had a good night with my friends, ending it in typical fashion with some (fresh) pizza and garlic knots. The next day, I wasn’t even that hungover. I guess after soiling myself at a crowded party, god gave me a break.
In retrospect, I have no regrets. I was faced with a dilemma, I took action, and resolved it. Winner.
Oh, and by the way, this is the first time that my friends who were out with me that night have heard this story. I actually haven’t told anyone this until now. So guys, if I smelled like shit all night, now you know – I had poo and deodorant in my boxers.
Happy Holidays everyone!
Well, I got my Christmas bonus today and it’s not exactly what I was hoping for. I know I shouldn’t complain, because a lot of people don’t get Christmas (sorry to my non-Christian readers, I should say “year-end”) bonuses, but I was counting on this in a Clark Griswold kinda way. Only instead of putting in a pool, I was planning on pinning down some of the massive debt that living in a city where vodka tonics are $7 a pop can accumulate for a manic-depressive alcoholic.
So it’s going to be a sad Christmas as I start looking around my apartment for things to give my friends and family:
Brother: “Oh wow, five VHS porno tapes that you’ve had since 1996! Thanks!”
Dad: “Oh great! Two half burned candles and a pair of pants that doesn’t fit you anymore and won’t fit me either! Great gifts!”
Sister: “A pack of matches, delivery menus for New York City restaurants, and some pens that don’t work? All for me? This is a best Christmas ever!”
Friend: “Nice – a bunch of crumpled pieces of paper that have jokes about Puerto Ricans on them and a pair of scissors that you stole from work! And all I got you was that $50 Barnes & Noble gift card. I feel like such a douche.”
(Oh, and remember how I was talking about taking nine credits next semester? Well I now can’t, because I don’t have the money. Which is good, because I really didn’t want to anyway. But which is bad, because I’m just going to spend the money that I don’t have for the class anyway, probably on something very necessary, like a $400 set of poker chips or $250 worth of frosting)
Merry Fucking Christmas.
********************************************
Speaking of the holidays, I have eight (eight?) holiday or birthday parties to attend this weekend (well, two were last night). I don’t know how this is possible, considering I have about four friends.
[And what's with all the December birthdays? I didn't know March was the month for procreating. Is this all the work of St. Patrick's Day? Another thing we can thank the Irish for, along with tiny genitals and alcoholic rages.]
So there’s going to be a lot of bar-hopping this weekend, which means I’m probably going to spend over $100 this weekend on cabs alone. This is where I curse myself for being obese, because I can’t run from these cabbies (Christ, sometimes I get out of breath drinking water).
And now I really want a hoagie. Fuck – such a vicious, vicious cycle.
********************************************
I know I should probably let this go, but I can’t get over the Coors Light commercials where they brag about having the “coldest-tasting” beer.
Am I the only one bothered by this? How has there not been a public outcry against this ad campaign? “Cold-tasting” doesn’t even fucking make sense. Cold is a feeling, not a taste. Would anyone ever say, “Man, this dorito tastes like warm” or “This is the hottest-tasting raisin I’ve ever had”? No, because it doesn’t make sense.
America, please do not allow yourselves to be duped by the Coors company. “Cold” is a feeling, sensation, or temperature, not a taste. If you put Coors or Bud or Miller in a freezer, they’re all going to freeze at the same temperature. Coors has not developed a beer that defies the freezing point, allowing you to drink it in liquid form at 15 degrees Fahrenheit, while Bud and Miller turn into ice at a pansy-boy 32 degrees.
“Cold-tasting” beer does not make sense. And the beer tastes like shit anyway. That is all. Thank you.
********************************************
Speaking of commercials, these commercials for the new Adam Sandler movie “Spanglish” are driving me crazy. This is mostly because I refuse to take Adam Sandler seriously, and he delivers this cheeseball line in the commercial, saying something to the effect that, “Worrying about your kids is sanity, and that kind of sanity can drive you nuts!”
Adam, remember this?
[Whoa - am I seeing into my own future? After countless jokes about semen, pooping, and more semen, will the Academy take me seriously in my Oscar bid in 2009, after starring as the title character in "Fat Boy Eddie", a heartwarming film about a fat retarded boy who becomes a boxing legend? We shall see...]
********************************************
I’m getting a pimple. Right now, it’s nothing more than a slight hue of red that’s sensitive to touch on my nose, but I feel like this is going to be a good one. Of course, it will remain a red hue until exactly 5:30pm, when it will transform into another face trying to grow out of my current face, just in time for happy hour/weekend festivities.
I’ve always had pretty good skin. I’m not thankful for this, because really, it was the least god could do for me. After giving me man-boobs, extreme body hair, a tiny penis, poor posture, and a high speaking voice, it was almost like St. Peter finally pulled him off me (like the guys did to Michael Bolton vs. the printer in “Office Space”) and was like, “Dude – take it easy! Enough already with the physical flaws! At least give him relatively clear skin!”
But about twice a year I will get a monster zit right smack on my nose. When I say it’s like another face growing out of my face, I’m not kidding. Once, in October of 1995, I could make out an arm growing out of the mass. In June of 1997, while I was falling asleep, I swore it said “hey fuckface” to me.
But anyway, it’s coming. And this is gonna be a big one, just in time for the weekend. Fucking sweet.
********************************************
Typical guy moment for me that my female friends are enjoying making fun of me about (ok, so I don’t have female friends, but that my really effeminate guy friends are enjoying making fun of me about):
Forever (and this may be a little gross) my second toe and my third toe have been rubbing up against each other in my shoe, basically making those toes are red and blistered and the skin irritated. This is pretty uncomfortable, but I didn’t think anything of it, and have been dealing with it for the past six months or so.
One of my female friends (ok, I have some) recently saw me walking with a slight limp, and asked me why I was doing so, and I explained the situation. She said, disdainfully almost, “Why don’t you just but some band-aids on your toes?”
Heeding her advice I did just that and – wouldn’t you know it – in two days I was completely healed. Wow! It never occurred to me once in six months to solve this very irritating problem by using a band-aid. I guess you learn something new every day.
********************************************
Six Songs:
- “Lately” Jodeci
The live version of this Stevie Wonder cover from MTV’s “Uptown Unplugged” makes me cry. I never thought that two black men would touch me so deeply, but I was wrong.
- “When I Goosestep” The Shins
What a happy-sounding lil’ song, lasting just two and a half minutes. I kinda like this band. Does that make me cooler?
- “Memories Of You” Ryan Adams
Another tear-jerker. Listen to at your own risk, and do so sober. If you haven’t had sex in over a year or are getting over a break-up, do NOT listen to this song. Don’t say I didn’t warn you.
- “All These Things That I’ve Done” The Killers
An inspirational song. I too have soul, yet I am not a soldier.
- “Rocket Queen” Guns n’ Roses
How is it that the first half of this song sucks but then second half is awesome? Couldn’t they have just made two songs so I don’t always have to fast forward? Assholes.
- “Streets Is Watching” Jay-Z
If someone said, “Hey Mulgrew, what would be your theme song?”, I’d pick this.
So it’s going to be a sad Christmas as I start looking around my apartment for things to give my friends and family:
Brother: “Oh wow, five VHS porno tapes that you’ve had since 1996! Thanks!”
Dad: “Oh great! Two half burned candles and a pair of pants that doesn’t fit you anymore and won’t fit me either! Great gifts!”
Sister: “A pack of matches, delivery menus for New York City restaurants, and some pens that don’t work? All for me? This is a best Christmas ever!”
Friend: “Nice – a bunch of crumpled pieces of paper that have jokes about Puerto Ricans on them and a pair of scissors that you stole from work! And all I got you was that $50 Barnes & Noble gift card. I feel like such a douche.”
(Oh, and remember how I was talking about taking nine credits next semester? Well I now can’t, because I don’t have the money. Which is good, because I really didn’t want to anyway. But which is bad, because I’m just going to spend the money that I don’t have for the class anyway, probably on something very necessary, like a $400 set of poker chips or $250 worth of frosting)
Merry Fucking Christmas.
********************************************
Speaking of the holidays, I have eight (eight?) holiday or birthday parties to attend this weekend (well, two were last night). I don’t know how this is possible, considering I have about four friends.
[And what's with all the December birthdays? I didn't know March was the month for procreating. Is this all the work of St. Patrick's Day? Another thing we can thank the Irish for, along with tiny genitals and alcoholic rages.]
So there’s going to be a lot of bar-hopping this weekend, which means I’m probably going to spend over $100 this weekend on cabs alone. This is where I curse myself for being obese, because I can’t run from these cabbies (Christ, sometimes I get out of breath drinking water).
And now I really want a hoagie. Fuck – such a vicious, vicious cycle.
********************************************
I know I should probably let this go, but I can’t get over the Coors Light commercials where they brag about having the “coldest-tasting” beer.
Am I the only one bothered by this? How has there not been a public outcry against this ad campaign? “Cold-tasting” doesn’t even fucking make sense. Cold is a feeling, not a taste. Would anyone ever say, “Man, this dorito tastes like warm” or “This is the hottest-tasting raisin I’ve ever had”? No, because it doesn’t make sense.
America, please do not allow yourselves to be duped by the Coors company. “Cold” is a feeling, sensation, or temperature, not a taste. If you put Coors or Bud or Miller in a freezer, they’re all going to freeze at the same temperature. Coors has not developed a beer that defies the freezing point, allowing you to drink it in liquid form at 15 degrees Fahrenheit, while Bud and Miller turn into ice at a pansy-boy 32 degrees.
“Cold-tasting” beer does not make sense. And the beer tastes like shit anyway. That is all. Thank you.
********************************************
Speaking of commercials, these commercials for the new Adam Sandler movie “Spanglish” are driving me crazy. This is mostly because I refuse to take Adam Sandler seriously, and he delivers this cheeseball line in the commercial, saying something to the effect that, “Worrying about your kids is sanity, and that kind of sanity can drive you nuts!”
Adam, remember this?
You see that shampoo bottle now stick it up my assYeah, so do I. And once you write something as raunchy (and extremely hilarious) as “At A Medium Pace”, it’s gonna be really tough for me to take your acting seriously.
Push it in and out at a medium pace
Talk about your old boyfriend’s dick and how big it was
Now shave off my pubes and punch me in the face
[Whoa - am I seeing into my own future? After countless jokes about semen, pooping, and more semen, will the Academy take me seriously in my Oscar bid in 2009, after starring as the title character in "Fat Boy Eddie", a heartwarming film about a fat retarded boy who becomes a boxing legend? We shall see...]
********************************************
I’m getting a pimple. Right now, it’s nothing more than a slight hue of red that’s sensitive to touch on my nose, but I feel like this is going to be a good one. Of course, it will remain a red hue until exactly 5:30pm, when it will transform into another face trying to grow out of my current face, just in time for happy hour/weekend festivities.
I’ve always had pretty good skin. I’m not thankful for this, because really, it was the least god could do for me. After giving me man-boobs, extreme body hair, a tiny penis, poor posture, and a high speaking voice, it was almost like St. Peter finally pulled him off me (like the guys did to Michael Bolton vs. the printer in “Office Space”) and was like, “Dude – take it easy! Enough already with the physical flaws! At least give him relatively clear skin!”
But about twice a year I will get a monster zit right smack on my nose. When I say it’s like another face growing out of my face, I’m not kidding. Once, in October of 1995, I could make out an arm growing out of the mass. In June of 1997, while I was falling asleep, I swore it said “hey fuckface” to me.
But anyway, it’s coming. And this is gonna be a big one, just in time for the weekend. Fucking sweet.
********************************************
Typical guy moment for me that my female friends are enjoying making fun of me about (ok, so I don’t have female friends, but that my really effeminate guy friends are enjoying making fun of me about):
Forever (and this may be a little gross) my second toe and my third toe have been rubbing up against each other in my shoe, basically making those toes are red and blistered and the skin irritated. This is pretty uncomfortable, but I didn’t think anything of it, and have been dealing with it for the past six months or so.
One of my female friends (ok, I have some) recently saw me walking with a slight limp, and asked me why I was doing so, and I explained the situation. She said, disdainfully almost, “Why don’t you just but some band-aids on your toes?”
Heeding her advice I did just that and – wouldn’t you know it – in two days I was completely healed. Wow! It never occurred to me once in six months to solve this very irritating problem by using a band-aid. I guess you learn something new every day.
********************************************
Six Songs:
- “Lately” Jodeci
The live version of this Stevie Wonder cover from MTV’s “Uptown Unplugged” makes me cry. I never thought that two black men would touch me so deeply, but I was wrong.
- “When I Goosestep” The Shins
What a happy-sounding lil’ song, lasting just two and a half minutes. I kinda like this band. Does that make me cooler?
- “Memories Of You” Ryan Adams
Another tear-jerker. Listen to at your own risk, and do so sober. If you haven’t had sex in over a year or are getting over a break-up, do NOT listen to this song. Don’t say I didn’t warn you.
- “All These Things That I’ve Done” The Killers
An inspirational song. I too have soul, yet I am not a soldier.
- “Rocket Queen” Guns n’ Roses
How is it that the first half of this song sucks but then second half is awesome? Couldn’t they have just made two songs so I don’t always have to fast forward? Assholes.
- “Streets Is Watching” Jay-Z
If someone said, “Hey Mulgrew, what would be your theme song?”, I’d pick this.
Public apologies to the families of those caught up in my streetI mean, did I write this? It’s like the exact story of my life. I think I said this verbatim my mom the other day on the phone when she was giving me shit about my dangerous lifestyle and this blog, without realizing that Jay-Z also wrote it. So, so weird.
But that’s the life for us lost souls brought up in the streets
The life and times of a demonic mind, excited with crime
And the lavish luxuries that just excited my mind
I figured, ‘Sh*t why risk myself I just write it in rhymes
And let you feel me, and if you don’t like it then fine’
I’ve been watching a lot of “American Justice” and those type shows on A&E or Discovery or whatever, and man, they are riveting. I’ve learned a lot from these shows (other than Bill Curtis is an American treasure and he’s definitely going to mc my wedding) about the law and how to break the law and how it always seems that dumb people commit murders.
What strikes me most about these dumb people is how they adamantly profess their innocence though they are obviously guilty:
Woman who killed husband after she found out he was having an affair with an 18 year-old girl: “You know, eight people say they saw me stabbing my husband Bill in the chest with a kitchen knife, but there are almost 3000 people in the county, so 8 out of 3000 ain’t a lot. A lot of people didn’t see me stabbing Bill. Over 2000 people in the county alone didn’t see me stab Bill, and that’s a fact. So I don’t know about how they can convict me based on what 8 people say they saw me do.”
Interviewer: “But what about the letter that you sent to twenty of your friends, inviting them to come to your home on April 19, 1994, the night of your husband’s murder, in which you wrote, ‘Please come to my house that night to say goodbye to Bill because I am going to murder him with a knife that night. Bring potato salad or pie.’”
Woman: “That was just a joke. My friends and I and Bill always joked like that. I mean, it’s funny, ain’t it?”
Bill Curtis Narration: “But the prosecution had a trick up their sleeve: in addition to the eyewitness testimony, they produced a tape from a security camera which showed Betty Hanson repeated stabbing her husband Bill. After the brutal stabbing, which was captured entirely on film, Betty looks at the camera and shouts, ‘This is me, Betty Hanson. I just murdered my husband. My birthday is June 12, 1950, my social security number is 112-04-0875, my mother’s maiden name is Demme, I love ponies and Hershey’s syrup, and I just killed my husband. My fingerprints are everywhere too.’ Despite this overwhelming evidence, Betty claims that she was framed.”
Woman (Betty): “To be honest, I was framed. Or I was hypnotized. I’m not really sure, but you would be amazed at what science could do these days. But I am innocent. [staring off] Man, I wish I was smarter about killing my husband.”
Hear me now – if I ever get convicted of a major crime (which should happen around May 2007), I’m not gonna go down without a fight. There will be a long, drawn out trial in which I will represent myself and do so without a shirt half the time, call as witnesses people who have nothing to do with the case but are famous people that I want to meet (“Your Honor, the defense calls to the stand Mr. Bruce Willis”), and give a closing argument that does not discuss the charges against me but rather extols the merits and many uses of hot dog relish.
And when I am found guilty for said crime I obviously committed, I will stand up and start a slow clap for the jury, congratulating them on their work and rightly adjudicating the case. How much more interesting would trials be if the defendant, after having been found guilty, said, “You know what? I did it. So whatever.” Wouldn’t it have been great to see Scott Peterson standing at the little table and yelling, “You’re right – everyone one is right. I totally murdered her. C’mon – it’s completely obvious!” (per AGU’s insight)
So you can expect to hear me say when I’m found guilty, “Congratulations. You guys did a helluva job, and I admit, I did it. Provided I didn’t know she was 8, but I thought she was 16, not 18, so I am guilty. And guess what? I’d do it again. I love you Li-Li! Not even death can keep us apart! And good luck on your geography test – remember, there are seven continents! Seven!”
Trial of the fucking century.
********************************************
Because I can’t keep a secret, there’s gonna be some big changes ’round here pretty soon (which may or may not involve me having sex on film and putting the mini-movie on here for everyone to see). Stay tuned…
What strikes me most about these dumb people is how they adamantly profess their innocence though they are obviously guilty:
Woman who killed husband after she found out he was having an affair with an 18 year-old girl: “You know, eight people say they saw me stabbing my husband Bill in the chest with a kitchen knife, but there are almost 3000 people in the county, so 8 out of 3000 ain’t a lot. A lot of people didn’t see me stabbing Bill. Over 2000 people in the county alone didn’t see me stab Bill, and that’s a fact. So I don’t know about how they can convict me based on what 8 people say they saw me do.”
Interviewer: “But what about the letter that you sent to twenty of your friends, inviting them to come to your home on April 19, 1994, the night of your husband’s murder, in which you wrote, ‘Please come to my house that night to say goodbye to Bill because I am going to murder him with a knife that night. Bring potato salad or pie.’”
Woman: “That was just a joke. My friends and I and Bill always joked like that. I mean, it’s funny, ain’t it?”
Bill Curtis Narration: “But the prosecution had a trick up their sleeve: in addition to the eyewitness testimony, they produced a tape from a security camera which showed Betty Hanson repeated stabbing her husband Bill. After the brutal stabbing, which was captured entirely on film, Betty looks at the camera and shouts, ‘This is me, Betty Hanson. I just murdered my husband. My birthday is June 12, 1950, my social security number is 112-04-0875, my mother’s maiden name is Demme, I love ponies and Hershey’s syrup, and I just killed my husband. My fingerprints are everywhere too.’ Despite this overwhelming evidence, Betty claims that she was framed.”
Woman (Betty): “To be honest, I was framed. Or I was hypnotized. I’m not really sure, but you would be amazed at what science could do these days. But I am innocent. [staring off] Man, I wish I was smarter about killing my husband.”
Hear me now – if I ever get convicted of a major crime (which should happen around May 2007), I’m not gonna go down without a fight. There will be a long, drawn out trial in which I will represent myself and do so without a shirt half the time, call as witnesses people who have nothing to do with the case but are famous people that I want to meet (“Your Honor, the defense calls to the stand Mr. Bruce Willis”), and give a closing argument that does not discuss the charges against me but rather extols the merits and many uses of hot dog relish.
And when I am found guilty for said crime I obviously committed, I will stand up and start a slow clap for the jury, congratulating them on their work and rightly adjudicating the case. How much more interesting would trials be if the defendant, after having been found guilty, said, “You know what? I did it. So whatever.” Wouldn’t it have been great to see Scott Peterson standing at the little table and yelling, “You’re right – everyone one is right. I totally murdered her. C’mon – it’s completely obvious!” (per AGU’s insight)
So you can expect to hear me say when I’m found guilty, “Congratulations. You guys did a helluva job, and I admit, I did it. Provided I didn’t know she was 8, but I thought she was 16, not 18, so I am guilty. And guess what? I’d do it again. I love you Li-Li! Not even death can keep us apart! And good luck on your geography test – remember, there are seven continents! Seven!”
Trial of the fucking century.
********************************************
Because I can’t keep a secret, there’s gonna be some big changes ’round here pretty soon (which may or may not involve me having sex on film and putting the mini-movie on here for everyone to see). Stay tuned…
What do the following three people have in common:
- Celine Dion
- Donald Trump
- Antonio Banderas
No, they don’t all have penises (like me, Trump lost his penis in a vicious bear attack in Vancouver in November 1989 – we were actually in the same tour group, but it was different bears).
And no, they are not the three people I’d most like to sleep with (but it’s close – if you take out Celine Dion and put in Rod Stewart, that’d be my trifecta).
No, these three people all have a fragrance. For some reason, they believe that because of their celebrity status, people will buy their fragrance because people want to smell like them.
To me, there is no greater unintentional comedy in Hollywood than people putting out perfumes. I can not express how funny I find this, and most likely will fail miserably here in trying to do so, so maybe you should just stop reading and come back tomorrow. Asshole.
There is something about putting your name on a fragrance that is fascinating to me. How does this even work? Did Antonio Banderas’ agent call him and say,
Agent: “Hey, Antonio, I have an idea that would really help your career. Are you ready for this? A fragrance. A fragrance that captures the essence, the raw sexuality and the Puerto Ricanness of Antonio Banderas. What do you think?”
Banderas: “I’m not Puerto Rican.”
Agent: “Really?”
Banderas: “Yes.”
Agent: “Well, you’re something not American, right?”
Banderas: “You’re fired, but I’m going to take the fragrance idea and run with it.”
My roommate Brian and I saw the commercial for Antonio Banderas’ “Spirit” earlier this week and it stopped us dead in our tracks. In it, Antonio walks onto a dance floor, mingles with some sexy ladies, and walks off. Antonio Banderas’ “Spirit”. Now I know what I’m getting everyone for Christmas.
[Actually, I was sort of dating a girl last year when commercials for Celine Dion's perfume started coming out. Her birthday was approaching and we had just started hooking up, so to avoid the seriousness of the "new girl birthday present" situation I got her the Celine Dion perfume as a joke (as well as another, real gift). She did not get the joke and shortly after we broke up. Last I heard, she was riding the rails somewhere in the Midwest, writing folk songs 'bout a lover with man boobies she had a ways back.]
As for Trump, well, despite the fact that we both lost our penises in horrifying bear attacks, we don’t like each other much. I don’t like him because I think he’s a phony, and he doesn’t like me because, long story short, I hit him with my car (well, it was a stolen car actually).
And his fragrance…good lord. The ads are being plastered all over men’s magazines featuring him and his fiancée, Millennium. I can’t speak for anyone else, but I can’t say that I’ve ever thought to myself, “You know what? I really want to smell like Trump.” However, I have thought to myself, “You know what? I really can’t stand Koreans.”
So, in order to further enhance my quasi-celebrity status, I am pleased to announce Jason Mulgrew’s “Dick”, the scent for men who have bad facial hair, bad intentions, small ambitions, and even smaller (or no) penises. A strong musk, it combines sagewood with a variety of deli meats and just a hint of semen. It’s guaranteed to make you completely resistible to any woman that you meet, even if she is unconscious.
Jason Mulgrew’s “Dick” – coming Spring 2005.
- Celine Dion
- Donald Trump
- Antonio Banderas
No, they don’t all have penises (like me, Trump lost his penis in a vicious bear attack in Vancouver in November 1989 – we were actually in the same tour group, but it was different bears).
And no, they are not the three people I’d most like to sleep with (but it’s close – if you take out Celine Dion and put in Rod Stewart, that’d be my trifecta).
No, these three people all have a fragrance. For some reason, they believe that because of their celebrity status, people will buy their fragrance because people want to smell like them.
To me, there is no greater unintentional comedy in Hollywood than people putting out perfumes. I can not express how funny I find this, and most likely will fail miserably here in trying to do so, so maybe you should just stop reading and come back tomorrow. Asshole.
There is something about putting your name on a fragrance that is fascinating to me. How does this even work? Did Antonio Banderas’ agent call him and say,
Agent: “Hey, Antonio, I have an idea that would really help your career. Are you ready for this? A fragrance. A fragrance that captures the essence, the raw sexuality and the Puerto Ricanness of Antonio Banderas. What do you think?”
Banderas: “I’m not Puerto Rican.”
Agent: “Really?”
Banderas: “Yes.”
Agent: “Well, you’re something not American, right?”
Banderas: “You’re fired, but I’m going to take the fragrance idea and run with it.”
My roommate Brian and I saw the commercial for Antonio Banderas’ “Spirit” earlier this week and it stopped us dead in our tracks. In it, Antonio walks onto a dance floor, mingles with some sexy ladies, and walks off. Antonio Banderas’ “Spirit”. Now I know what I’m getting everyone for Christmas.
[Actually, I was sort of dating a girl last year when commercials for Celine Dion's perfume started coming out. Her birthday was approaching and we had just started hooking up, so to avoid the seriousness of the "new girl birthday present" situation I got her the Celine Dion perfume as a joke (as well as another, real gift). She did not get the joke and shortly after we broke up. Last I heard, she was riding the rails somewhere in the Midwest, writing folk songs 'bout a lover with man boobies she had a ways back.]
As for Trump, well, despite the fact that we both lost our penises in horrifying bear attacks, we don’t like each other much. I don’t like him because I think he’s a phony, and he doesn’t like me because, long story short, I hit him with my car (well, it was a stolen car actually).
And his fragrance…good lord. The ads are being plastered all over men’s magazines featuring him and his fiancée, Millennium. I can’t speak for anyone else, but I can’t say that I’ve ever thought to myself, “You know what? I really want to smell like Trump.” However, I have thought to myself, “You know what? I really can’t stand Koreans.”
So, in order to further enhance my quasi-celebrity status, I am pleased to announce Jason Mulgrew’s “Dick”, the scent for men who have bad facial hair, bad intentions, small ambitions, and even smaller (or no) penises. A strong musk, it combines sagewood with a variety of deli meats and just a hint of semen. It’s guaranteed to make you completely resistible to any woman that you meet, even if she is unconscious.
Jason Mulgrew’s “Dick” – coming Spring 2005.
It’s been about four or five months that the press began calling me an “internet quasi-celebrity” (and by “the press”, I mean “me”, and then under duress and through bribes my roommates and friends, and then, you know, a lot of other people).
I’ve been content with my title, and still am. Being an internet quasi-celebrity means that I can live my life in peace, but still enjoy a modicum of fame. For example, I can go to my local video store whenever I want and rent black-on-white gay porn without having it plastered all over the tabloids. I can drink myself into oblivion in any bar in NYC, stumble out into the streets and kick a stray dog before exposing myself without getting shit from my manager. And most of the times when I hit a woman no one hears about it, especially because most of the women I hit can’t speak English anyway [too much?].
That is not to say that I don’t enjoy the “fame” aspect of my minor celebrity status. Every once in a while, I’ll be introduced to someone who reads the site and feel all warm and fuzzy inside when after a while they say, “Man, you stink in real life, but let me buy you a drink anyway.” Many times I’ll get emails from readers who recommend to me new and awesome porn sites. And of course, having this fame allows me to tell everyone woman I meet about it in the hopes of seeing how well-groomed their pubic region is, although this has not been successful to date.
But enjoying my internet quasi-celebrity status does not mean that I don’t occasionally think of making a move to drop the “quasi-” from my title. I think this could be accomplished fairly easily. Below I have delineated five steps through which I think I can transform myself from a “quasi” to a full-fledged celebrity.
1) Make a sex tape.
People think that Pam Anderson started this phenomenon, but those with longer memories know that it was Rob Lowe who kicked it all off. Of course, Pam’s made a much bigger splash, since, well, who wants to see Rob Lowe getting it on (confession: me, please)? Since then, we’ve seen Pam-Brett Michaels, Vince Neil-Janine, R. Kelly and an assortment of “women”, shit – even Bam Margera has a sex tape (see it here – warning, not a work-friendly link – sent by Mark at http://spangler.allreal.net).
But Paris Hilton was the one who used the sex tape to her advantage. Two years ago, she was an unknown to anyone outside of NYC, and known only to those in NYC because of her Page Six “I’m stupid, drunk, rich, and hot” escapades. And today Barbara Walters has named her one of the most fascinating people of 2004.
[Now, I don't want my meaning to be misconstrued and have you all think that I believe Barbara Walters is the single determining factor of who or what is fascinating, but I have to ask: Paris Hilton, fascinating? Really? Hot, ok (though too thin and with too small boobs for me). Dumb but in a manipulative way, yes. Rich, very. But fascinating? Are you sure? Do you want to think about this some more?]
So I needs to get me a video camera and make me a sex tape. I dare not ask for volunteers without first saying that copious amounts of narcotics will be involved. And I don’t use the word “copious” often, so you know I really mean it. I’m thinking something along the lines of a tastefully done shower scene, because when my body hair gets wet I look like Bigfoot and I just want the whole world to see it. However, this is open to discussion.
2) Start practicing kabbalah.
I know very little about kabbalah (or is it the kabbalah), other than it’s a form of Jewish mysticism, everyone wears a red bracelet, and you’re supposed to donate a lot of money to it, and, oh yeah, a lot of famous people do it. Sounds completely crappy to me. So I went to the Kabbalah Centre website and read:
Imagine if there was a miraculous source of power so profound, so powerful, it could totally heal and transform your life and genuinely change our world for the good – forever!
Ok, I’m listening. Keep going…
There is. It is called Kabbalah, and it is the oldest, most influential wisdom in all of human history.
Doesn’t this sound like something Will Ferrell’s James Lipton would say? “Kabbalah is so wonderful that it is like bowling a 300 game, meeting Jesus Christ, winning the lottery, and receiving oral sex for the entire female cast of ‘Baywatch’ rolled into one, and extended forever throughout time and space until the end of time and beyond and into infinite space forever.”
Kabbalah reveals all the spiritual and physical laws that govern the cosmos and the human soul. It answers questions. It provides solutions. It unravels puzzles. It decipher codes.
What? “Physical laws that govern the cosmos”? Really? And it deciphers codes? Sheesh – I’ll this time I’ve been Catholic all I’ve gotten is predatory priests and incredible feeling of guilt if I commit even the slightest offense, like lying or arson or the murder of two teenage boys in Laramie, Wisconsin in January of 1986.
It gives you practical tools to effect change. And, it creates order out of chaos. And, if that isn’t enough, Kabbalah answers the ultimate questions of human existence: Who are we? Where did we come from? Why are we on this earth?
I spent the next twenty minutes on the website trying to find the answers to those questions, but I stopped when it started talking about a twenty-three volume book about “light” and requesting $20 for two classes I’d have to take to learn more.
But none of this matters – Kabbalah is hot right now. So, so hot. And if I want in to the celebrity party, well, sign me up for volume one.
3) Go to rehab.
Do I even need to talk about this? I’m planning on doing this this summer anyway, having filed the leave of absence papers with my employer just last week, regardless of celebrity (just…can’t…stop…huffing…).
4) Get married and divorced quickly.
This is the one I’m most looking forward to. Those who know me know that I love weddings. Those who know me also know that I love to steal inconsequential things from friends’ homes.
I don’t have a particular person in mind for this whirlwind, drug-induced, six- to eighteen-week long marriage, but I do have some credentials:
1) She must be reasonably famous, and be willing to use another person to achieve more fame;
2) She will have no actual talent;
3) She will probably be foreign;
4) She may have a penis;
5) She will not be speaking with her parents;
6) She will have incredible breasts
If you or someone you know fits this description, my email address again is eiwwme@gmail.com.
5) Get about 1.2 million more people to read this site.
Dude, I’m working on it. Don’t be such a douche.
I’ve been content with my title, and still am. Being an internet quasi-celebrity means that I can live my life in peace, but still enjoy a modicum of fame. For example, I can go to my local video store whenever I want and rent black-on-white gay porn without having it plastered all over the tabloids. I can drink myself into oblivion in any bar in NYC, stumble out into the streets and kick a stray dog before exposing myself without getting shit from my manager. And most of the times when I hit a woman no one hears about it, especially because most of the women I hit can’t speak English anyway [too much?].
That is not to say that I don’t enjoy the “fame” aspect of my minor celebrity status. Every once in a while, I’ll be introduced to someone who reads the site and feel all warm and fuzzy inside when after a while they say, “Man, you stink in real life, but let me buy you a drink anyway.” Many times I’ll get emails from readers who recommend to me new and awesome porn sites. And of course, having this fame allows me to tell everyone woman I meet about it in the hopes of seeing how well-groomed their pubic region is, although this has not been successful to date.
But enjoying my internet quasi-celebrity status does not mean that I don’t occasionally think of making a move to drop the “quasi-” from my title. I think this could be accomplished fairly easily. Below I have delineated five steps through which I think I can transform myself from a “quasi” to a full-fledged celebrity.
1) Make a sex tape.
People think that Pam Anderson started this phenomenon, but those with longer memories know that it was Rob Lowe who kicked it all off. Of course, Pam’s made a much bigger splash, since, well, who wants to see Rob Lowe getting it on (confession: me, please)? Since then, we’ve seen Pam-Brett Michaels, Vince Neil-Janine, R. Kelly and an assortment of “women”, shit – even Bam Margera has a sex tape (see it here – warning, not a work-friendly link – sent by Mark at http://spangler.allreal.net).
But Paris Hilton was the one who used the sex tape to her advantage. Two years ago, she was an unknown to anyone outside of NYC, and known only to those in NYC because of her Page Six “I’m stupid, drunk, rich, and hot” escapades. And today Barbara Walters has named her one of the most fascinating people of 2004.
[Now, I don't want my meaning to be misconstrued and have you all think that I believe Barbara Walters is the single determining factor of who or what is fascinating, but I have to ask: Paris Hilton, fascinating? Really? Hot, ok (though too thin and with too small boobs for me). Dumb but in a manipulative way, yes. Rich, very. But fascinating? Are you sure? Do you want to think about this some more?]
So I needs to get me a video camera and make me a sex tape. I dare not ask for volunteers without first saying that copious amounts of narcotics will be involved. And I don’t use the word “copious” often, so you know I really mean it. I’m thinking something along the lines of a tastefully done shower scene, because when my body hair gets wet I look like Bigfoot and I just want the whole world to see it. However, this is open to discussion.
2) Start practicing kabbalah.
I know very little about kabbalah (or is it the kabbalah), other than it’s a form of Jewish mysticism, everyone wears a red bracelet, and you’re supposed to donate a lot of money to it, and, oh yeah, a lot of famous people do it. Sounds completely crappy to me. So I went to the Kabbalah Centre website and read:
Imagine if there was a miraculous source of power so profound, so powerful, it could totally heal and transform your life and genuinely change our world for the good – forever!
Ok, I’m listening. Keep going…
There is. It is called Kabbalah, and it is the oldest, most influential wisdom in all of human history.
Doesn’t this sound like something Will Ferrell’s James Lipton would say? “Kabbalah is so wonderful that it is like bowling a 300 game, meeting Jesus Christ, winning the lottery, and receiving oral sex for the entire female cast of ‘Baywatch’ rolled into one, and extended forever throughout time and space until the end of time and beyond and into infinite space forever.”
Kabbalah reveals all the spiritual and physical laws that govern the cosmos and the human soul. It answers questions. It provides solutions. It unravels puzzles. It decipher codes.
What? “Physical laws that govern the cosmos”? Really? And it deciphers codes? Sheesh – I’ll this time I’ve been Catholic all I’ve gotten is predatory priests and incredible feeling of guilt if I commit even the slightest offense, like lying or arson or the murder of two teenage boys in Laramie, Wisconsin in January of 1986.
It gives you practical tools to effect change. And, it creates order out of chaos. And, if that isn’t enough, Kabbalah answers the ultimate questions of human existence: Who are we? Where did we come from? Why are we on this earth?
I spent the next twenty minutes on the website trying to find the answers to those questions, but I stopped when it started talking about a twenty-three volume book about “light” and requesting $20 for two classes I’d have to take to learn more.
But none of this matters – Kabbalah is hot right now. So, so hot. And if I want in to the celebrity party, well, sign me up for volume one.
3) Go to rehab.
Do I even need to talk about this? I’m planning on doing this this summer anyway, having filed the leave of absence papers with my employer just last week, regardless of celebrity (just…can’t…stop…huffing…).
4) Get married and divorced quickly.
This is the one I’m most looking forward to. Those who know me know that I love weddings. Those who know me also know that I love to steal inconsequential things from friends’ homes.
I don’t have a particular person in mind for this whirlwind, drug-induced, six- to eighteen-week long marriage, but I do have some credentials:
1) She must be reasonably famous, and be willing to use another person to achieve more fame;
2) She will have no actual talent;
3) She will probably be foreign;
4) She may have a penis;
5) She will not be speaking with her parents;
6) She will have incredible breasts
If you or someone you know fits this description, my email address again is eiwwme@gmail.com.
5) Get about 1.2 million more people to read this site.
Dude, I’m working on it. Don’t be such a douche.
Two short notes:
1) Bob Dylan is on another level.
Good lord. That interview with “60 Minutes” last night was…intense. For a man who’s not comfortable the mantle of genius, he sure goes about trying to shed it the wrong way.
Ed Bradley: “I read that you wrote ‘The Times They Are A-Changin” in ten minutes…is that true?”
Bob Dylan: [five seconds of intense silence]: “Probably.”
Bradley: “You’re not sure?”
Dylan: [another five seconds of intense silence] “No.”
So, you don’t remember writing one of the most important songs of all-time? I can remember what I had for dessert on March 12, 1996, and you can’t remember writing “The Times They Are A-Changin”? WTF?
When Bradley brings up Dylan’s importance as the voice of a generation:
Dylan: “My stuff were songs, you know? They weren’t sermons. If you examine the songs, I don’t believe you’re gonna find anything in there that says that I’m a spokesman for anybody or anything really.”
Bradley: “But they saw it.”
Dylan: “They must not have heard the songs.”
Bradley: “It’s ironic, that the way that people viewed you was just the polar opposite of the way you viewed yourself.”
Dylan: “Isn’t that something.”
Later, when asked by Bradley why he still performs, Dylan said, “It goes back to that destiny thing. I mean, I made a bargain with it, you know, long time ago. And I’m holding up my end” inferring that he made a deal with god (or God or G-d or whatever Dylan’s flavor of the week is) so that he could be “Bob Dylan.”
Intense indeed.
Bob, if you don’t want people to think you’re a genius and a prophet, give TV interviews more than once every 19 years. Also, when being interviewed, don’t speak so slowly and intensely, so intensely that it seems that you’re operating on another plane from the rest of us.
If you want people to stop thinking you’re a genius, start playing covers of Britney Spears songs. Tell everyone how much you love hot dogs. Use the word “crap” in every sentence. When you eat, smear shit all over your face. This is how you get people to think you’re an idiot. Trust me – it’s worked for me for the past 25 years.
2) E-A-G-L-E-S EAGLES!
If the Philadelphia Eagles don’t make it to the Super Bowl, I’m not going to make it out alive. I can not stress how serious I am about this. There has been much heartbreak in the past, but after manhandling arguably the second best team in the conference yesterday, the Eagles look better than ever.
You know what? I have to stop writing about this, because I don’t want to be responsible for any sort of jinxing. But hear me now – it will be very bad news if the Eagles don’t at least make it to the Super Bowl.
(Ok, seriously, I’m stopping talking about this right now. This post is over. Done. See you later.)
1) Bob Dylan is on another level.
Good lord. That interview with “60 Minutes” last night was…intense. For a man who’s not comfortable the mantle of genius, he sure goes about trying to shed it the wrong way.
Ed Bradley: “I read that you wrote ‘The Times They Are A-Changin” in ten minutes…is that true?”
Bob Dylan: [five seconds of intense silence]: “Probably.”
Bradley: “You’re not sure?”
Dylan: [another five seconds of intense silence] “No.”
So, you don’t remember writing one of the most important songs of all-time? I can remember what I had for dessert on March 12, 1996, and you can’t remember writing “The Times They Are A-Changin”? WTF?
When Bradley brings up Dylan’s importance as the voice of a generation:
Dylan: “My stuff were songs, you know? They weren’t sermons. If you examine the songs, I don’t believe you’re gonna find anything in there that says that I’m a spokesman for anybody or anything really.”
Bradley: “But they saw it.”
Dylan: “They must not have heard the songs.”
Bradley: “It’s ironic, that the way that people viewed you was just the polar opposite of the way you viewed yourself.”
Dylan: “Isn’t that something.”
Later, when asked by Bradley why he still performs, Dylan said, “It goes back to that destiny thing. I mean, I made a bargain with it, you know, long time ago. And I’m holding up my end” inferring that he made a deal with god (or God or G-d or whatever Dylan’s flavor of the week is) so that he could be “Bob Dylan.”
Intense indeed.
Bob, if you don’t want people to think you’re a genius and a prophet, give TV interviews more than once every 19 years. Also, when being interviewed, don’t speak so slowly and intensely, so intensely that it seems that you’re operating on another plane from the rest of us.
If you want people to stop thinking you’re a genius, start playing covers of Britney Spears songs. Tell everyone how much you love hot dogs. Use the word “crap” in every sentence. When you eat, smear shit all over your face. This is how you get people to think you’re an idiot. Trust me – it’s worked for me for the past 25 years.
2) E-A-G-L-E-S EAGLES!
If the Philadelphia Eagles don’t make it to the Super Bowl, I’m not going to make it out alive. I can not stress how serious I am about this. There has been much heartbreak in the past, but after manhandling arguably the second best team in the conference yesterday, the Eagles look better than ever.
You know what? I have to stop writing about this, because I don’t want to be responsible for any sort of jinxing. But hear me now – it will be very bad news if the Eagles don’t at least make it to the Super Bowl.
(Ok, seriously, I’m stopping talking about this right now. This post is over. Done. See you later.)
Hello,
Though I spent most of the night staring lasciviously at you, I don’t think we ever properly met. Actually, I know we didn’t properly meet, because if we did so, it would have been the greatest moment of my otherwise wasted life. My name is Jason Mulgrew, and I want to make you my wife so I can touch you all over.
When I first walked into the bar on that Friday evening, I did not think I would fall in love. No, my main focus was getting as many pitchers of beer into my body as humanly possibly, so that I could end the night in a haze, eating some delicious pizza and perhaps throwing a Snapple bottle at a taxi cab. I also wasn’t feeling too well because I had a nasty case of the runs at work that almost caused a major disaster on the subway ride home.
But then I saw you, and I knew that I would never be the same for as long as I live. I promised right then and there to love you until the day I die, or until I see a hotter girl. To use the word “striking” to describe the way you looked in your little black dress does not do you any justice, so I am forced to create a more fitting adjective to describe how great you looked by combining a number of words that all mean “attractive”: foxagorgeohot. You looked absolutely foxagorgeohot on Friday night. So, so foxagorgeohot.
To be honest, you are the perfect woman. Sure, we didn’t speak, and for all I know you could have knifed someone to death later that very night, but I am willing to look past any imperfections you may have, no matter how severe, because you are just that hot.
I am enchanted by your ethnicity. Your half-Asian side appeals to my unquenchable Asian fetish, but at the same time you are not so Asian that you’d be friends with a bunch of nerdy guys who are awesome at math and econ. Your half-Euro side gave you those green eyes and, more importantly, breasts so bounteous and a waist so small that it looks as though your body was drawn up by one of those geeky comic book guys.
And if I’m not mistaken, I feel like you felt a little something for me too. I’m not sure if it was the first time or the twelfth time you caught me looking at your ample cleavage, but when our eyes locked, I felt a twinge deep in my heart. The next day I learned after an EKG at St. Vincent’s that this was the beginning of a mild heart attack, but medical science be damned – this boy knows love when he feels it, and he feels it when he looks down your shirt (or at your heinie).
The climax of the evening for me was our slight but enchanting interaction. I was making my way over the bathroom, and noticed you in my path standing and talking to some bar patrons. As I came closer to you, I pulled out my cell phone, and (this is embarrassing) pretended to talk to someone on it. I stopped just behind you, and spoke loudly and at length about my job and my upcoming bonus, and how I think it would be extremely large. I then shouted about how I would be donating most of my bonus to charity, because as I had just signed a mega book/music/movie deal, I would not need this money, and would like to help out starving children all over the world. You appeared to become annoyed and said “Asshole” before walking away, but I want to let you know that I’m down with the game, and if you want to play hard to get, that’s fine.
One thing I wasn’t able to mention on my fake cell phone conversation was that, well, I’m kind of famous. I don’t know if you’re familiar with the internet, but long story short I have this thing called a “blog” which thousands and millions (and possibly even billions) of people read. I’m not sure if you’re the type of girl who thinks it’s important for her man to be a household name, but if you are, well, you’re in luck.
So I ask you to think about where you are in your life and consider choosing me as a life partner. I have a promise ring on hand that I can give you immediately, which will serve as a symbol of your commitment to me and my testicles until a more proper ring can be acquired. In the meantime, I will continue masturbating to the fantasy I have constructed in which you dance all sultry-like for me as I smoke pot and eat rice pudding while Cream’s “Strange Brew” plays in the background. After I am finished the rice pudding (this takes a while, because there is a lot), I put down my J and put on the “Dirty Dancing” soundtrack and we make love all night long, or at least for four minutes until I fall asleep because I am tired from all that eating.
I look forward to your reply. Please say yes, or, well, I don’t think we need to get into that now.
Love eternally,
Did you come here to play Jesus,
To the lepers in your head,
Time held me green and dying,
Though I sang in my chains like the sea,
I am,
Jason MJPAE Mulgrew, BA, MA (candidate)
[Non-sports people: I'm sorry, but this post is about sports. I've been trying to keep it to a minimum and believe I've been doing a good job of this, but this news was too big to pass up. I've tried to make the post as non-sports person-friendly as possible, and I invite you to check it out. Or, come back on Monday. If not, what the fuck do I care? I'm fucking (quasi-)famous.]
Wait a minute – you’re telling me that Barry Bonds has admitted to a grand jury that he used steroids? No, I don’t believe you. It can’t be. This is a joke, right? You’re kidding, right?
You really think it’s strange that a guy who at 28 in 1993 hit a career-high 46 homers shattered the single-season home run record eight years later with 73 at age 36?
(73 home runs at 36 years old? WTF?)
You’re trying to tell me that these number breakdowns are not normal?
Ages 21 – 33: 31 home runs per season – one home run every 16.1 plate appearances
Ages 34 – 39: 49 home runs per season – one home run every 8.4 plate appearances (!)
You’re also trying to tell me that after age 34 careers can’t take off into rarified air without the help of performance-enhancing drugs? That men over 34 can’t naturally increase their muscle mass (and the size of their head) exponentially? That very good numbers can’t suddenly be made gaudy and awe-inducing without some serious juicing?
…
Ok, in case you can’t tell, I’m laying the sarcasm on pretty thick. “Barry Bonds Used Steroids”. What a “duh” headline. Tomorrow we’ll probably see:
“Jason Mulgrew Eats Two Double Whoppers, Hershey Sundae Pie, Shits Self”
or
“Mulgrew Leaves Bar Alone, Eats Whole Pizza, Toddler”
or
“Jason Mulgrew Gets High, Beats Off In Shower, Shits Self”
Everyone knows that Barry Bonds was on steroids. Even animals know that Bonds was on ‘roids. You could go back and time, grab a 15th century English peasant, transport him to the present and show him a picture of Bonds, and he’d say, “Damn, that mother fucker’s on the juice! Look at his fucking head – it’s huge!”
But apparently Barry didn’t know he was taking steroids. This is my favorite part of this saga: Bonds’ excuse that he didn’t know that what he was taking was steroids. Come on – did he think it was cough medicine that was tripling the size of his biceps? Was it allergy meds that left him feeling all strong and cut, perhaps? “I didn’t know” is the easiest excuse of all-time.
Ivan the Terrible: “I didn’t know that beating and repeatedly stabbing my son could kill him.”
Neville Chamberlain: “I didn’t know Hitler would turn out to be such a dick.”
Harry Truman: “I didn’t know an atomic bomb could cause so much destruction.”
My roommate Ben: “I didn’t know I was going to get caught masturbating on Jason’s bedroom floor.”
My father: “I didn’t know that by not going to his Little League games my son would turn into such an incredible pansy.”
Me: “I didn’t know that starting a blog would make me both unemployable and (even more) sexually undesirable.”
So that’s it: the jig is up, Bonds and Giambi juiced, and there’s to be more name-dropping in the coming days. I’m not gonna get into the whole “black eye for the sport” thing, because you can read that on ESPN. Also, I don’t really give a shit if it’s a black eye for baseball. I’ll still watch, and players and owners will still make millions.
What do I think of all this? It’s fucking awesome. Steroids have done wonders for baseball. How great was it when Jose Canseco became the first 40-40 man? How many people cared about baseball until McGwire and Sosa showed up and started crushing baseballs? Isn’t Barry’s pursuit of the Babe and Hammerin’ Hank great for the sport? Don’t you think a steroid controversy is going to increase ratings two-fold?
I think Major League Baseball should legalize steroid use. The potential is astounding. We’d have three people hit 100 home runs in a season. Pitchers would be hitting 120+ mph on the radar gun. Bench-clearing brawls would turn into orgiastic “Braveheart”-esque battle scenes, with players routinely losing their lives.
(Could you imagine if Dom Zimmer charged at a juiced up Pedro? Pedro is already crazy as they come. If he were juiced, he would have ripped off Zimmer’s head, ate his face, and shit down his neck. Awesome television.)
Can you imagine what legalized steroids would do to fantasy baseball? Sure, they’d be a lot of conversations like this:
Me: “Dude, put on Sportscenter.”
My buddy John: “I can’t, I’m not a home. Why?”
Me: “Well, Frank Thomas slid into second and collided with your Derek Jeter, Jeter mouthed off, and Frank Thomas murdered him, right there on the basepath.”
John: “Are you fucking serious?”
Me: “Yup. So congrats on taking Jeter third round.”
John: “God damn it. Frank Thomas – fucking murdering prick.”
I can see it now – pre-draft scouting reports would look like:
[Have a good weekend.]
Wait a minute – you’re telling me that Barry Bonds has admitted to a grand jury that he used steroids? No, I don’t believe you. It can’t be. This is a joke, right? You’re kidding, right?
You really think it’s strange that a guy who at 28 in 1993 hit a career-high 46 homers shattered the single-season home run record eight years later with 73 at age 36?
(73 home runs at 36 years old? WTF?)
You’re trying to tell me that these number breakdowns are not normal?
Ages 21 – 33: 31 home runs per season – one home run every 16.1 plate appearances
Ages 34 – 39: 49 home runs per season – one home run every 8.4 plate appearances (!)
You’re also trying to tell me that after age 34 careers can’t take off into rarified air without the help of performance-enhancing drugs? That men over 34 can’t naturally increase their muscle mass (and the size of their head) exponentially? That very good numbers can’t suddenly be made gaudy and awe-inducing without some serious juicing?
…
Ok, in case you can’t tell, I’m laying the sarcasm on pretty thick. “Barry Bonds Used Steroids”. What a “duh” headline. Tomorrow we’ll probably see:
“Jason Mulgrew Eats Two Double Whoppers, Hershey Sundae Pie, Shits Self”
or
“Mulgrew Leaves Bar Alone, Eats Whole Pizza, Toddler”
or
“Jason Mulgrew Gets High, Beats Off In Shower, Shits Self”
Everyone knows that Barry Bonds was on steroids. Even animals know that Bonds was on ‘roids. You could go back and time, grab a 15th century English peasant, transport him to the present and show him a picture of Bonds, and he’d say, “Damn, that mother fucker’s on the juice! Look at his fucking head – it’s huge!”
But apparently Barry didn’t know he was taking steroids. This is my favorite part of this saga: Bonds’ excuse that he didn’t know that what he was taking was steroids. Come on – did he think it was cough medicine that was tripling the size of his biceps? Was it allergy meds that left him feeling all strong and cut, perhaps? “I didn’t know” is the easiest excuse of all-time.
Ivan the Terrible: “I didn’t know that beating and repeatedly stabbing my son could kill him.”
Neville Chamberlain: “I didn’t know Hitler would turn out to be such a dick.”
Harry Truman: “I didn’t know an atomic bomb could cause so much destruction.”
My roommate Ben: “I didn’t know I was going to get caught masturbating on Jason’s bedroom floor.”
My father: “I didn’t know that by not going to his Little League games my son would turn into such an incredible pansy.”
Me: “I didn’t know that starting a blog would make me both unemployable and (even more) sexually undesirable.”
So that’s it: the jig is up, Bonds and Giambi juiced, and there’s to be more name-dropping in the coming days. I’m not gonna get into the whole “black eye for the sport” thing, because you can read that on ESPN. Also, I don’t really give a shit if it’s a black eye for baseball. I’ll still watch, and players and owners will still make millions.
What do I think of all this? It’s fucking awesome. Steroids have done wonders for baseball. How great was it when Jose Canseco became the first 40-40 man? How many people cared about baseball until McGwire and Sosa showed up and started crushing baseballs? Isn’t Barry’s pursuit of the Babe and Hammerin’ Hank great for the sport? Don’t you think a steroid controversy is going to increase ratings two-fold?
I think Major League Baseball should legalize steroid use. The potential is astounding. We’d have three people hit 100 home runs in a season. Pitchers would be hitting 120+ mph on the radar gun. Bench-clearing brawls would turn into orgiastic “Braveheart”-esque battle scenes, with players routinely losing their lives.
(Could you imagine if Dom Zimmer charged at a juiced up Pedro? Pedro is already crazy as they come. If he were juiced, he would have ripped off Zimmer’s head, ate his face, and shit down his neck. Awesome television.)
Can you imagine what legalized steroids would do to fantasy baseball? Sure, they’d be a lot of conversations like this:
Me: “Dude, put on Sportscenter.”
My buddy John: “I can’t, I’m not a home. Why?”
Me: “Well, Frank Thomas slid into second and collided with your Derek Jeter, Jeter mouthed off, and Frank Thomas murdered him, right there on the basepath.”
John: “Are you fucking serious?”
Me: “Yup. So congrats on taking Jeter third round.”
John: “God damn it. Frank Thomas – fucking murdering prick.”
I can see it now – pre-draft scouting reports would look like:
Bret Boone looks to rebound from a pathetic year last year, his first clean year since 2000. Sources tell Fantasy Baseball Weekly that Boone has been doping up with a new, more powerful steroid, usually reserved for elephants who have had hip replacement surgery. Since he started using the drug in January, Boone has regained the twelve pounds he lost last year, and has added a total of twenty-one pounds to his 5′10″ frame. Early indications are that his swing looks better than ever, and his competitive nature has been rekindled. According to teammate Jamie Moyer, “I think Bret’s going to have a breakout year this year. He looks great, and he’s really fired up. In last week’s exhibition game against the Indians, a fan interfered with a foul ball Bret was chasing, and he got so pissed off he shot her in the heart – twenty-something times. When he was done, she looked a pile of ground beef. And this was only an exhibition game!”So in conclusion, bring on the ‘roids. I don’t see how anything bad could come from them, except I hear that they shrink your balls. This is why I personally don’t take them, as I don’t need any more shrinkage in that area. Seriously, my balls are like two peas on the end of spaghetti strings (thank you, I’ll be here all night).
Fantasy Baseball Weekly’s prediction for Bret Boone: .364 average, 68 home runs, 163 RBI’s, 2 first-degree murder charges, 3 second-degree murder charges, 12 manslaughter charges. We recommend you take him somewhere in the fifth round, ahead of Jeff Kent, but after Michael Young and Alfonso Soriano.
[Have a good weekend.]
I just read it over, and how creepy do I sound asking for a little black kid for a photo shoot? Good lord. And I’m actually serious about it too. I can’t divulge my reasons right now, but I promise you that it’s 100% non-creepy. Promise.
But wow – I feel like I need to take a shower after that. My goodness.
(Translation: stop sending emails saying “Ew, gross” and the like. Instead, send emails saying, “I bet your penis is much bigger than you make it out to be” or “Hey, check out how big my boobs are!” Thank you.)
But wow – I feel like I need to take a shower after that. My goodness.
(Translation: stop sending emails saying “Ew, gross” and the like. Instead, send emails saying, “I bet your penis is much bigger than you make it out to be” or “Hey, check out how big my boobs are!” Thank you.)
Last night, I watched “The Freddie Mercury Story” on Ovation (yes, I know, I’m super cool and very manly – would it be better if I told you that while doing so I was repairing a transmission and getting a blow job from a sexy college coed? Does that help? Anyone?).
Turns out, ol’ Freddie had a very interesting life, and by the end of the “Story” I was willing to consider that maybe, just maybe, he was a musical genius. Remember, Queen was never nearly as big here in the US as they were in the UK and Europe, as evinced by the giant copper bust of Freddie Mercury that sat on the vanity of the hairdresser who cut my hair at the £5 haircut place on Tottenham Court Road in London.
But what struck me about Mercury was how incredibly flamingly homosexual he was and how none of his fans knew it. None (well, maybe some, but very few). And I’m tempted to say “hindsight is 20/20″, but after looking at some of those costumes and his behavior, I don’t even think that expression applies here. Good lord. Provided, this is coming from a guy who, when he was younger, didn’t realize George Michael was gay and thought he was the manliest of men with his leather jacket (a la the “Faith” video) and cool beard, but in my defense I was like 8 and didn’t even know what “gay” was and Freddie Mercury blows George Michael out of the water in the flamboyant.
My roommate Brian and I were mesmerized watching this documentary. The hour was filled with gasps, chuckles, and a lot of “Wow” and “Oh my god”. I wondered if Brian May, the guitarist for Queen, ever turned to Freddie and said something like, “Freddie, we know you’re gay and we support that – hell, the band’s called ‘Queen’ – but do you think you could maybe turn down the gayness just a little bit? We’re not asking for a little, but you’re at like a 14 on the gay-meter; can we bring it down to a 9 or so? What do you think?”
All in all, very entertaining and highly recommended. Very sad ending though, made worse by the fact that I was high out of my gourd (hey – it’s been a tough week at work), so don’t say I didn’t warn you.
************************************************
I am very particular about my deodorant, probably because I sweat more than any human being should. I wear anti-perspirant, and am proud of it. Leave that deodorant and clear-stick to the pansies – I need the flaky white stuff to clog my pores and prevent my ass from sweating – just fucking cake it on there, baby.
And I’ve never understood “clear gel” deodorant. I don’t know why anyone would wear this. I don’t even know how this got made:
Clear Gel Deodorant Creator: “I have created a new type of deodorant. It’s a clear, gooey, cold gel, that when applied to your armpits, makes you feel sweaty and gross. In addition, it offers nowhere near the protection of normal deodorant, makes you sweat immediately after applying it, and has you stinking in under five minutes. What do you think?”
Deodorant Company CEO: “Let’s do it.”
I just don’t understand it. Not at all.
************************************************
Riding the subway during rush hour in NYC can be quite an experience (this deserves its own post), but yesterday I experienced my two biggest pet peeves during the subway ride:
1) The group of tourists. I love tourists. I love tourists because I travel a lot, so I try to be nice to tourists here in NYC for the karma, so that one day in the future when traipsing around the streets of a foreign city, drunk and looking for some hard and fast love at a reasonable price, a native will come up to me and offer a room for the night, complete with hand relief and a five-egg omelet in the morning.
But what a lot of tourists do on the subway is stick together. Really together. Example: the best standing spot on a subway train is just inside the doors. On the train I take home, only one side opens its doors to let in/out passengers, so if you stand by the doors opposite that side, you have a little nook for yourself where you can stand undisturbed for the whole ride.
Yesterday on the way home, I happened upon a relatively uncrowded subway car. Though they were seats, I took my favorite spot by the non-opening doors and settled in, rocking out to some Vanessa Williams. At the next stop, a group of six Southern tourists got in, and proceeded to cram into my little area. The entire rest of the car was open for standing, in addition to some seats being available, but all six came right over to my area, one standing directly in front of me, with his butt no further than six inches away from my balls and such. It was completely ridiculous, as other people stared at them yapping away in the very uncrowded car, a see of Southern standing around a pissed-off dude with a bad beard.
People, spread out. Sit down. Relax. You’re not going to miss your stop. And I know it’s New York City, but someone’s not going to get murdered if they move from your three feet radius. Get your ass away from my balls and such, and let me be. I’ve had a hard day at work, and I just want to listen to my early ’90’s adult contemporary. Thank you.
2) The pole hog. This is much worse than the tourists, because these people know what they’re doing. These are the people who on the crowded subway train decide to grip the subway pole in a hug, so that those standing around said pole either have no place to put their hands, or have to place their hands very high or very low on the pole.
I think that violent crime was invented to be used against these people. At the very least, pepper spray must have been invited after the inventor took a crowded 6 train from 96th Street to Union Square, swaying uncomfortably all the while while some fat dude leaned his fat back against a subway pole, leaving said inventor without a grip.
If you don’t have the presence of mind to realize that those around you would only like to stabilize themselves while you hog the entire pole, you are a terrible person and I hope your children get eaten by dogs. Angry, diseased dogs with huge balls.
I have to talk about something else before I do something I might regret.
************************************************
Casting call: I need an African-American child, age between 4 and 7, for a photo “shoot”. I say “shoot” because that word sounds professional, when really it’s just going to be a couple of pictures with a digital camera. I’m being completely, 100% serious here. If you know any 4-7 year old black kids in the NYC area who would like to make $50 for 15 minutes worth of work, please email me at eiwwme@gmail.com.
[Seriously, I mean it. This is not a joke.]
************************************************
Six songs:
- “I Throw My Toys Around” No Doubt & Elvis Costello
Elvis Costello could shit in his hand and eat it and I’d still think it was genius, but this is a very well-written, clever, and catchy song.
(Ugh – I just grossed myself out thinking of Elvis shitting in his hand and eating it. I can’t believe I’m single. Did I mention I’m 25?)
- “Who’s Johnny” El DeBarge
From the “Short Circuit” soundtrack, I can not express how much I loved this song as a kid. And I can’t imagine the horror and pain it must have caused my poor father. I’m sorry dad. So sorry.
- “Breaking Your Fall” Chris Whitley
I don’t know if this is country, or country-rock, or whatever, but it’s got an ambient, country-cool feel to it. Excellent.
- “Little Willy” Sweet
Is he talking about his dick? I think so, but I’m not sure. Actually, I am pretty sure he’s talking about his dick. Too bad this song’s been stuck in my head for about a week and a half.
- “Someday” The Strokes
I’m sure that a cadre of supercilious hipsters will say that I’m a little late on this, and definitely not thin/cool enough to like this song, but I don’t care. It’s a hell of a song, and I don’t even like this band very much. So fuck you, assholes.
- “Tearz” Wu-Tang Clan
This first thirty seconds sounds exactly like the Mulgrew house at 11:03pm on Christmas night, 2002.
[Please download this song, so that this joke can work. I've been writing this blog for almost ten months, and this may be the funniest thing I've ever written, as it has kept me cracking up ever since I thought of it (and I don't often pat myself on the back like this either). It really does sound exactly like Christmas night in 2002 in my parents' house. Uncanny.]
************************************************
Oh, and if you want to see pictures of Lindsay Lohan’s Thanksgiving, knock yourself out. She’s only in a couple of them, but you can tell she’s absolutely fucking insane.
So hot.
Turns out, ol’ Freddie had a very interesting life, and by the end of the “Story” I was willing to consider that maybe, just maybe, he was a musical genius. Remember, Queen was never nearly as big here in the US as they were in the UK and Europe, as evinced by the giant copper bust of Freddie Mercury that sat on the vanity of the hairdresser who cut my hair at the £5 haircut place on Tottenham Court Road in London.
But what struck me about Mercury was how incredibly flamingly homosexual he was and how none of his fans knew it. None (well, maybe some, but very few). And I’m tempted to say “hindsight is 20/20″, but after looking at some of those costumes and his behavior, I don’t even think that expression applies here. Good lord. Provided, this is coming from a guy who, when he was younger, didn’t realize George Michael was gay and thought he was the manliest of men with his leather jacket (a la the “Faith” video) and cool beard, but in my defense I was like 8 and didn’t even know what “gay” was and Freddie Mercury blows George Michael out of the water in the flamboyant.
My roommate Brian and I were mesmerized watching this documentary. The hour was filled with gasps, chuckles, and a lot of “Wow” and “Oh my god”. I wondered if Brian May, the guitarist for Queen, ever turned to Freddie and said something like, “Freddie, we know you’re gay and we support that – hell, the band’s called ‘Queen’ – but do you think you could maybe turn down the gayness just a little bit? We’re not asking for a little, but you’re at like a 14 on the gay-meter; can we bring it down to a 9 or so? What do you think?”
All in all, very entertaining and highly recommended. Very sad ending though, made worse by the fact that I was high out of my gourd (hey – it’s been a tough week at work), so don’t say I didn’t warn you.
************************************************
I am very particular about my deodorant, probably because I sweat more than any human being should. I wear anti-perspirant, and am proud of it. Leave that deodorant and clear-stick to the pansies – I need the flaky white stuff to clog my pores and prevent my ass from sweating – just fucking cake it on there, baby.
And I’ve never understood “clear gel” deodorant. I don’t know why anyone would wear this. I don’t even know how this got made:
Clear Gel Deodorant Creator: “I have created a new type of deodorant. It’s a clear, gooey, cold gel, that when applied to your armpits, makes you feel sweaty and gross. In addition, it offers nowhere near the protection of normal deodorant, makes you sweat immediately after applying it, and has you stinking in under five minutes. What do you think?”
Deodorant Company CEO: “Let’s do it.”
I just don’t understand it. Not at all.
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Riding the subway during rush hour in NYC can be quite an experience (this deserves its own post), but yesterday I experienced my two biggest pet peeves during the subway ride:
1) The group of tourists. I love tourists. I love tourists because I travel a lot, so I try to be nice to tourists here in NYC for the karma, so that one day in the future when traipsing around the streets of a foreign city, drunk and looking for some hard and fast love at a reasonable price, a native will come up to me and offer a room for the night, complete with hand relief and a five-egg omelet in the morning.
But what a lot of tourists do on the subway is stick together. Really together. Example: the best standing spot on a subway train is just inside the doors. On the train I take home, only one side opens its doors to let in/out passengers, so if you stand by the doors opposite that side, you have a little nook for yourself where you can stand undisturbed for the whole ride.
Yesterday on the way home, I happened upon a relatively uncrowded subway car. Though they were seats, I took my favorite spot by the non-opening doors and settled in, rocking out to some Vanessa Williams. At the next stop, a group of six Southern tourists got in, and proceeded to cram into my little area. The entire rest of the car was open for standing, in addition to some seats being available, but all six came right over to my area, one standing directly in front of me, with his butt no further than six inches away from my balls and such. It was completely ridiculous, as other people stared at them yapping away in the very uncrowded car, a see of Southern standing around a pissed-off dude with a bad beard.
People, spread out. Sit down. Relax. You’re not going to miss your stop. And I know it’s New York City, but someone’s not going to get murdered if they move from your three feet radius. Get your ass away from my balls and such, and let me be. I’ve had a hard day at work, and I just want to listen to my early ’90’s adult contemporary. Thank you.
2) The pole hog. This is much worse than the tourists, because these people know what they’re doing. These are the people who on the crowded subway train decide to grip the subway pole in a hug, so that those standing around said pole either have no place to put their hands, or have to place their hands very high or very low on the pole.
I think that violent crime was invented to be used against these people. At the very least, pepper spray must have been invited after the inventor took a crowded 6 train from 96th Street to Union Square, swaying uncomfortably all the while while some fat dude leaned his fat back against a subway pole, leaving said inventor without a grip.
If you don’t have the presence of mind to realize that those around you would only like to stabilize themselves while you hog the entire pole, you are a terrible person and I hope your children get eaten by dogs. Angry, diseased dogs with huge balls.
I have to talk about something else before I do something I might regret.
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Casting call: I need an African-American child, age between 4 and 7, for a photo “shoot”. I say “shoot” because that word sounds professional, when really it’s just going to be a couple of pictures with a digital camera. I’m being completely, 100% serious here. If you know any 4-7 year old black kids in the NYC area who would like to make $50 for 15 minutes worth of work, please email me at eiwwme@gmail.com.
[Seriously, I mean it. This is not a joke.]
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Six songs:
- “I Throw My Toys Around” No Doubt & Elvis Costello
Elvis Costello could shit in his hand and eat it and I’d still think it was genius, but this is a very well-written, clever, and catchy song.
(Ugh – I just grossed myself out thinking of Elvis shitting in his hand and eating it. I can’t believe I’m single. Did I mention I’m 25?)
- “Who’s Johnny” El DeBarge
From the “Short Circuit” soundtrack, I can not express how much I loved this song as a kid. And I can’t imagine the horror and pain it must have caused my poor father. I’m sorry dad. So sorry.
- “Breaking Your Fall” Chris Whitley
I don’t know if this is country, or country-rock, or whatever, but it’s got an ambient, country-cool feel to it. Excellent.
- “Little Willy” Sweet
Is he talking about his dick? I think so, but I’m not sure. Actually, I am pretty sure he’s talking about his dick. Too bad this song’s been stuck in my head for about a week and a half.
- “Someday” The Strokes
I’m sure that a cadre of supercilious hipsters will say that I’m a little late on this, and definitely not thin/cool enough to like this song, but I don’t care. It’s a hell of a song, and I don’t even like this band very much. So fuck you, assholes.
- “Tearz” Wu-Tang Clan
This first thirty seconds sounds exactly like the Mulgrew house at 11:03pm on Christmas night, 2002.
[Please download this song, so that this joke can work. I've been writing this blog for almost ten months, and this may be the funniest thing I've ever written, as it has kept me cracking up ever since I thought of it (and I don't often pat myself on the back like this either). It really does sound exactly like Christmas night in 2002 in my parents' house. Uncanny.]
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Oh, and if you want to see pictures of Lindsay Lohan’s Thanksgiving, knock yourself out. She’s only in a couple of them, but you can tell she’s absolutely fucking insane.
So hot.
Registration for spring semester classes at Hunter is quickly approaching (for background info, see 10/22 and 9/10). I don’t know this because I looked it up, but rather because a classmate said, “So, which courses are you taking next semester? And can you please stop rubbing yourself under the table? It grosses out everyone in class, and no matter what you say, no, it is not sexy.”
So far, grad school has been ok. Yes, just ok. I thought that by taking classes for my master’s in History, I would be reinvigorated – I would attack the subject matter with a fervor I reserve only for high school girls and deli meats, impress my professors with my breadth of knowledge on the subjects and my ability to arouse myself under even the harshest conditions, and ace the whole damn thing. Also, I’d bang some chick from class, or at least a very feminine guy.
But alas, ’tis not to be. Instead of rising to the challenges of academia (which, I might add, have yet to be very daunting), I have retreated into a shell of self-loathing and self-love, ensconced in laziness and apathy, and so far have done basically nothing for the class, aside from some cramming around the mid-term. Nor have I become part of the campus community at all (meaning I haven’t banged any chicks from class yet, but I did have an intense mutual masturbation session with some not-so-feminine looking male student, and by “male student” I mean “security guard at the White Castle in Spanish Harlem”).
But as registration for spring approaches, I feel emboldened with a new vigor. I’m having “those thoughts” in my head. I don’t mean thoughts say, “Hey, why don’t we take a bunch of codeine and kill a prostitute?”, but thoughts like, “Why don’t you get your shit together and become serious about academics? Look at you – you’re 25, you spend all your time working, getting fucked up, and making racist jokes with your friends. What the hell kind of life is that?”
Heretofore, I thought that this kind of life was pretty fucking awesome, but since I took a couple of weird pills this morning that I bought on the subway, I feel like yes, I should get my shit together, and become serious about academics.
To this end, I plan on taking nine credits next semester. Right now, I have one three-credit course in Russian history that I do nothing for. Next semester, I plan on taking the second half of this course for three credits. And I’m also planning on taking a six-credit intensive introduction to the Russian language (I took one semester of Russian at NYU before, but this is Russian I & II crammed into one semester).
Why am I telling you this? So that I can go on record as saying that this will be one of the worst decision I’ve ever made. I have no idea what I hope to accomplish with this, besides making myself even more miserable. That and, oh yeah, it’ll cost about $2000 (at least), which will go on my high-interest credit card (you didn’t think I was actually going to pay for it now, did you?).
As of now, I have one class that requires me to leave work early on Monday. This bothers me, because I have to get into work early, and by the time class is over, I’m falling asleep and miserable. Next semester, I’m going to have to come into/leave early work on Mondays, Tuesdays, and Thursdays, and I’ll be spending those Tuesday and Thursday evenings from 5:30 until 8:30 with some intensive Russian. I don’t know what could possibly be worse than this, other than leaving work early to go sit through nine hours of footage per week of my brother masturbating (oh my god – I just threw up everywhere).
So, really, why I am telling you all this? What’s the point? I need something to keep me from doing this. Maybe a hobby perhaps? Help me find a hobby. Perhaps I could start hunting. Hunting always seemed kind of cool, what with all the guns and killing and such, but it seems messy with all the blood and I was never a big fan of the whole being outdoors thing. I mean, can I just drive to the woods, get out of my car, shoot something to death, and leave? Can someone look into this for me?
In the same vein, fishing might be cool, but it seems kind of boring. Sure, you can get drunk on a boat while waiting for the fish to bite, but I can also get drunk in the comfort on my home without worrying about sunburn or the boat capsizing and getting eating by fucking sharks and shit.
Joining a sports league is out of the question. It’s not just that I’m a terrible athlete (which I’m really not), but I can just imagine the type of guys who do that kind of stuff as being ultra-competitive and yelling at me when I run out at halftime to grab a milkshake.
Volunteering? You’re telling me that I can “help out” in some menial capacity and the only thing I get in return is feeling good? You know what else feels good? Getting high and eating a big-ass pastrami sandwich with your shirt off while drinking a half gallon of chocolate milk. So forget it.
I need something and something fast. Otherwise, I’m going to drop myself further into debt and make sure my January through April is as bad as it could possibly be (without losing my genitals – if I lost my genitals, things would be much worse).
So far, grad school has been ok. Yes, just ok. I thought that by taking classes for my master’s in History, I would be reinvigorated – I would attack the subject matter with a fervor I reserve only for high school girls and deli meats, impress my professors with my breadth of knowledge on the subjects and my ability to arouse myself under even the harshest conditions, and ace the whole damn thing. Also, I’d bang some chick from class, or at least a very feminine guy.
But alas, ’tis not to be. Instead of rising to the challenges of academia (which, I might add, have yet to be very daunting), I have retreated into a shell of self-loathing and self-love, ensconced in laziness and apathy, and so far have done basically nothing for the class, aside from some cramming around the mid-term. Nor have I become part of the campus community at all (meaning I haven’t banged any chicks from class yet, but I did have an intense mutual masturbation session with some not-so-feminine looking male student, and by “male student” I mean “security guard at the White Castle in Spanish Harlem”).
But as registration for spring approaches, I feel emboldened with a new vigor. I’m having “those thoughts” in my head. I don’t mean thoughts say, “Hey, why don’t we take a bunch of codeine and kill a prostitute?”, but thoughts like, “Why don’t you get your shit together and become serious about academics? Look at you – you’re 25, you spend all your time working, getting fucked up, and making racist jokes with your friends. What the hell kind of life is that?”
Heretofore, I thought that this kind of life was pretty fucking awesome, but since I took a couple of weird pills this morning that I bought on the subway, I feel like yes, I should get my shit together, and become serious about academics.
To this end, I plan on taking nine credits next semester. Right now, I have one three-credit course in Russian history that I do nothing for. Next semester, I plan on taking the second half of this course for three credits. And I’m also planning on taking a six-credit intensive introduction to the Russian language (I took one semester of Russian at NYU before, but this is Russian I & II crammed into one semester).
Why am I telling you this? So that I can go on record as saying that this will be one of the worst decision I’ve ever made. I have no idea what I hope to accomplish with this, besides making myself even more miserable. That and, oh yeah, it’ll cost about $2000 (at least), which will go on my high-interest credit card (you didn’t think I was actually going to pay for it now, did you?).
As of now, I have one class that requires me to leave work early on Monday. This bothers me, because I have to get into work early, and by the time class is over, I’m falling asleep and miserable. Next semester, I’m going to have to come into/leave early work on Mondays, Tuesdays, and Thursdays, and I’ll be spending those Tuesday and Thursday evenings from 5:30 until 8:30 with some intensive Russian. I don’t know what could possibly be worse than this, other than leaving work early to go sit through nine hours of footage per week of my brother masturbating (oh my god – I just threw up everywhere).
So, really, why I am telling you all this? What’s the point? I need something to keep me from doing this. Maybe a hobby perhaps? Help me find a hobby. Perhaps I could start hunting. Hunting always seemed kind of cool, what with all the guns and killing and such, but it seems messy with all the blood and I was never a big fan of the whole being outdoors thing. I mean, can I just drive to the woods, get out of my car, shoot something to death, and leave? Can someone look into this for me?
In the same vein, fishing might be cool, but it seems kind of boring. Sure, you can get drunk on a boat while waiting for the fish to bite, but I can also get drunk in the comfort on my home without worrying about sunburn or the boat capsizing and getting eating by fucking sharks and shit.
Joining a sports league is out of the question. It’s not just that I’m a terrible athlete (which I’m really not), but I can just imagine the type of guys who do that kind of stuff as being ultra-competitive and yelling at me when I run out at halftime to grab a milkshake.
Volunteering? You’re telling me that I can “help out” in some menial capacity and the only thing I get in return is feeling good? You know what else feels good? Getting high and eating a big-ass pastrami sandwich with your shirt off while drinking a half gallon of chocolate milk. So forget it.
I need something and something fast. Otherwise, I’m going to drop myself further into debt and make sure my January through April is as bad as it could possibly be (without losing my genitals – if I lost my genitals, things would be much worse).